Dedicated to Mike and Conor

Authors, roughly in order of appearance

A. D. Jameson

Aaron Gulyas

Adam Lewis Smith

Adam Tapley

AJB

Alena Harrold

Alex Fauth

Alex Vidacs

Alice Nuttall

Amanda Martyn

Amber J

Amber Strong

Andrew Milne

Andy Morris

Arthur Boff

Bethany Lewis

Blake/Moviegique

Bob Priestley

Brad Wheeler

Braeden Grant

Brent Cockerham

Brett Padelford

Brian Koser

Brian pukey

Brian Rogoski

Bridget K

Brion Kendo

Bryan "B-Wick" Iwicki

Carey Daniels

Charlie Oliver

Chris Arguin

Chris Powell

Chris Swindell

Chris Weixelman

Christian

Christiane Merritt

Christinia Crippes

Christopher Port

Cliff

Conn

Conor Lastowka

Curtis Evans

Dan Defenbaugh

Dan Gerard

Dan Giacobbe

Daniel Bisgaard

Daniel Laird

Danielle Povlock

Danny Davis

David Clair

Deanna Mallard

Devin Tuffy

Don Whipkey

Donald & Michael Johansson

Doug Clinton

Dustin Siggelkow

Dylan

Ed Brown

Edd Hannay

Egg Anderson

Elizabeth Foote

Emily Brown

Emma Schroeder

Erik Flowers

Erik Rives

Fredrik Holmar

George Allen

Gina Dalfonzo

Graham Bradley

Heather Crocetto

Heather N Thomas

Heather Zimmerman

Izzy Dell

Jacob Reed

Jake Westbrook

James

James Elfers

James Vitale

Jami Woodworth

Janelle Scinta

Jeff Moore

Jennifer Stolzer

Jennifer Tomich

Jenny Schuster

Jens Dietrich

Jerry Evanoff

Jesse Gillespie

Jessica Lachewitz

Jim Gregory

Jim Shepherd

Joe Merkley

Joe Talledo

Joel Smith

John Griffin

Jori Palomäki

Josh Moore

Joshua J. Slone

Justine C.

Kathrene

Kelly Long

Kelsey Stark

Kerry J Stanley

Kevin Murphy

Kyl

Kyp Maher

Lene Taylor

Lorne Kates

Lucas Neumeyer

Lynn Motes

Marie

Mark Burger

Mark Fink

Mark Thornburg

Marques Johnson

Mathias Stanfield

Matt Hansen

Matt Nelson

Matt Paulson

Max

Max Bennett-Parker

Megan Figuly

Melissa Koser

Michael "moop" Haymore

Michael J Coello

MIchael Lehrer

Michael Ober

Mike Nelson

Mike Suhr

Mike Wasson

Mike Welham

Mikel Truman

Milo Price

Mr. F

Nathan Filizzi

Nick

Nick Donald

Noah Satern

Nolan Harris

Patricia

Patrick Kelley

Paul Steadman

Peter L

Peter Vanmaasdam

Phillip J Pearson

Raymond Doyle

Rebecca Bossie

Reed

Richard Leavelle

Rob Broughton

Ruth Tomandl

Sarah Goldstein

Scott Stefanski

Seth

Sham bam bamina!

Sharon Roseberry

Skylar L. Primm

Slam Dunk

Steve

Suzie Baunsgard

Taylor Conner

Theodore Lehman

Thomas Akagi

Thomas Reynolds

Thomas Throop

Tim

Tom Harrod

Trapper Jeff, MD

Trys

Victor Lams

Wade Brown

Wesley Teal

Whitney

Will Keightley

Zach

1

Zhravelle was worried. The High Council had not convened as a whole since the Nitrogen Wars of -1312. Yet there it was, the Signal Orb on his sleeping chamber wall, blinking bright amber. 

“Report,” Zhravelle commanded. 

“You are needed”, the metallic voice replied. 

“Whe -”, he started to ask, but the voice cut him off. 

“Immediately.” 

Zhravelle sighed heavily and passed a hand over his face. He’d had way too much fun last night, staying up past the third moon, drinking way too much Galdum, and what was the name of the Paltracian female? It didn’t matter. He’d never remember. Anymore than he’d ever forget… 

Zhravelle made a guttural noise and hoisted himself off his sleeping platform. He threw a snack to Varl, who scuttered across the floor and gobbled it up with his mouth parts, then he tossed back a warm, half-glass of Galdum and said to no one, “It’s gonna be a hell of a day.” 

