VERSE EIGHT

PURPLE HAZE⁸

8:1

Eugene crawled out the bathroom window and closed it behind him. He stood up in the dirt road, brushed himself off, and looked around at his options: shitty diner, shitty bar, or just plain shit. He strolled over to the porch of Darby’s Tavern and pulled out his I.D., setting his birthday back a few years. He put it back in his wallet and went inside.

The place looked like they’d pulled it straight from the archives, replete with a sepia tone and scratches over every surface; a crumpled polaroid that had come to life. The crusted replica jukebox sat in the corner. Only half of the neon tubes flickered, the others had burned themselves out long ago. It played classical music, a timeless Yorke-Greenwood composition: “Everything in its Right Place.”

The décor was all over the map. The Darby clan had joined up with Doc McDougal and maintained his ship while he spent most of his time poring over geographic models, reading ancient texts, and taking generous samplings of homemade ether. The Darbys had grown quite fond of old Westerns on the long journey to Terra, but could never quite agree on the specifics.

The walls were smothered with a fresco of an Italian countryside. Indigenous Terran art and jewelry hung from the ceiling. Katanas and Kabuto helmets were stapled to the walls to muddle things further. It was as if a computer program had collected data on every movie with a cowboy hat, a showdown, or duel and vomited the average into a single room.

The Sunday night crowd was rough. A couple of old timers nursed their pints of Dub Light and bickered about the good ole days, which were definitely old, but there was much debate over whether they were really that good. A quiet poker game took place in the corner with Gus Planck stoically taking money from the Henson brothers and Mickey Slack.

Eugene sidled up to the bar. There was a woman at the other end. She’d passed out a good while ago and recently knocked over her glass. The liquid crept closer and closer to her face, half-smushed against the smooth varnish of the imitation wood counter. Eugene sighed and regretted leaving The Vaults. He couldn’t even properly people-watch in this town. He plucked a dry towel from behind the bar, folded it into a small pillow, and carefully tucked it under her cheek.

“Well, if it isn’t the devil himself…”

Reverend Jones appeared behind the bar. He was carrying a crate of bottles up from the cellar. He nodded kindly and set the box down.

“Your holiness,” Eugene said. “Wait. Is this some trap to lure poor sinners to salvation?”

“No, sir,” Jones said. “But that idea ain’t half-bad.”

“So, what’s a preacher like you doing in a dive like this?” Eugene said. “Didn’t think men of the cloth could serve the devil’s drink.”

“You forget Communion.”

“True,” Eugene said. “All the same, never expected to see a reverend playing barkeep.”

“The two professions aren’t dissimilar,” Jones said. “This is as much a confessional as what we’ve got up on high. And folks tend to loosen up too after they’ve had a few bitters. Now, I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk, so what’ll you be having, son?”

“Core tonic,” Eugene said. “On the rocks.”

“Sure thing,” Jones said. “Just need to see some I.D.”

Eugene pulled out his card and handed it over. Jones stared at the laminate. He bent it and looked back at Eugene.

“Nice try, kid.”

“What?” Eugene said. “It’s official.”

“It’s an official fake,” Jones said. “By the total of three hairs you’ve got on your neck, you ain’t pushing twenty-three. Also, I accidentally pressed this here tab and all kinds of options popped up. Real idents don’t come with an edit button.”

“Good to know,” Eugene said. He went to grab his I.D., but the Reverend pocketed it.

“Tell you what,” Jones said. “I’ll let you have some communion. On the house.”

“Blood of Christ it is,” Eugene said. “Thanks.”

Jones opened a bottle and poured. He swished it around in the glass and slid it over. Eugene licked his lips and started chugging.

“Easy there,” Jones said. “Ain’t a race.”

Eugene’s face wrinkled up. He put the drink down and examined it.

“What gives?” he said, taking another look at the bottle. After seeing the words “sparkling” and “non-alcoholic,” he turned away in horror.

“I can’t serve minors,” Jones said. “Just ask your friend.”

Eugene turned around to see Joules standing behind him. Her hands were hidden in her hoodie pocket and she had a smile on her face like she’d just seen him step in horseshit.

“Think this is funny?” Eugene said.

“Only when it’s not happening to me,” she said, pulling up a seat. “Tried the same thing last week. Reverend here’s a natural barkeep. Can’t put anything past him. Now, Darby, that’s another story. Usually, I’m the one cutting him off. Old fool can’t hold his liquor.”

“At least he can hold liquor,” Eugene said, pushing the glass away.

“You got the blueberry?” Joules said.

Jones nodded with a knowing grin.

“Finally!” Joules said. She swiped Eugene’s glass from him. “Might not have booze, but it’s darn good.”

“Do I at least get bread or something?” Eugene said. “That’s usually how this thing works, right?”

“Sure,” Jones said. “But ain’t much in the way of food here. Got some bar-nuts around here somewhere…” He found a bowl under the counter and slid it in front of Eugene.

“And I guess I’m not supposed to make a comment about the size of God’s nuts?”

“Lord, no, Eugene,” Jones said. “Wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.”

“You believe this guy?” Eugene said to Joules.

“Always,” Joules said. She finished the glass and set it down. “Come on. I’ve got something to show you.”

“I’m good,” he said.

“Trust me,” she said. “You’re going to like this.”

“Trust you?” Eugene looked around the sad bar. The old timers laughed and rasped. The Henson brothers threw in another hand and Gus clawed the chips into his pile.  The sleeping woman hiccupped at the other end of the bar. The Reverend smiled and polished glasses. Eugene pushed himself off his stool. “Might as well…”

8:2

Chet tore off his itchy Hyperion vest and tousled his hair free. Night chilled the sweat under his arms up the rickety metal stairs to the railway station. He stepped inside the first car and sat down on a slashed seat cushion covered in doodles and cigarette burns. There was a piece of gum stuck on the handrail. Someone had taken a marker and given it a smiley face.

DING

The bell chimed and the car wobbled down the worn tracks, knocking about like an old wooden rollercoaster, taking Chet deep into the foul neon light of the Fibonacci District.

DING

The doors shook open at every stop.

DING

Passengers drifted on and off.

DING

They passed the last few stations in silence, stopping only to pick up ghosts and let out precious A/C.

DING DING DING

Final stop. Chet and the remaining passengers got up and walked absently toward the faded glory of Golgotha Plaza.

Chet passed an alley and got hit with a blast of air that smelled of pot and piss. A homeless vet slept next to a trash can. A sign propped against his chest said, “STOP THE WAR,” the statement made more persuasive by his absent leg. Nearby a panhandler played spoons, the annoying rhythmic clinks ping-ponged up and down the narrow street’s echo chamber. A washed-up scavenger sermonized to passersby. He poured his heart out as the occasional coin clinked in his bucket while everyone else gave him a wide berth.

Be there rads in the outlands? Thus, replied the myriad, there’s no balm in Gilead, no healing my wounded people. Go then, my children, seek a new steeple…

Chet swiped his card to get into building C. Four flights of stairs and half a hallway later he stopped at his room and pulled out his key. The key slid halfway into the lock, a loud buzzer sounded, and a calm, pleasant voice gave him the unpleasant news.

Your rent is ONE days past due. Please pay penalty to gain access.

8:3

Joules led Eugene to the other side of the street to the corner shops between Kronos Commons and the old water tower. They passed the Apothecary where Madame Thuselah sat polishing trinkets under her inspection glass. Thomas Gordian had shut down shop as well, but the light from the backroom meant he was still meticulously manicuring his mustache.

They stopped in front of a sad, little storefront smeared with dust, sand caked into the corners of the frame. Eugene had to strain to make out the etched words. It was one of those bold, cartoonish fonts associated with deserts and no-horse towns. The letters were fat, forever bulging under the heel of an invisible boot.