* * *

Juggling a cellphone, two half-caf lattes and a cinnamon bagel was no easy task, but Stefanie Fleece was doing it with all the poise of a ballerina as she exited the Lincoln Towncar that brought her to work each morning. 

Beautiful, smart as a whip, and just a little bit scatterbrained, Stefanie had quickly outpaced the interns who worked alongside her doing whatever menial task was handed to them by the Senator’s chief of staff. 

Kiss ass! The words of that pudgy, moon-faced boy from -- what was it, Oklahoma? -- still echoed in her ears. Stefanie shook it off, said goodbye to her driver and hustled toward her office on Pennsylvania avenue. She’d show him. She’d show them all. 

And then, unbidden, that bitter voice in her own head, the one she’d tried so hard to shake: “It’s wrong what they did to you, papa! But I’ll make it right. You’ll see, daddy!” 

She brushed away a single tear with the slender finger of her elegant deerskin glove, narrowed her eyes and got on with her day. 

* * *

Meanwhile, 1122 miles away, in the icy burg called “Minneapolis,” three men were hunched over a table in a brewpub, sipping hazy IPAs. 

The scraggliest member of the trio drained the remainder of his glass and set it down. “Much obliged for the brews, muchachos, but you two still owe me big time. You came this close to blowing my cover with your frickin’ podcast. Do you know how much caca would hit the fan if people realized I’m the High Council’s top spy on Earth?” 

For the umpteenth time, the other two men apologized. “Conor and I can’t state how sorry we are,” said Mike, taking out of his pocket a can of tinned fish and, prying it open, offering his unkempt companion a selection. 

The tousled fellow gratefully accepted, dangling his head back to gulp down the anchovy. Licking stray beads of olive oil from his mustache, he continued. “Just remember that no one can know my Bob Honey novels are coded reports to the Big Enchiladas. You think I like alliteration?” 

Conor ruefully hung his head. “To think we almost helped the Loonians get a new nitrogen megadeath ray.” 

“That’s OK,” said the author/actor/spy, lighting up a cigarette despite the indoor smoking ban. “I just had a brainwave about how to set the whole mess straight. You hombres can write a new novel for me.” 

Mike and Conor choked, spraying mouthfuls of beer across the table. “A novel? But—we’re busy! We don’t have the time—” 

“Then have those jackals who listen to you write it instead!” shouted the wiry, intense man, dabbing droplets of ale from his rumpled suit. “The damn thing won’t have to make any sense! Indeed, it’s better if it doesn’t. All that matters is that it contain the following code…”

2

Stefanie barreled into the office with the ferocity of a lion while maintaining her dancer-like grace. Setting her coffees and bagel on her desk, she noticed a presence behind her. Turning, she saw it was Tim, perhaps the most dimwitted of her fellow interns. 

“Hey Steph, how’s it goin’?” Stefanie was assaulted by a veritable wall of scent from Tim’s body-spray. Fighting the urge to collapse into a coughing fit, she struggled to respond. 

“Fine, Tim. What do you need?” She hoped he didn’t need anything, but idiots like Tim always needed something. He didn’t realize how difficult things already were for her; how difficult it was just to get through the day, sometimes. 

“Oh, nothing. Nothing really. Except, I was wondering. Do you think Senator Byrd likes me? I mean, I don’t care really, except for the fact that the last time he was through the office, he said something weird while walking by me. It sounded like, ‘Don’t leak, dammit!’ Do you think he considers me a security risk?” 

Stefanie stared at him. Tim was dim, no two ways about it, but this sounded like pure babble. 

“I have no idea what that even means, Tim. Why would anyone think you’re a security risk? You don’t know anything!” She was getting exasperated. To have to deal with this on today of all days. 

“Oh yeah!” Tim said, brightening, “I don’t know anything, do I? Thanks Stefanie. You’re the smartest one in this office, I don’t care what Bob says. I mean, you must have learned a lot from your dad—“ 

He stopped suddenly as Stefanie’s face turned bright red. It took all she had to not kick Tim into unconsciousness. 

“Never talk about him. Never.” She turned—violently, but elegantly--on her heel and stormed off. 

* * *

Am I dead? The question circled through Varl’s mind. A fall like that would have killed any lesser being – twenty-thousand feet, even in ultra-compressed time-space, was still twenty-thousand feet. If this was paradise, though, it wasn’t one he recognised from any mythology… 

‘Sir, could you please get up? People can’t get to the counter.’ 

He took the earthling’s hand, exercising all his restraint not to crush it like a small animal. A human, giving him instructions! Didn’t he know that giving orders to a superior being was punishable by death? That one flex of Varl’s hubristic nerve would trigger his Blardraxian war nostrils, firing off enough electrified plasma to melt a walrus? 

‘Of course they wouldn’t, Varl. Humans don’t have war nostrils. You’re trying to blend in, remember?’ 

His trainer’s voice buzzed in his memory. Stupid Debra, Varl thought as he clambered to his feet. He knew what he was doing. His new body had sustained no damage, his surroundings were intact, and for once no casualties – all in all, a successful teleport. 

Or was it? He had landed in some sort of feeding establishment, thronged with sweaty, muttering humans who seemed more bemused than surprised by his sudden appearance. The air was thick with bovine grease and some herbal note he couldn’t quite identify. 

‘You there,’ he growled to his helper, ‘where am I?’ 

The human gestured to the emblem on his lapel: a single white turret emblazoned with what loosely translated to… a ha! A smile crept across Varl’s lips. So, this was their “White House”. The transmat had dropped him right on target. And this human attempting to give him orders must be their current executive. 

Varl reached for his hubristic nerve. Now, for a peaceful transition of power. See, Debra? I’ll show you who’s incompetent. 

* * *

Zhravelle was the ideal candidate to lead the mass infiltration plan on Earth. When the nitrogen wars had been raging across the 17 galaxies, Zhravelle had visited Earth whilst on holiday before starting his studies at the intergalactic space college on the twelfth moon. He had always wanted to travel. Travelling allowed him to visit places where he had never even been before and see things he had never even seen before. 

Zhravelle’s birthing mother was against his plan, but still he went. He saw many interesting sights whilst travelling on the Earth such as the Thames River in London, the mountains of Albania and the insane heat of the Spanish desert. 

None of these cool sights could even come close to the awesome beauty of Sophie Fleece. He had met her at a place called America. She was the hotter than any of the females he had ever seen in his life. They had met in a diner near the middle of America. She was the server and brought him his favourite meal consisting of an Earth delicacy of a burger (made out meat from a native ruminant called a cow) and fries (made from the cut up remains of a plant called a potato) it was love at first sight. 

They spent three lunar cycles together on Earth and it was the best time in Zhravelle’s life. The last time they were due to meet Sophie had said she had some wonderful news to tell him. Sadly, before they were able to meet at their favourite spot near the lake he had been called home. It was time to start studying. 

As he adjusted the collar on his meat suit, Zhravelle thought about these happy times and what he had to do next. The plan would work perfectly. 

As Zhravelle hurried toward his destination, his mind wandered. 

In his youth he had lived for a time with his grand-uncle on Castra Regis, a small planet known throughout the sector for its excellent farmland. His grand-uncle lived well on a small property bordering a large orchard. Zhravelle would often watch the mechanical farm hands as they shuffled along the rows of trees tending the precious fruit. This season the chrome farm hands were extraordinarily busy due to a strange manifestation of troublesome birds which plagued the whole district. These birds devoured the ripening fruit and so threatened the coming harvest. 

One evening, after his chores and his dinner (and his grand-uncle’s interminable and rambling conversation) he walked along the lane bordering the neighboring estate. Castra Regis’ two moons hung low in the sky as the too-many birds fluttered and sang. The moons’ light illuminated the low licorice-colored plasti-wall which bordered the orchard. A pleasant breeze scented with the smells of ripening fruit wafted from the trees cooling him on this otherwise too-warm night. In that moment, Zhravelle found himself entirely at peace. This was a good life. He could be happy here. 

Suddenly the larger of the two moons was darkened by a fearsome shape. A long shadow crossed the lane and covered him. The many noises of the evening were silenced as the birds cowered on the ground. Zhravelle was swallowed by a profound and piercing fear. With great effort he tore himself from the spot and ran home. 