Hazmat Historical Society: Where the past is now!

A few clever individuals had added their own commentary. Wash me, pardon our dust, and more than a few crude drawings of genitalia. Eugene peered inside at the topographical model lining the bottom of the window display. A shadow loomed overhead, a radiation suit strung up with hooks and wire. The oversized rubber boots dangled above the tiny papier-mâché dunes and toothpick houses.

“Come with me, she says.” Eugene crossed his arms and yawned. “Trust me, she says…”

“Hold your horses,” she said. She pulled out some keys and fiddled with the lock. “Prepare to enter the middle of nowhere!”

“The Old Ones weren’t too far off then,” he said. “Middle of the universe, middle of nowhere. Tomato, ta-mah—”

“Gee, mister,” Joules said. “You sure know your history. Why not lean in all the way? I hear this place is hiring…” The lock clicked, Joules pushed the door and held it open.

“Oh, yeah?” He followed her inside. “When’s the start date?”

“Just as soon as the poor girl who works here quits,” she said. “So, you know, they’re flexible.”

She flipped on the lights. Tubes flared from the ceiling and instantly dimmed. Odds and ends from Hazmat’s short-storied past filled the room. There were models of outmoded dunedusters and starcruisers. The ships were hobbled together from the worst pieces of other junkers. Portraits of settlers and the original buildings hung on the walls. Not much had changed over the years. Antiquated clothing and shoddy craftsmanship were apparently longstanding community traditions.

“I doubt I’m qualified,” he said, following her down the cramped aisle of display cases and artifacts.

“You have a pulse,” she said. “You’re qualified.”

“That may be so,” Eugene said. “But Heartland textbooks are pretty light on The Reclamation.”

“Not surprised,” Joules said. “Victory writes history and nobody’s won here yet.”

“No offense, but it doesn’t look like there’s much to win,” Eugene said. “I mean, except for this place, obviously. This is a goldmine of weird junk.”

“Came with the deed to The Vaults,” Joules said. “No one had used it in years till my parents cleaned it up. Now, no one has used it in years, but, hey, at least it’s clean.”

“Clean?” he said, brushing a cobweb away. He coughed through the dust.

“Relatively,” Joules shrugged. She pulled out a couple chairs and they both sat down at the window. “Here it is: Kronos County in all its barren glory.” She pointed to the little town on the tiny cliffs. “Here we are on the Faultlines…” She dragged her finger over the small dunes. “Then nothing, nothing, nothing, not there anymore, taken by the Saints, blown over by a dust storm, nothing, nothing…” She reached the miniature city on the other side and lifted her finger. “And Atlas Rock: beacon of non-civilization.”

“Beats the driving tour,” Eugene said. “What’s this?” He pointed to a gray box to the north.

“Yucca Penitentiary,” Joules said. “The unofficial capital of Terra.”

“Prisons sure make a killing in a down economy.”

“Free labor always does,” Joules said. “Time was when there were start-ups all over the place, jobs available to anyone who wanted to work, but that was before I was a twinkle in me dad’s eye. A fairytale time when the great kingdom actually spent money on us poor peasants.”

“Hate to say it,” Eugene said. “But I don’t think I’d spare the coin to populate this desert.”

“You’d make a fine Immutable.”

“You’ve got the army stationed here,” Eugene said. “That’s gotta count for something.”

“Only to stop us from killing each other,” she said. “Stuff like that tends to make the bigwigs look bad. Who cares about the cradle of humanity, anyway?”

“Definitely not the Old Ones,” he said. “And certainly not me. I only came for the beaches.”

“Plenty of beaches down south,” she said. “Not much that ain’t froze over, though.”

“I enjoy a brisk dip every now and then.”

“Got a line for everything, don’t you?”

“Something wrong with that?”

“No,” Joules said. “Just not used to conversations lasting this long is all. They’ve got a saying around here: if you ain’t got something worth the say, don’t say nothing at all.”

“Not sure what the message is there, given the triple negative,” he said. “But it sounds better than Carbon City. People on Earth never shut the hell up.” His eyes drifted up to the figure hanging from the ceiling. “What’s with the suit? Town founder?”

“No, you’re thinking of Doc McDougal,” she said, pointing over her shoulder to a portrait of a monocled man holding a pickaxe and a Terran flag with Hazmat Township scrawled on it in uneven lettering. “Landed his Ark here instead of in Atlas with the rest.”

“On account of being different?”

“On account of excessive drunkenness,” Joules said. “He crashed right into the Faultlines. Sand eventually covered it up. Only visible part now is The Vaults.”

“Those go under the whole town?”

“Pretty much,” she said. “Most of the framework got junked on landing and sand filled in the rest. Vaults only go down a few floors before things get dusty.”

“So…the suit?”

“Early settlers found them scattered all around at the bottom of the Faultlines,” Joules said. “Wasn’t that strange, considering all the trash left over from the Realignment, but the suits were all empty. No bones, no dust, nothing. There was one above the cliffs, though, and it had a skeleton belonging to Ulysses Nova, last controller of Diablo Canyon Power Plant.”

“Nova? Any relation?”

“I wish,” Joules said. “Pretty standard name ‘round these parts. Only thing I have in common with him is I’ll end up dying on this rock too.”

“I dig his look,” he said. “Most people shy away from rubber, but not this guy. It’s a bold statement.”

“The story goes…” Joules turned off the lights and pressed the red button on the town model. An eerie green light crawled up the suit. A small fog machine burped mist around the hanging boots. “He tried to warn everyone about the coming quakes, the ones what made the Faultlines, but no one listened. The facility went into disrepair, security standards slipped. He ended up being the only one left when the Richter scale started doing the polka.”

 “Surprise, surprise,” Eugene said. “No one paid attention to predictive models.”

“The whole facility sealed itself and went hermetic,” Joules said. “He was locked inside and couldn’t rescind the command. While the rest of humanity took to the stars, Ulysses starved to death all on his lonesome. Years passed, the power plant fell over the cliffs, piece by piece, until all that was left was the suit.”

“So, he’s more like a town mascot.”

“More than that,” Joules said. “He’s an urban legend.”

“Or, in this case,” Eugene said, looking out the window. “More like a rural legend.”

“You keep knocking my town,” she said. “And I’m not going to show you what’s so special about this guy.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m out of my element here.”

“Then let’s get you back in it,” she said. Joules pulled off the left boot and twisted the heel around. She removed a small canister and worked the lid around and around. Ka-chunk! She opened it up and pulled out a fat joint.

“Joules Nova, you sly minx,” Eugene said. “Why didn’t you tell me we were going to peel our oranges?”

“Because,” she said, pulling out a lighter. “I needed you to trust me first.”

8:4

Chet groaned and let his head fall against the door.

“Fucking bi-weekly fucking pay period fucking bullshit…”

The door to the stairwell clicked open and slammed against the wall as Nick and Ron Jahlen strutted down the hallway. They chugged espresso Carbonites and stared at Chet through bloodshot eyes.

“Behind on the rent again, Chetty?” Nick sneered.

“Have you even tried to find another job?” Ron said. “I’m starting to think you like making minimum wage.”

“I know it’s hard for you two to understand,” Chet said. “But not everyone has a creepy uncle that’ll just hand them a job.”

“You’re just jealous,” Ron said. “I don’t see you on the ground floor of a slick tech start-up.”

“Well, this is the third floor,” Chet said. “And what’s your business called? Nepotism Incorporated?”

“It doesn’t have a name, stupid,” Nick said. “Top secret kind of shit.”

“Probably hear about it in the news any day now, though.”

“Sure,” Chet said. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on the obits.”

The door behind them opened. The smell of incense and sweat wafted out of Larry Zorn’s apartment.