Only in the morning did he learn that the shape was simply a great kite now flown by the neighboring estate to drive away the birds. Zhravelle shook his mind free of this recollection, pushed it deep into the back of his memory, and moved quickly towards his summons. 

* * *

When the other interns meandered into the canteen for lunch, Stefanie was always already back at her desk firing off e-mails over her grapefruit juice and shepherd’s pie. Grabbing lunch early had multiple advantages. First, shepherd’s pie always sold out quickly. Second, she could avoid the inevitable invitation to sit and socialize, and the necessity to wave off the chorus of pleas with a gloved hand. Most importantly though, shoveling down her lunch while she worked gave her back the precious lunch hour to muse and reflect. Stefanie was a deep and introspective woman. 

As she washed down the last bite of mashed potatoes, she let her eyes scan her cubicle. There were only a few personalizing items in the dull, fluorescent-lit space. A macaroni frame sat on her desk displaying a photo of Stefanie and her father at a petting zoo, her face stained with a purple slushie drink, her slender hand on a goat. Her father wore a wide-brimmed sunhat and flashed that kind, warm smile she remembered so well. Beside the photo was a small spelling bee trophy- third place. Ironically, they had spelled Stefanie’s name wrong. The trophy served as a bookend propping up her AP style guide, other reference books, and the last precious addition to her personal collection- three copies of “Oh, The Places You’ll Go.” One was pristine, given to her by a family friend when she graduated from college. The next was faded but not the worse for wear, given by a beloved teacher when she graduated from high school. And the last; dog-eared, mud-stained, and chewed by the cat was the copy her father bought her when she was born. 

"Who knew the paths that would bring me here?" She mused to herself. "And who knows where I’ll end up next?" 

* * *

At one point in his past, Zeeve-Oh had been a fully organic being. However, as his life had progressed, he had begun to replace portions of himself with cybernetic components. At first, they had been born of necessity, the result of medical conditions or injuries in what had been a fairly fraught life. As he had gone on, he had become more and more mechanical in nature, but found that he had become more accustomed to it and, more to the point, more accepting. He grew to embrace his newfound post-organic nature, and had eventually transitioned to a completely mechanical form. 

None of that had affected his career of choice, as odd as it was. Zeeve-Oh was a professional arranger of personal companionship. His job was to provide organics with a certain affection and intimacy that they often craved, but at the same time, he had also become strangely detached from. His entirely mechanical nature meant that he was no longer capable of the same degree of physical feeling as others, but his mind had changed more. He no longer possessed those drives or urges that had propelled him when he was still organic. 

Those feelings came out most when, ironically, he was the most engaged with others. His post-organic nature meant that he held himself to a certain superiority, which in turn lead him to looking down on his own clientele. It wasn’t that he disliked them, but rather, he simply saw them as being beneath him, like they were simply nothing to him at all. 

Right now was one of those cases, where he was dealing with a particularly difficult and unpleasant client; a member of the council who had esoteric tastes. And they were bringing out the worst in him. 

“Very well then, I will provide you with your request. One Andowynnian Pig-Woman, at the time and locale specified,” the post-organic facilitator stated with contemptuous superiority. 

* * *

Zhravelle strode down the vaulted halls of the High Council’s imperium cruiser. This section of the ship was an exact replica of the Council’s temple on Ogden Prime, their homeworld, right down to stone columns and intricate hieroglyphics. Stonework was rare to see on a starship, but the High Council demanded it, and what the council demanded, they got. 

The ship itself wasn’t of Cardraxian design; it had been captured from the Powleens, a ruthless race of colonizers who had enslaved the Cardaxians a thousand years ago. This ship was a testament to Cardaxian perseverance and a symbol of their victory against the Powleens. 

Turning a corner in the massive halls of the imperium ship Zhravelle noticed a familiar form walking toward him with a tell-tale mechanical motion. 

“Zeeve-oh.” Zhravelle greeted the contemptuous cyborg. 

“Zhravelle. What a… pleasure.” Said the robot pimp disdainfully. 

“Been a long time. Last time I saw you was on Nixor-5. Didn’t think you made it off that planet alive.” 

“It appears that I did.” Zeeve-Oh said with a sneer. 

“So, what are you doing here?” 

“One of the council required my services.” He answered matter of factly. “I could ask you the same question, and I would assume the answer would be more interesting.” 

“Wish I knew. Must be something important. The High Council hasn't convened like this since—” 

“Since the Nitrogen Wars. I am familiar with basic history.” Zeeve-Oh twitched slightly, tapped a few buttons on his forearm, then said, “I am needed elsewhere. Goodbye Zhravelle, I hope our paths do not cross again for some time.” 

Zeeve-Oh continued on his way without another word. “Nice to see you too.” Zhravelle thought to himself. 

Aside from members of the High Council, few spoke of the Nitrogen Wars. For those who had lived through them, it was too soon. For anyone who had been born, spawned or assembled in the cycles since, it was ancient history. The young hatchlings of Paltracia and the newest nodes in the Octavian Consciousness would never know the horrors of that time - the crackle of newly-frozen flesh, the quiet thud of N-bombs detonating on the plains of Cassia 5. They hadn’t seen the hollow-eyed refugees on the plasma screens, trooping from place to place in numb silence, or the soldiers torn apart by icy shrapnel. To the young, the Wars were just a short section in their history modules, touched upon quickly before moving on to less harrowing times. 

Of course, there were some sectors where the Nitrogen Wars had never ended. The power vacuum caused by the assassination of the Titanium Consul had caused the Aedilian Quadrant to collapse into a mess of raging factions. The High Council had officially declared it a neutral zone, but everyone knew that if you ventured there, your ship would be stripped for parts by the hide-clad booster gangs quicker than a blink, while the harvester wasps circled above, waiting to pick the organs from any survivors. 

But mostly, the universe had fallen into an uneasy peace, entire planets treading carefully and communicating with a tense politeness. Best not to cause a fuss, was the prevailing atmosphere across galaxies and systems. We don’t want any unpleasantness. 

No-one ever said outright, but that was why the High Council hadn’t met in full since those days. That many representatives meeting to talk would have implied that there was something to talk about. And that couldn’t happen. The Wars were done. 

3

Stefanie rinsed her face and looked into the bathroom mirror. Her eyelids were still red. This wouldn’t do. 

This time a song had brought on the pang of grief; not even one her father had liked, particularly. It was still so unpredictable. 

She heard paper unspooling in one of the stalls. The person in there would be out soon. A person who’d brought their lunch into the bathroom and put their apple directly onto the counter. A horrible person. 

Stefanie began to reapply her eye makeup with the quick perfection of practice when her phone gave a long buzz. It was the senator’s doctor. 

She couldn’t answer the phone in here: that would be unforgivably incivil. But, her makeup wasn’t finished and her gloves weren’t even on. 

The phone rang again. The stall was opening - she had to move now. 

Her left eye undone, Stefanie accepted the call, tucked the phone under her chin, slipped into her gloves and stepped outside. 

“Hello?” she said sweetly, turning toward the wall for privacy. 

The call was about the Senator’s upcoming bladder exam. Stefanie repeated back the caller’s instructions to cement them in her memory. 

“West doors. Second floor... No, uh, voiding one hour before, okay... Thin tube… only the thickness of - A PENCIL?” 

The phone slipped from her fingers and slid across the floor. Stefanie turned to grab it and planted her face into the chest of a large man. 

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, and smiled, reaching out to steady her. 

Stefanie grabbed the phone and darted wordlessly back into the bathroom. A woman holding an apple and a lunch bag winced in her direction and exited quickly. Glancing in the mirror, Stefanie saw on her forehead the deep, red imprint of a star and the words “United States Marshal”. 

Stephanie shook her head and tried to clear her mind. She did not have time for this. She quickly fixed her makeup and took a steadying breath before heading back out into the breach. 

“Stephanie, have you seen the latest projections I made for the senator’s alternative energy platform? I think it’s a real game changer.” Zander prattled, but she did not have time for this. 

“No I haven’t, I’ve been too busy dealing with his doctor’s appointment and if you will excuse me, I have to get to transportation and security to hammer out the details before he ends up having to take an Uber.” 

“A Lyft would be more socially responsible,” Bob sneered at her. 

“THE SENATOR WILL NOT USE AN APP TO GET TO HIS UROLOGIST,” Stephanie snapped, louder than she meant to. She quickly turned and walked to her desk. 