“Well, if it isn’t the trust-fund twins,” Larry said. He leaned in and squinted at their hollow, hungover eyes. “Long day, fellas?”

“Same length as any other,” Ron said.

“Not by the looks of you two,” Larry said. “Geez, you kids need to lay off the crank. I’m sure mommy and daddy could afford a decent rehab center.”

“Piss off, Zorn,” Nick said. “Don’t you have an unemployment check to cash?”

“Naw, man,” Larry said. “I got direct deposit. Say, how come we never see Uncle Lenny? Too afraid to leave his apartment?”

“Hardly,” Ron said. “He just likes to avoid Neanderthals.”

“Yeah,” Nick said. “Idiots who wanna criminalize progress.”

“Progress, eh?” Chet said. “So, that’s what we’re calling testing mutations on prisoners now. I thought that was just illegal and unethical and…”

“Forget it, Nick,” Ron said. “Waste of time.”

“Don’t knock over Uncle’s mason jars!” Larry said. “You don’t want to clean that stuff up.”

“Whatever,” Nick said. He rolled his eyes and swiped the lock. Ron dropped his empty can in the hall, belched, and the two vanished into their uncle’s apartment, slamming the door behind them.

“Can you believe those two?” Chet said. “Like we didn’t get enough of their shit in high school, they gotta invade our lives here too.”

“At least they respond when you talk to ‘em,” Larry said. “Most everyone else acts like they don’t hear me.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re a degenerate.”

“That’s why we get along so well,” Larry said, slapping Chet on the back. “They lock you out again?”

“Yup,” Chet sighed. “Third time this year.”

“Always looking for something,” Larry said. “Once they fined me because the garbage disposal hadn’t been run since I moved in. I order takeout, man, right? Did I ever tell you about that?”

“Only a billion times.”

“Huh,” Larry said. “Must’ve been sloshed.”

“That and every other time I see you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Larry said. “Up for a smoke?”

“Might as well,” Chet said. “My brain’s fried anyway. What you got?”

Larry held the door open and ushered Chet inside like he was entertaining a royal diplomat.

“Oh, man, it’s some good shit,” he said. “Believe me. This stuff will blow your dick off.”

“Is that supposed to be a selling point?”

8:5

Molly dropped her plate in the sink and left Mort to do the dishes. She went down the hall to her office. The light was on in the bathroom and music played in her daughter’s room. She stopped a moment and tried to remember the last time she didn’t have to tell Joules to turn her speakers down.

“Joules?”

She knocked on the door. No response. She knocked again.

“Final warning,” Molly said. She waited a beat and exhaled sharply. “Alright, I’m coming in.”

The room wasn’t empty; it was filled with piles of clothes, but no Joules or Eugene. She turned the stereo off, nearly ripping off the knob. She looked around and grumbled at the nice dress crumpled up on the floor. Molly picked it up and smoothed it out. She pulled out one of the many unused hangers and hung the dress in the closet. She flipped the light off, shut the door, and stepped back into the hall.

Her eyes narrowed as her ears tuned to the subtle drone of the exhaust fan in the bathroom.

Again, she knocked. Again, no answer.

“You two better not be doing what I think you’re doing in there…”

She tried the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. She stepped inside and shut off the fan. She felt a chill. The window was closed, but it wasn’t latched. A breeze slipped through the crack.

“Oh, you little shits.”

8:6

Joules and Eugene took turns not breathing, holding the smoke in to give their lungs ample opportunity to soak up the good stuff. The weed whirled around and joined the haze from the fog machine.

“They say he haunts the cliffs,” Joules said. Eugene looked over at her, clueless. She nodded up at Ulysses. “He finds folks wandering alone at night…” She took another hit and spoke without letting the smoke out. “Tries to save them, you know. Get them in a suit too, but he ends up dragging them right over the edge and eeeeeeee-splat.”

“The best of intentions,” Eugene said. He cleared his throat. “You believe any of it?”

“When I was younger,” she said. “Sometimes I like to think I still do. It makes this place more interesting and helps to blend in with the locals.”

“A true ghost town.”

“Most folks up and moved to Atlas over the years,” Joules said. “They say there’s nothing to do in Hazmat. Better shopping in the big city and all that jazz, but not all of them moved away. Some just, poof, up and vanished.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Eugene said. “Time to prank the new guy. Sorry, darling, but it won’t work. My dad’s a scientist and my mom studied law. I was born into skepticism.”

“I’m dead serious,” she said. “And don’t call me ‘darling.’ You can blame it on the market or whatever or the Quorum, but for all their talk they never bother us. We’re small potatoes. And I checked the books. Some legit moved away and have records, but others…Old Man Dever, the Boson twins, Allie Dakota, my best, scratch that, my only friend. None one of them moved.”

“Maybe Ulysses wanted some company,” he said. “Must be awful lonely for him.”

“It’s not funny,” she said. “I’m not talking about ghosts. I know the suit’s just a spook story, but I’m telling you something weird is going on. This land’s strange. You think something like a planet can have a soul? Like the Old Ones and the Realignment, maybe Terra is rejecting us like a virus. Maybe it always has been…”

“Always wondered why they call it the Realignment,” Eugene said. “Yeah, sure you had shifting plates and continental storms, but that was all later. First crisis was plumbing, streets flooded with sewage. When you think about it, we mostly took to the stars just to avoid dealing with our own shit. I suppose the Great Bowel Movement doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, though.”

“Okay, Mr. Change-the-subject,” she said. “You think I’m haywire, don’t you?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t…no.”

“It’s cool,” she said, swiping up the canister. She began putting her paraphernalia back in place. An important part of the stoner ritual: cover your shit. “It’s fine. Everybody thinks so. I’m used to it.”

“Hey,” he said. “I don’t think you’re crazy, alright? In fact, you’re the only person on this rock I can actually talk to.”

“Heard that one before.”

“We’re talking now, right?”

“Reckon so…”

Joules turned away and smiled to herself. It was cute. They were having a moment.

“Plus,” Eugene said. “You’ve got the drugs.”

It was a brief moment.

Eugene studied the memorabilia, which had all seemed tacky before, but now the chemicals had traveled his blood stream and reached the Promised Land. His brain was mush and his eyes were new, unfiltered and wild.

The old ships seemed to shake along with idling engines. The pioneers waved past the camera and centuries to greet Eugene. The papier-mâché dunes rolled and shifted. He swore he saw wisps of wind whirl through the tiny crests and valleys. It was a miniature world come to life.

His pupils refocused and the garish green light above became unavoidable, his gaze drifting toward Ulysses. What had been decorative laundry moments ago, gradually warped before his eyes into an oddly realistic humanoid. The rubber-suited monster towered over him like an old sci-fi poster.

Joules yawned and sealed another joint like an envelope. A shadow grew in the dirty window from the other side of the road.

“Shit,” she whispered. “Shit, shit, shit.” She packed everything up in record time. “We gotta go. Now.” She shut the lights off and took Eugene out the back.

8:7

Molly held her jacket against the cold. The zipper had broken a good while ago, but she hadn’t found the time, let alone the money, to go out and buy a new one. She had already checked Darby’s and the garage. She trudged across the street and walked by Kronos Commons. Peppered among the darkened and boarded-up windows, a few lights were still on.

Ignatius listened to talk radio. He took swigs of Dub Light in his squishy beer sleeve with the Atlas Atoms logo. His favorite Absolutionist, Jack Granite, droned on about who’s to blame and exactly what’s coming to ‘em. Among his typical ramblings were warnings not to believe the false allegations levied against his company for using Yucca Penitentiary prisoners as unpaid labor. Druggies and leftists, the filthy lot of them. If it were up to him, his accusers would be locked up too.