Agent Jutt Strake looked on in amusement. He couldn’t help but smirk, given that he was here to conduct an investigation into the senator’s business. It looked the the senator was going to get an unscheduled proctology exam by the Federal Marshal Service to go with his checkup. 

As Stephanie walked briskly away down the corridor, Strake admired her slender fingers. He absently rubbed his chest where she’d run into him, though he couldn’t imagine how she’d missed his impressively broad, yet remarkably trim figure. 

He gave himself a mental shake – he didn’t have time for looking at interns, he was here for business. Granted, it wasn’t totally official business, but his background in the IRS gave him financial insight, and he knew something fishy was going on with the senator’s finances. He was going to dig so deep he’d hit oil – and that oil would put him back in the limelight. 

* * *

Stefanie slammed the door upon entering her apartment. How could one week be so frustrating? She not only made the appointment but also had to take him there. She repressed a shudder at the memory of the old man’s urology exam. How in the hell did medical exams fall on the list of an intern’s duties? She took a deep breath and massaged her forehead. The imprint from US Marshal Jutt Strake’s badge was still there. Stefanie frowned and shook herself. Stepping out of her shoes; she went into the kitchen and put down her takeout. She removed her beloved deerskin gloves placing them on the modest buffet. She placed her keys next to the gloves. Everything has its place. 

Satisfied with the placement of her belongings, she grabbed her dinner and plopped down on the sofa. She smiled as she unpacked her sushi out and laid it on the coffee table. Everything has its place. Twenty-seven minutes later her dinner was fully unpacked. She paused to take in the perfectly ordered arrangement of her meal. Now. Now, she was ready to eat. She fired up her tablet, selected a movie, and began to eat. She was down to her last piece a plain salmon roll when she heard a scratching at her window. She glanced at the time 10:30pm. He was right on schedule. She took the last piece of sushi and went over to the window. 

A gray tabby sat outside meowing loudly. “Here you go, Zelgadiss, just don’t tell your owner where you got it. Okay?” Zelgadiss took it and ran off into the night. 

Stefanie cleared the coffee table before curling up on the sofa next to a pillow-plushie in the shape of a black pig wearing a yellow black-striped kerchief. She was asleep within minutes. 

4

Coruscations of infrared and ultraviolet disrupted the fathomless darkness at the edge of the Death Dimension. The electromagnetic buzz of gigaton detonations, wasted upon its adamantine exterior, resonated within its lower depths. 

The Stygian One, roused from Its slumber, irritably extended a pseudopod and swatted at the insects that had so disturbed It. There was always something with these mortals – every few millennia, a revolt. “Your Realm of Infinite Entropy is leeching the light from our universe!”; “Your tithes of helium and nitrogen have decimated our people!”; “Your mind-wasps have reduced our civilisation to a grotesque parody of sapience!” Blah, blah, blah. 

With one swipe, the cannonade was silenced, leaving only a scattering of distress beacons winking out one by one amid the wreckage of dreadnoughts and positron bombers. The assault had piqued the Stygian One’s curiosity though – It plucked at random from the shattered fleet a pilot, forcing Its tendrils into the putrescent meat that housed his puny mind. 

A Loonian, It realised with indignance. His people had long been the beneficiaries of a pact the Stygian One had made with his ancestors – Its Time Bomb technology, in exchange for the Death Dimension one day consuming their homeworld and all its population. 

Defiance and rage shimmered through the pilot’s terror. “We have failed today,” he thought, “but we will yet escape the avarice of our forefathers. Even now, our agents are infiltrating a new world: rich in nitrogen, ripe for conquest. They will put us beyond your reach.” 

The pilot laughed, paralysed in the darkness though he was. The Stygian One, impressed, saw fit to honour him; It exerted minutely, and in an instant rendered the Loonian down to his constituent quarks. 

They were a courageous people. One day soon, they would make for a worthy feast. 

* * *

President Charles shook his head. 

After sweeping into office on the promise of a bright, nitrogen-based future, the President’s polls were slipping quickly. Exciting new research from Dr. Dale Courtney had indicated that a new industrial revolution was at hand, one that would be cleaner and more prosperous, if only Congress would pass the funding needed to transition the U.S. economy to produce and harness the gas at scale. 