In the other room, Ennis dreamed that he was lining up the winning field goal for the Gaian Giants against the Earth-2 Eagles. Garth tossed and turned through a nightmare. A witch had transformed him into a girl and locked him in an impossibly tall tower where he waited for some brave knight came to his rescue. He’d forget the dream as soon as he woke up.

Eliza Vanvulcanburg finished up her time on the computer and saved the latest draft of Lust and Dust: An Erotic Thriller. Delilah took a couple antacids and brushed her teeth while Lylah dreamed she was performing at senior recital. The best performance of her life, but the auditorium was empty. Her footsteps echoed back at her like applause.

Anice snored loudly in the bedroom while Abner read an interview with Vlad the Impala. It was from years back when journalists were still allowed meetings with the Quorum. Abner looked over his shoulder the whole time. When he was finished, he cleared his site history, even though his great grandmother wouldn’t be able to check it if she wanted to. He climbed in bed and thought about what it must have been like to be on Terra when humanity took to the stars and left the rest behind. He imagined generations passing Geiger counters down until they finally stopped clicking, the years of pH tests they had to go through before finally being able to drink clean water. He considered how no one in his life came close to exemplifying the kind of bravery and sacrifice it took to be Native Terran.

Molly passed the Gordian Curio and checked the historical society. She peered through the dirty window. The clouds inside were dissipating, but the smell of devilgrass slipped into the street.

“Christ,” she said. “You know, in my day, we at least had the brains to light some incense.”

“In your day…”

Molly spun around to see Madame Thuselah standing behind her.

“Hi-ya, Thuselah,” Molly said. “You scared me.”

“I’d suggest something for them nerves,” Thuselah said. “But it already smells like trouble.”

“Yeah, trouble’s what I’m looking for,” Molly said. “Suppose you haven’t seen Joules around.”

“Nope,” Thuselah said. “Suppose you ain’t seen Darby ‘round neither. Owes me from poker.”

“I’ve heard,” Molly said. “Between you and me, I don’t think he’ll pay up. The way he runs tabs, he’ll have to close up shop soon.”

“Yup,” Thuselah said. “Smells like trouble.”

“Have a good night, Madame,” Molly said.

“You as well, Miss Nova. You as well…”

A door creaked nearby. Molly rounded the corner, hoping to find the kids, but all she found was a sliver of light coming from the backdoor of the Curio. Thomas always left it unlocked. That way Madeline could slip in quietly after her kids fell asleep, but a draft had knocked the door unhinged.

Molly shook her head. Everyone thought they were clever. One day she’d tell them, tell them all how the whole town knew when they thought they were being so damn sneaky.

8:8

Eugene and Joules squeezed through the maintenance alley behind the shops, barely wide enough to run the pipes and wire. They shuffled along the walls until Eugene got stuck. He immediately got claustrophobic, breathing heavy and panicking in place. Joules scoffed, leaned back, and kicked at his foot. His shoelace slipped loose from a random nail sticking out from the wall.

They got out and Eugene looked up at the sky. Brushstrokes of clouds shrouded the stars and the full moon glowed behind, making concentric cracks in the sky. He followed Joules behind the row of buildings out toward the desert.

“Where are you taking me now?” he said.

“Funny story,” Joules said. “Well, funny to me…”

They walked just outside of town, past the outpost and the worn-down welcome sign, to a series of small dunes bubbling up in formation. If you squinted, it formed the crude outline of a neighborhood.

“Years back, Granite Construction built a subdivision here,” Joules said. “Looked nice, if you’re into cookie-cutter box homes. I had some fun playing in it when it was empty. Allie and I used to have dirt clod battles on top of the mounds left over from the foundations.”

“Sounds fun,” he said.

“It was,” Joules said. “Until one of us got hit with a rock. This plot’s been listed since the last big dust storm.”

“Okay…”

“And it just got bought,” she said, staring at him. “Like, recently.”

“I’d like to meet the genius who paid money for a sandbox.”

“You have,” she said. “That’s what I’m trying to…. My parents told me not to say anything, but if it were me, I’d wanna know.”

“Know what?”

“I’m laying it on pretty thick here, dude,” she said. “Look, just gander at that sign over there.”

Eugene raised his eyebrow and shrugged. He walked over to the brittle for sale sign. A shiny sticker glinted in the moonlight: SOLD! Future campus of Bohr Industries

“Sorry I couldn’t buy you a real drink,” she said. “I thought I could at least get you stoned as some kind of consolation.”

“I mean, what do I care where they set up shop?” Eugene said. “I don’t know why they’d expand to Terra, but I’m sure dad’s got his reasons.”

“You really don’t keep up with the news,” Joules said. “Or, like, anything to do with your family, do you?” He gave her a blank look. “Geez, man, Bohr Industries has been tanking for a while. Even before your dad came here. News says a string of poor investments, but way I figure it your parents have been running the show like a non-profit for years and it’s finally catching up. They’re moving out here for real, for the long haul. All the eggs, put ‘em in this basket.”

“But I’m going to school in the fall,” he said. “Heartland University.”

“Think that was part of the plan,” she said. “Soften the blow. They didn’t want to pull you out of high school, so they held off until summer.”

“Oh,” he said. Eugene blinked a few times. “Huh.” He looked at her, he looked at the sign. “Okay.”

“Shit, man,” Joules said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“No, it’s cool,” he said. “And you’re right. I’d want to know. I mean, I do want to know.”

“Promise you don’t hate me.”

“What?” he said. “No. Why would I—I thought you were the one who…”

“Because I give you shit?” Joules chuckled. “Yeah, I guess that tracks. Did I mention I have like zero friends?”

“Well, looks like I’m in the market.”

“Sold,” she said, hiding a smile. “Let’s go make it official.”

“Don’t tell me there’s more walking involved.”

“Oh, we’ll build those muscles yet, Eugene Bohr,” she said. “Come on, it’s a bit of a hike, but totally worth it.”

“Like I’ll take your word for it.”

“I can go grab a stick if you want,” she said, pulling a joint from her hoodie pocket. “But this is a really fat carrot.”

“Say no more…”

They circled back around town and up the hill. They weaved through headstones until they reached an outcropping behind the church. Joules plopped down on the ledge and fired up the joint.

Shadows popped up here and there amidst the void far beneath their dangling feet. The fossilized remains of Diablo Canyon. Husks of rusted vehicles. Piles of what used to be cities and homes and yogurt shops, rubble still standing from when the great Pacific receded and turned tundra.

“I still think most of this planet is pointless,” Eugene said. “But there’s definitely nothing like this back on Earth.”

“Yup,” Joules said. “No shortage of empty, scenic views here.”

“I was talking about the weed.”

“What can I say,” Joules said. She took a long drag and passed it to Eugene. “Cousin Jimmy gets the good. So, what’s it like on Earth?”

“You look at this place,” Eugene said, taking a small hit. “Can you even fathom the time it took for all of it to break down into sand or for the ocean to drain and freeze over?”

“Eh,” Joules said. “Not really.”

“Well, there’s nothing to wonder about in the Central Alliance,” he said. “Topography determined by algorithm, buildings by committee. It’s like living in a catalog. Sure, it’s all nice and smooth and clean and the post-colonial homes look pretty when they’re all lined up in a row, but deep down you know none of it’s real.” He stopped and held out the joint to inspect it. “Damn. Is this shit laced?”

“Purple haze doesn’t need to be laced,” Joules said. She blew on the cherry to keep it going. “That’s like dumping water in your tank to boost sludge mileage. You’re just not used to the real thing.” She took a drag and smiled. “The best drugs come from the most desolate places. Really, what else is there to do?”

“It’s starting to grow on me,” he said. Eugene gazed out at the great big empty as above so below. “It’s peaceful. Plenty of room to think.”

“Now you sound like my dad,” she said. “Me, I’ve had enough peace and quiet to last a lifetime.” She held out the joint, but Eugene waved it away.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m good.”

“Lightweight.”

“Give me time,” he said. “I’ve got to build up to that desolate tolerance of yours.” He folded his hands and cradled his head. He leaned back and watched the slow clouds as they crept across the sky.

“Better not pass out on me,” she said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Just resting my eyes…”

“Sure wish those clouds would clear,” she said. “The tundra out there looks beautiful under the moon.”

Eugene responded with a wistful sigh. June locusts droned for mates while crickets played second fiddle. A family of no-eyed jacks grazed on weeds at the bottom of the cliffs. Their ears flicked back and forth constantly, making up for their shriveled, deprived pupils.

“What’s you summer project about?” Joules said.

“Huh?”

“Your school thing,” she said.

“Oh,” he said. “Didn’t think you were listening.”

“I hear everything,” she whispered as creepily as possible. “So, is it like Anthropology? You observing us primitives in the wild?”

“Hardly,” he said. “If I wanted to research apes, I’d just set up camp outside the weight room. And it’s not actually a summer project. Just a little disagreement between myself and the Heartland School Board.”

“Sounds juicy,” she said. “Let me guess: you failed a piss test and they kicked you off the lacrosse team?”

“First off, why lacrosse?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Sounded like a rich kid thing.”

“They wouldn’t let me walk at graduation because of a senior prank I pulled. I got grounded and my mom shipped me off here to stay with my dad.”

“Sounds a little harsh,” she said. “What did you do to those poor freshmen?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I pulled a senior prank. Emphasis on ‘senior.’ The Varsity guys had been dicks all summer and even worse when classes started up, so when it came time for the playoffs, I added a little something extra to the water cooler.”

“Oh, like laxative?” she said. “How original…”

“No, not just laxative.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“I’ll give you some hints,” he said. “It’s odorless, colorless, tasteless, and melts in your brain.”

“You slipped them acid?”

“And laxative,” he said. “Don’t forget about the laxative. I really lucked out too. Game was a nail-biter. Super close, but they probably would’ve won if they didn’t start tripping out at the end of the fourth quarter.”

“Wow,” she said. “That’s pretty shitty.”

“Literally,” he said. “Made them regret those new uniforms they got after slashing the art budget. Should’ve picked something other than white for the bottoms.”

“Oof,” she said. “White pants under Friday night lights.”

“I would’ve gotten away with it, but about a month ago my buddy Lance got caught smoking during lunch,” he said. “And he ratted me out in exchange for a lighter sentence. It all came out and I got a stern talking to.”

“Surprised you didn’t get expelled.”

“Believe me: the Athletic Director definitely tried,” he said. “But my parents practically built the STEM program, so they couldn’t go that far.”

“At least you know how to take advantage of your privilege,” she said. “Must’ve been pretty bummed, though, missing graduation and all.”

“Have you ever sat through a graduation ceremony?” he said. “They’re the worst. Though I suppose it is a little disappointing. I had a little concession speech prepared. Four whole years in that place and I failed to destroy it.”

“Eugene Bohr,” she said. “Hero of the ignorant masses.”

“Don’t go polishing my tarnished reputation,” he said, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Oh, man, I feel like an ignorant mass.”

“Again, lightweight,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get a nice spot on the hill if you roll over the edge.”

“Will you speak at my funeral?”

“Of course,” she said, clearing her throat. “Eugene Bohr died as he lived…high as a kite.”

“Perfect,” he said. “Subtle, yet so true. Don’t forget to mention how brilliant and charming I was…”

8:9

Reverend Jones held Amos up with one arm and fished the keys from the drunk’s pocket. He opened the door and Amos fell inside his cruddy studio apartment. Jones dragged the man through empty to-go boxes and 40-ouncers and plopped him down on the couch. He left the keys on the crowded coffee table and locked the door behind him.

Jones walked across the street, head tilted to the sky. He grinned up through the clouds. Even if only for a moment, he never missed an opportunity to take in the heavens. He went back inside Darby’s, flipped off the open sign, and went over to kill the jukebox. Someone caught the door before it closed.

“Hold up there, Jonesy…”

Jones winced. It had been years, but he knew the voice well.

“You still got customers,” the General said.

“Sorry, Howard,” Jones said, tossing the jukebox cord to the side. “Close early on Sundays.”

The General pushed inside and waved the Reverend’s concern away with a flip of his hand. He removed his trench and draped it around a barstool.

“Don’t worry,” he said, dropping a thick black card on the counter. “I’ve got plenty for the collection basket. Leaking Core. Make it a double.”

Jones sidled up behind the bar. He opened the bottle and poured the man his drink.

“You’re out late,” Jones said. “Corps got you on overtime?”

“No time off for good behavior,” the General said. “You know that. Haven’t been without the stars that long.”

“Ain’t long enough if you ask me,” Jones said. He set the glass down and twisted the cap like he was wringing a chicken’s neck.

“Still fretting over what’s done and passed, I see.” The General took a sip and went “Ah…”

“Gave up worrying long ago,” Jones said. “Took up praying instead.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” the General said. “They don’t treat your kind too well in the ranks.”

“And what’s my kind, Howard?”

“Hell, Jones, I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“If you didn’t mean nothing,” Jones said. “Why say it in the first place?”

“Just surprised the locals haven’t chased you out of town yet,” the General said. “I know they’re a mite slow out here in the boonies, but they must know they’ve got a gay preacher on their hands.”

“Figure they got a problem with that, it don’t matter none on account of The Oath.”

“Remember when you made a pass at me?” The General spoke to his drink, as if the Reverend wasn’t even there. He was just passing the time, shooting the shit. He rarely looked into the other man’s eyes.

“I sure don’t,” Jones said. “I do recall trying to help your blackout drunk ass get home safe and you thinking I was making a pass at you.”

“Honest mistake, I suppose.”

“You know what they say,” Jones said. “A clear conscience is a sign of a bad memory.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come now, Howard,” Jones said. “Didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“Funny.”

“It means there’s no way in heaven or hell I’d make a pass at a man such as yourself,” Jones said. “Not in all my years. And that you’d assume the contrary is a testament to your arrogance.”

“Well, we can have a good laugh about it now.”

“Yeah, well, you can laugh,” Jones said. “Me, I’ve still got the scars from that bottle you put in my eye.”

“That’s what you get for grabbing at my ass.”

“Seems an overreaction,” Jones said. “An eye for an ass…”

“God, I miss them days,” he said. “Living the shit life back at The Hub, waiting on our next deployment. Free rounds for enlisted, plenty of action at the tracks. Couldn’t take a piss without hitting a hooker.”

“Speaking of which,” Jones said. “How’s Bella doing?”

“Oh, you ain’t heard?” the General said. “Found her behind a laundromat a couple seasons back.” He took a gulp and sighed like he was somehow proud of the news. “Working the wrong corner, way I figure it.”

“Doesn’t look like you took Miss Nero’s passing too hard.”

“And why would I?”

“Mother of your child dies,” Jones said. “Thought you might feel something about it.”

“Mother of her child,” he said. “Not mine.”

“He makes much of his apples,” Jones said. “But very little of his children.”

“You speak in anything other than aphoristic vagaries?”

“Don’t play the fool, Howard,” Jones said. “Charlie may be dumber than hell, but he’s your responsibility. He’s your kin, after all.”

“Hardly,” the General said. “Bella made sure of that…”

8:10

They sat in perfect quiet. Eugene listened to the sound of his heartbeat and drifted off. Joules scratched the flint and puffed to relight the roach. Eugene could hear the lighter fluid slosh around inside. He could hear her breathing. For a second, it was like he could even hear her pulse. Somewhere far off in the night a creature howled. Eugene was about to fall asleep when Joules broke the spell.

“Holy shit.”