Unfortunately, early efforts to fund the nitrogen-based future had turned into a boondoggle, complete with funds embezzled for dinners at Red Lobster, and the once friendly Congress was now breathing down the administration’s neck to get results. The House of Representatives in particular was clearly turning on the project, with that dreaded word beginning to be whispered in the halls of Congress. He placed the poll results from the internal campaign document down. 

“Impeachment,” the President muttered under his breath. 

The word hung heavy. Charles had always strived to be a man of the people, forgoing the formality of being addressed by his last name to make himself more accessible. Now, it felt like the people were starting to turn on him after everything he had done to bring the nation together. 

How could things have turned in this direction? The stars had always guided him correctly before. President Charles consulted his horoscope one more time and shook his head again. “222,” it read back. 

It would take bold action to turn this situation around. As he always did, President Charles looked up to the stars for inspiration. If there was an answer to his current political challenges, surely it lay out there, somewhere. All he had to do was wait for fortune to come knocking at his door. 

* * *

Even as the High Council assembled, the Council Archivists were hard at work compiling all the information the Councillors needed. 

The Archivists were predominantly Rigellian Twebs, whose eidetic Twebmemory allowed them to memorise the elaborate filing system of the High Council Archives with ease. Since the matter before the Council related, in some small fashion, to the strange planet known as Earth, the apprentice Tweb known as Sebabohynk was dispatched to search the Old Archives for additional information. 

The Old Archives were called that because they contained the few, fragmentary records which had survived the catastrophic Nitrogen Wars. The senior Twebs had ascertained that the last time Earth had been subject to galactic survey was before the Wars, and dredging up an old survey report (if it even still existed) was a good task to delegate an apprentice Tweb to, in order to see just what the apprentice was made of. 

Runobulax returned just when the senior Twebs wondered where she had got to, telekinetically carrying a bundle of papers, her wattles hanging in a dejected fashion. Flashing the tendrils that served as their communication organs, the senior Twebs beamed the message “Giving up so soon, Apprentice Sebabohynk?” 

“No,” flashed Sebabohynk, “I found the report, but fear it will be useless - it was in the Rejected section.” 

“Rejected?” flashed Tuhrerux, eldest of the Twebs. “So the High Council decided the survey was not accurate?” 

“Yes,” glumly flashed Sebabohynk, “and it’s obvious why. The atmosphere scan gives a Nitrogen content of over 78%!” 

The Twebs flashed with worry. A world full of Nitrogen, the rarest and most precious substance in the entire galaxy? Unthinkable! They gently packed the report into a capsule and sent it through the vacuum tube system for Zhravelle’s attention, wondering what he would make of it. 

Zhravelle re-read the report with growing alarm. If the survey’s results were real and not the mistake it had been filed away as, Earth’s impossibly nitrogen rich atmosphere explained everything about the Loonians’ interest in the obscure planet. And yet it explained nothing about whatever logic lay behind their actions. 

Several years ago the Loonians had established diplomatic relations with Earth only to strain the alliance by immediately killing off their most vocal supporter in a laughably implausible accident. At the time, Cardraxian intelligence had written it off as a comedic blunder. After all, the people of Looneria weren’t off-coloredly nicknamed Loonies for nothing. But if it had been intentional, what was to be gained? 

One thing was clear, Zhravelle had to discover what the Loonians were up to before another Nitrogen War broke out - or worse - the Loonians, still bitter from their crushing defeat in the last war, gained exclusive rights to Earth’s nitrogen supply and took control of the entire galaxy. He wouldn’t put it past them. Especially when the Loonian government was being led by… her. A saying reserved for it’s women went double for it’s people: Belph hath no fury like a Loonian scorned. 

Zhravelle shook his head to clear his thoughts, a mental ability unique to Cardraxian physiology. He couldn’t afford to get distracted with memories of the past. This report raised other troubling questions that hit closer to home. With this much nitrogen potentially within reach, why didn’t the survey team do a second sweep to confirm their results instead of burying a rejected report? Zhravelle feared the oversight was more than simple incompetence. 

“Ah, Belph,” Zhravelle cursed as he tossed back the last of the Galdum and activated the Signal Orb. “Zhravelle here. Tell the High Council I’m going to Earth.” 

5

“You want it to be big.” 

“Yes, very. And ferocious. A watchdog, if you will.” 