“Who do what now?” Eugene sprang up and slapped himself a couple times. “I’m awake, I’m awake…”

But Joules wasn’t talking to him. Her mouth hung open as she stared up at the sky. The clouds had parted, the moon was incandescent. She wasn’t staring at the moon, though, or the diamonds sparkling over the tundra in the distance. She was looking at the clouds. They had parted, but something about them was off. The clouds pinwheeled around the moon, cloaking the rest of the sky.

“You’re right,” Eugene said. “It is beautiful in the moonlight.”

He wasn’t staring at the moon either. Or the tundra or even the clouds. The weed had hit him hard and the world was hand-drawn. Joules was animated, her clothes flowing without so much as a breeze. Her hair grew and tangled in place, each strand seemingly replacing itself with fresh ones. The contours of her skin wavered and her eyes glistened wild.

Eugene was entranced. Or exhausted. Or perhaps a bit of both as his reaction time was nonexistent. Joules turned to him and all he could do was flash a nervous smile and keep on staring at her.

“Can I help you?” she said.

“Sorry,” he said. “No…”

He turned away and completely failed to appear nonchalant. Now it was Joules’ turn. She looked at Eugene. He was awkward and pale, his voice was nasally, and he surely wasn’t as clever as he thought he was, but, still, there was something about him. There was something good in there, she knew it, and he wasn’t going to offer it up on his own accord. She scooted a little closer and asked the single most self-defeating question you can ever ask someone, especially a teenage boy.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

Joules folded her arms and waited for something beyond the stock answer. She raised her eyebrows and titled her head down.

“Okay,” he said. “I was just thinking…I don’t know.”

“You can tell me.”

“I was thinking about my dad.”

“We’ve had him over a lot,” she said. “He’s a nice guy. You remind me of him.”

“What?” Eugene said. “Not all here?”

“Kind of funny, kind of full of himself, but not in an exceedingly obnoxious way. And, I don’t know, kind of sweet.”

“You know, I figured when I got here, he’d be too busy for me,” he said. “Didn’t think he’d up and forget about me entirely.”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” Joules said. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Trust me.”

“I do,” he said. He leaned toward her and put his hand on her thigh, but she recoiled.

“And what do you think you’re doing?”

“Nothing,” he said, playing innocent.

“Yeah,” she said. “Sure.” She rolled her eyes and picked up his hand with two fingers like a piece of wet trash and dropped it off her leg.

“I’m sorry.”

“You could at least try to be a little less obvious.”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she said, pushing herself to her feet.

“I don’t have to,” he said. “I’m pretty dumb…”

“You’re not the first out-of-towner to blow into Hazmat,” she said. “And I know the kind of summer attractions boys look for on vacation.”

“Wait. No, it’s not like that.”

“Not interested.”

He tried to stand up, but he fell back on his ass and Joules was already trudging down the hill, another shadow among the headstones.

8:11

“Hell,” the General said. “Wouldn’t have even known he existed if she hadn’t fucked up so bad.”

“Can you blame her?” Jones said. “The way you treat women, Bella probably thought she was doing you a kindness.”

“A kindness would’ve been taking care of it,” the General said. “And sending me the bill.”

“Again,” Jones said. “She did the best she could with the hand she was dealt.”

“And that ain’t what I’m doing?” he said. “Kid was too old by the time we met. Already full-grown, too far gone. She raised him soft, but I still treat him like a son, don’t I? Same as my daddy did me.”

“I’d hate to meet that man.”

“Amen to that,” the General said. He finished his glass and tapped the counter. “What could I do? She dropped him out of the clear blue.”

“Can’t say what I would’ve done.” Jones frowned and opened the bottle again. This time he poured a double and left the bottle. “But you could at least give the kid some love every now and then.”

“Christ, what is it with priests and loving on little boys?”

“Sure don’t know, Howard,” Jones said. “What is it with aging officers and god complexes?”

“That a reverend casting judgment I hear?”

“Ain’t casting nothing,” Jones said. “You made an observation about me. Just paying you back in kind.”

“Yeah, and ain’t that what makes the world blind?” he said. “Anyway, I did what I could. I set the kid up, got him a job, gave him some purpose in the world. Nothing else I can do for him he can’t do himself.”

“Glad to see you’re still a bleeding heart.”

“Least I’m consistent,” the General said. “You went and got soft, Jones.”

“Adapting ain’t going soft,” Jones said. “Contrary to evil, change is necessary. Change is life.”

“Spoken like a true idealist,” he said. “A delusional one at that.”

“How you figure these conversations are going to end?” Jones shook his head and leaned in to make sure the General had to look him in the eye. “You keep playing the same record, Howard, thinking what? I’m gonna start carrying your tune? But, then again, any sign of contrition is full-fledged weakness to you, so what is it you’re looking for here?”

“Peace.”

“Who’s the idealist now?”

“Never said it was free.”

“How’s a man like you get so much power with so little imagination?”

“The world’s changed,” the General said. “I don’t have the luxury of ancient beliefs or incantations to dress my worries in.”

“World don’t change,” Jones said. “We do. There’s good and there’s bad and then there’s just folks. Folks trying their all for nothing because there’s no forgiveness. And there’s folks getting hurt and letting it turn them cruel. World hasn’t changed, Howard; you have.”

“If the world’s still the same,” the General said. “You won’t mind me doing my best to keep it from falling apart.”

“But I do mind,” Jones said. “How’s a man like you get where you are without any sort of faith? How’s a man like you worm onto the council? How’s a man like you really go about protecting this land?”

“Let me guess,” the General said. “God’s got a problem with the way I’ve been doing my job?”

“God’s got no problems,” Jones said. “But these folks do. They’ve got real problems. And anyone who thinks peace can come of blood has more problems than most.”

“And I got a problem, preacher,” the General said. “With your kind criticizing from the sidelines while me and mine put our asses on the line.”

“I did my time, Howard.”

“Not enough, in my opinion.”

“And in mine,” Jones said. “You’ve done far too much.”

“Well, that’s the way it goes, ain’t it?” the General said. “Some do. Some don’t. I just keep doing what I’ve always done. I do what’s necessary.”

“Same thing expecting different results,” Jones said. “I believe that’s the definition of madness, Howard.”

“It’s the definition of security, damn it!”

The General slammed his glass on the table, shattering the bottom. Small shards stuck in his palm. The blood came slow and bright. He picked out the large bits and shook off the rest.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jones said. “Time I got to cleaning up anyway.”

The General glared and pushed out his chair. He swiped a rag and wrapped it around his hand. He also swiped the bottle and started guzzling.

“I’d say it was a pleasure, but…”

“But that,” the General said, taking a break from his drink. He wagged his finger at Jones and swayed in place. “That would be a sin.” He took another bottle from behind the counter, shook it, and pocketed it in his trench. “I’ll be seeing you, Reverend.”

“Sure hope not,” Jones said through gritted teeth as he wiped glass bits off the counter into the dustbin.

8:12

Joules weaved through graves toward the bottom of the hill. She kept her hands buried in her hoodie pocket. Occasionally she turned back to the cliffs.

“You’re supposed to chase after me,” she mumbled.

But no one followed. Eugene didn’t appear among the headstones, bumbling down after her. She shrugged and kept walking.

“Idiot…”

She stepped onto the main drag but stopped herself for one last look. Just in case. She scanned the hill, but all the shadows were in place. Everyone in their familiar old spots. They’d never move. At least not anytime soon.

Her nose turned up. Something smelled like death.

“Fair night, isn’t it, Miss Nova?”

The General sat in the rocker on the front porch of Darby’s Tavern. The lights were out behind him. He rocked and knocked back the rest of his bottle.

“Hi.”

“My name’s Howard Mendax,” he said. “But you can call me Howard.”

“No thanks,” she said. “Wait, Howard Mendax as in the Immutable? I gotta tell you, dude. The picture they have for you in the papers is so old it’s probably drawing social security.”

He left the chair, letting the bottle roll away. He knocked his head against the wind chimes made of gatekeeper bones, their matching yellowed skulls nailed along the posts. The first settlers hunted the things to near extinction and not without good reason. Gatekeepers have the head of coyote and the body of a bear. They evolved from fallout as the ugliest, nastiest things on four feet, yet now they mostly wither in zoos spread across the Constant.

“Devilgrass?” the General said. He grimaced and sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “You know what that stuff does to your brain?”

“Says the guy with breath like paint thinner.”

“What are you doing out here all alone?” the General said. “Awful dangerous for a young lady like yourself to go about unaccompanied after nightfall.”

“Beg pardon, sir!” Joules fake-fainted. “I must’ve done caught the vapors!”

“Let me walk you home,” he said.

“There you are!” Molly shuffled over from the other side of the road. “I’ve been looking all over creation for you two.”

“Two?” the General mused. “You got a friend staying over?”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Mendax,” Molly said. She turned her attention to Joules, knocking the dust from her backside. She saw a trail of dark droplets in the sand and followed it to the General. “Oh, no! What happened to your hand?”

“It’s nothing,” the General said. He tucked it behind his back. “I assure you.”

“Come on,” she said, snapping her fingers impatiently. “I did some nursing in my day. Let me take a look.” He surrendered like a child. She took his hand and opened the rag. “Well, it sure looks nasty, but we’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

8:13

Thank you for choosing Horizons Limitless. Your estimated hold time is 57 minutes and 37 seconds…

The phone was on speaker on the microwave. He didn’t dare try to call again later. It had taken some time to bounce his signal far enough to hook a decent connection and who knows if he’d be able to swing it again. Everything seemed to be down in the aea. Phones, cameras, the Nexus; nothing stayed active long enough to get through. Even the billing sites, the most stable of all, were throwing 404s and default maintenance messages.

Mort scrubbed, rinsed, and set the dishes in the sink.

Did you know Horizons Limitless now offers Unlimited Hold Time Calling? No more charges while you wait…

Mort scrubbed hard at the caked-on brown stuff at the bottom of the roaster. Synthetic foods were an economical choice, but they sure made a fine mess.

Horizons Limitless appreciates your patience. Your estimated hold time is 1 hour and 34 minutes and…

Mort groaned and hit the roaster with degreaser and left it to soak. He pulled out a bottle of Bitches Brew from the fridge. He popped it open on the edge of the counter.

Did you know Horizons Limitless is the longest-running intergalactic communication network?

“No, I did not,” Mort said. “Please. Tell me more.” He took a swig and immediately checked the expiration. He shrugged and drank some more. He brought the phone over to the table.

Horizons Limitless connects you to your world. Your estimated hold time is 3 hours and 27 minu-

Keys jingled from outside and front door swung open. Joules tromped off to her room.

“Hey, kiddo,” Mort said. “What’s the rush? Where’s Eu—”

“Alright, Mr. Mendax,” Molly said. “Right this way. Just take a seat at the table while I get the first aid.”

The General ducked under the entryway and slowly walked across the dining room. His boots left a trail of sand, his hand dotting the way with specks of blood.

“Evening, Dr. Nova.”

“Good evening, General,” Mort said. “It’s…it’s been a while.”

“Well, you know me,” he said. He pulled out a chair and plopped down. “Always busy.”

“It’s funny you’re here,” Mort said. He scratched his head and eyed the General. “Molly and I were just talking about the noise from your crew and we were hoping you could maybe—”

The call cut out from Mort’s phone and beeped loudly three times.

Thank you for choosing Bohr Industries. The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.

Mort scrambled to the phone and took it off speaker. He took another sip of his beer and set the bottle down, his hand shaking.

“Aren’t you going to leave a message?” the General said.

“I can call them back,” Mort said. He slipped his phone into his pocket and gripped his drinks with both hands. “No one checks voicemail anymore.”

Molly came back with some gauze and disinfectant. The General let his hand fall on the table and unfurled his bloodied paw, his eyes trained on Mort.

“Alright, now this is going to sting…” She dabbed his cuts with antibacterial and used tweezers to pull out bits of glass. “So, what happened here?”

“Oh, I was just helping Jones clean up a mess from one of the barflies,” the General said. His mechanical eye dilated, but the rest of him was stone. “Must’ve caught myself in the process. Tends to happen after a few sours.”

“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” she said.

“We served together back in the day,” he said. “It was nice catching up. Been far too long.”

“Always forget that about the Reverend,” she said. “Such a gentle man, you’d never think—I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean nothing by that.”

“None taken,” he said. “I’m a little rougher around the edges than most.” His eye twitched as Molly pulled out another shard. “Mrs. Nova, may I say that you have a lovely home here.”

“Thanks for saying so,” Molly said. “Definitely seen better days though. Seems like for every one thing I fix, two others—”

“So, Mort was telling me there’s a problem with the noise downstairs?” He turned to Molly. He watched her slowly with calm regard. Every so often his eyes flicked back to Mort.

“Oh, yes,” Molly said. She rubbed dried blood from his wrist. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just, you know, on the weekends it tends toward the aggravating.”

“Please,” he said, raising his other hand like a boy scout. “You don’t have to tiptoe around it. I’ll talk to them. In fact, I’ll bring it up tonight.”

“Is that why you’re in town?” Mort said. “For a walk-through?”

“You know how it goes,” the General said. “Our days don’t belong to us. I’ve been putting it off for a while, but I found myself in the neighborhood and figured I’d stop by and see how it’s shaping up.”

“Must be one heck of a remodel,” Mort said. “Didn’t think there’d be much to do other than clean it up. Darby can’t hold his drink, but that old Distillery was always kept in good shape.”

“Well, I like to be thorough,” the General said. “And when I retire, I want to spend my time brewing, not playing handyman. As you can tell, I’m not so great with my hands.”

Molly chuckled and dipped her cloth in warm water, turning it a deeper shade of iron.

“Would you folks care to join me?” he said. “It is on your property after all and your opinion would mean a lot to me.”

“That’s kind of you to offer,” Molly said. She finished wrapping the General’s palm and packed up the first aid kit. “But, honest, I’m past my prime and Joules and I need to have a little chat before I go to bed. And there you are. Now, don’t change that for at least a day. I didn’t see any deep cuts, but you might want to get it checked out if it’s not healed up by the end of the week.”

“Thank you so much,” the General said. He clenched and unclenched his fist. Again, he stared at Mort, as if waiting for the man to say something. “Good as new, Mrs. Nova. You’re a treasure. And thank you both for putting up with those shovelheads downstairs. Here I am, not even moved in, and I’m already a bad neighbor.”

“Oh, you stop that now,” she said. “How could you know? You’re out there doing your best to keep us all safe. Honest, I feel silly for getting so worked up about it.”

“You’re too kind.”

“And you don’t mind looking after that boy?” Molly said. “Joules said she left him by the cliffs. He’s not from around here and I don’t want him getting into any trouble.”

“I’ve already got my men on it,” the General said. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of him.”

“I sure appreciate it,” she said. “Alright, it’s looking to be that time. Now, Mort, don’t you go staying up all night. I don’t want to hear your bellyaching when the sun comes a-rising. You have a pleasant evening, General.”

“Please,” he grinned. “Call me Howard.”

Molly went around and gathered her things. She kissed Mort on the head and went down the hall. She stopped at her daughter’s room for a moment when a yawn tackled her. She shook her head and then disappeared into the bathroom to wash her face down the drain and comb out the tangles.

“So, what do you say, Mort?” the General said. He pulled out a bottle from his trench and popped the cap. “Would you like to join me or are you feeling like a lie-down too? I know it’s been a busy day for you as well.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“I can’t see why you’d need to visit the base on a weekend, but I’m sure you were just catching up on work, right?”

“Who told you I was in Atlas?”

“I’ve got eyes and ears all over the place, Mort,” he said. He took a swig and winced. “Not everything I get is news. Odds and ends mostly. Take for instance that long distance call to Earth. Couldn’t be cheap. Especially since you hung up before leaving a message.”

“Just trying to reach an old friend…” Mort couldn’t hear himself over the sound of his own heartbeat.

“I’m sure, Mort,” he said. “Your wife’s right: you’ve got a lousy poker face.”

Mort didn’t respond. He stared at the grain in the table and wondered when they had bugged his home and why they’d do it in the first place.

“All your project files are gone the same day Walter leaves…” The General pushed his chair out and stalked around the table. “We both know there’s no such thing as coincidence. How much time have you been spending with him outside of our authorized facilities?”

“Didn’t know I needed permission to be a good neighbor.”

“Neighbors don’t discuss highly classified projects or glean top clearance details without reporting to their supervisor. You’ve been out of your depth for a while now, Mort, but it was good fun watching how deep you’d go, especially considering the risk to your family.”

“If you’re trying to blackmail me,” Mort said. “Don’t bother.”

“There you go showing your hand again,” the General said. “You think just because you’re nice that there’s no dirt on you? How much would you say I’m overpaying on the rent downstairs? I’d venture to guess it’s just enough to qualify suspicions of accepting a bribe.”

“I’ve got evidence Walter Bohr never left this planet,” Mort said. “Let’s both go to the law and work it out like civilized people.”

“Any evidence you have is spurious at best, but that’s beside the point. Walter abandoned the project. That’s the long and short of it.”

“He said there were problems with the simulations,” Mort said. “What did he mean by that?”

“That’s for you to figure out. I’m only here to supervise.”

“You’re here to keep me quiet.”

“I definitely could,” he said. “I know at least twenty different ways to make a person disappear without forensics being able to determine cause or motive.”

“But…” Mort stood up and turned to the General. “But you won’t.”

“Oh, I like the sudden confidence, Mort,” the General said. “Very out-of-character, though. What makes you so sure?”

“Because if Walter’s left the project, then you need someone to take his place.”

“And you think you’re that someone?” the General said. “Country chemist is a big step down from the Constant’s leading mind.”

“I know the formulas and all their analogs,” Mort said. “And before I came along, Walter’s theory was just a clever joke he liked to tell at conferences.”

“I’m glad you accept the promotion,” the General said. His hands came down on Mort’s shoulders and gripped tightly. “I appreciate how sensible you’re being, Mort. We’re damned lucky to have you on the team.”

He let go and Mort followed him slowly to the door, compelled, as if in a dream, and then down, down the spiral stairs to the last sub-level. With each step he thought of a different way to change the scenario. And every other step brought with it the realization of certain death. Mort didn’t need to crunch the numbers to know the General, for all his age and frailty, could kill him without breaking a sweat.

“Going down?” the General chuckled. He pulled out his key to the freight elevator and summoned it. He ushered Mort inside and swung the gate shut.

Joules peaked around the corner as they descended. She tiptoed over to the elevator shaft. She leaned over the edge and watched the carriage go down, down, down…

8:14

Eugene’s eyes scanned the heavens. A clear sky is hard to come by living in domes. Sure, he got a nice view during shuttle rides, but nothing compared to having his feet planted firmly and looking up at the stars. A planet of souls sharing the same gravity, the cosmos alight with an embarrassment of riches.

In the tundra below, Eugene saw the glittering lights reflected in the crystals of the far-off snow. They twinkled and blended into the Carbon City skyline.

Memory has never been a reliable format. Working backwards goes alright for a spell, but signs of degradation appear immediately, and it only gets worse from there. Corroded film stock, frames taped together by stories and second-hand accounts, connections spliced in with hindsight. When it comes to early childhood, there are entire reels missing and in their place a haze; the loops disintegrating over time until all that remains are flashes, moments and emotions failing to cohere. A tire swing and an upset stomach. Sticky hands on a rocking horse. Adults laughing, shouting parents, blood running from a skinned knee. The Quaker oatmeal guy’s creepy stare.

Memory may be the scribe of the soul, but it sure takes shit for notes.

It must have been at the old high-rise they lived in before the first major expansion of Bohr Industries. That dead summer their overcrowded district got hit with a power outage when his dad called him by flashlight through his window in Morse code. Young Eugene giggled, feeling very smart for understanding the message, and ran out into the cool night air where he was greeted with his mom’s prickly sweater and the smell of hot chocolate.

“Alright,” Dad said, fiddling with a discount telescope. He stood up and clapped his hands. “We’re all set.”

Eugene climbed down from his mom’s lap and Walt placed him on his knee. The blue jeans were cold on his bottom.

“I can’t see it.”

“Close your other eye,” Dad said.

He blinked a few times until it came into focus. A small sandy circle with a baby dot of a moon.

“Whoa.”

“That’s where we came from,” Mom said.

“How far away is it?”

“Some would say impossibly far,” Mom said.

“Some do say that,” Dad said. “Yet here we are…”

Eugene looked up and tried not to feel so impossibly far away, but it was too late. He was caught, stuck in orbit. And he spiraled from there.

Countless stars had exploded or collapsed since the Old Ones first started tracking the sky and countless more were doomed to similar fates. Innumerable lights destined to fade and join the March of the Black Dwarfs at Eon’s End. There’s no way to properly quantify or qualify the sheer luck involved for us to make it off this rock in the first place, let alone prove it was all worth it just to end up right back where we started.

Eugene looked up and tried not to feel small. He looked up at the stars from a strange place. He looked up at the stars from a planet as old as sin.

Should’ve gone home…

He closed his eyes and pulled out the broken pair of glasses. He ran his fingers over the frames and took deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Fill the lungs and empty them. Lather, rinse, repeat. He pictured every particle being absorbed, every atom necessary for his continued existence bonding and breaking and filtering into his heart, pumping through his body, the iron of long-dead stars coursing through his veins. He felt the instructions of existence pulsating from the Big Bang through oceans of time into his heart. His neurons mapped from the blueprint of that holy moment into a scale model of the universe, in constant flux, the lights going out, new ones flaring up to take their place.

For a moment, Eugene understood the fundamental curse and promise of all breathing things: we shall all live and lose innumerable galaxies by the end of it all.

It was a brief moment.

A thick, pernicious fog rolled off the cooling tundra. It crept over the void and climbed the cliffs. Eugene felt empty as the fog coiled around his hands and feet and the world took on an ineffable glow. The air smelled metallic, tasted hollow. Ancient accounts of Chernobyl list that as a lingering effect of fallout. The radiation may have faded away, but something remained. Soaked deep in rock, deep in the earth something always remains.

Should’ve gone home…

Eugene tried to sit up, but his limbs were heavy. He tried to stand again, but it was pointless.

Should’ve gone home…

He was filling up like a sandbag. Dead weight.

What do you know?

His eyes left the ground and drifted through the clouds and into the heavens. There he floated, suspended among the stars.

I’m already home…

“What the hell?”

His eyelids drooped and he heard thick rubber boots trotting out a rhythm that went a little something like squeak, squeak, squeakity-squeak…

Through bleary eyes, a bright figure came into focus. A man wrapped in yellow plastic, his chest stamped with a biohazard symbol. The ghost trudged toward Eugene in slow motion, noxious gas flowing from the wrist-pump.

“Okay,” Eugene said. “That shit was definitely laced…”

He fell over and his eyes became the ground. The moon disappeared. The clouds swallowed it whole. And the world grew dark from the inside out.

MATRES OPERANDI