“But not a dog.” 

“No, can’t stand them.” 

“And you want it hairless?” 

“I’m terribly allergic. Something with light bristles perhaps?” 

The pet store clerk arched an eyebrow. “Anything else?” 

“It would help if it were resistant to violence.” 

The clerk hesitated to ask. “Violence?” 

“Yes, well, there’s been a lot of violence in the area lately. Surely you’ve seen the news.” 

“So you want a big…” 

“Yes…” 

“Ferocious…” 

“Absolutely!” 

“Hairless…” 

“Mmm-hmmm.” 

“And bullet proof.” 

Stefanie clapped her hands together delightedly. “Perfect! Call me when it comes in!” 

* * *

“Well, hell,” said Varl1.‡ 

* * *

Zhravelle approached the G-79 Avolva. Time to find the human he needed to start his mission. He grabbed the orb that was set into the console and started twisting through the list of available candidates. 

What would be best for this world? Artists? Politicians? Sportsmen? What did humanity value? Who would give him the greatest chance of achieving his goal? 

'What about this one, Varl? LeBron James? Clearly adored by the world. Athletic, charismatic... sexy… he has a great points per game ratio too...although I don't know what these 'points' mean.' 

Varl scuttled up the wall and across the ceiling. 

'I guess that's a no then. Okay, let's keep going…' 

Zhravelle scanned further, offering up different options, looking for Varl's approval. Zhravelle was the face of the operation, Varl was the brains. This had always been the case and always would be. After all, it was impossible to tell what part of Varl was his face. 

After several hours of searching, Varl had finally had enough of Zhravelle's random searching technique. He slapped Zhravelle out of the way with his tentacle and swiped the orb across to the one individual he had been looking for. 

'The Pres...Pres-Ee-Dent Of Amer-Ee-Car? What does it do?' Zhravelle asked while scrolling through the dossier. 'Ah, seems he has a lot of power and a lot of followers.' He peered at the photo they had on file. 'I think I can fit...might be a bit snug. Think I can peel the feet off and slither up there?' 

Varl nodded his parts in agreement. 

'Okay, Varl. Time to ready the Gigahurl so I can become him.' 

Varl giggled to himself quietly. 

'Yes, please do it properly this time. I want at least half of him left after the process.' 

* * *

We, the Nianool, observe. We see the Cardraxians, the once-proud people, strutting about as though the galaxy were their plaything. That role belongs to us, the Nianool! 

We see Earth and its glittering air. Nitrogen beyond the dreams of avarice, wealth beyond counting! The Cardraxians were fools not to see it. That air will belong to us, the Nianool! 

We see the Loonians. Imbeciles, but powerful ones, and greedy. They crash about the galaxy like Ordracan bulls through cabinets of the finest Thesian porcelain. 

We, the Nianool, have observed long enough. We begin to act. We have set our will against the Loonians, and we will see to their utter destruction! 

We see the fool Zhravelle, dancing on puppet strings. He moves according to our will. Our agent in the library has acted his part perfectly and will be rewarded with a modest planet, as the Nianool promised. He, too sees the nitrogen and as with all sentient beings, feels compelled to act in the face of ultimate wealth. 

We see Varl, far more of a threat. He is beyond our control. His attachment to Zhravelle will make work against him, but he is too much of a danger even at that. We have set another agent to deal with him, a seducer of unparalleled ability. Even the wisest of beings have their weaknesses. 

The game board is set and the pieces have made their opening moves. We, the Nianool, play both sides of the tables. We direct the course of the game. And when it is over, every piece destroyed and every point won will be in the favor of the Nianool. The Loonians will be crushed. The nitrogen will be ours. And the Nianool will control all, forever. 

6

Many had accused Stefanie of being forgetful, but she knew better. The events of that day had been burned into her memory, like a wildfire searing an asbestos suit. That is to say, she could recall them quite vividly on Tuesdays, and the occasional Friday. The events had occurred on the day of her father’s inauguration as president of the United States. 

She had been but an innocent child at the time, oblivious to the perils of her papa’s newfound calling. Stefanie had stood by her mother in the midst of the dense crowd, fidgeting through her father’s lengthy inaugural address until, finally, the crowd began to applaud. The newly sworn-in President Fleece stepped down from the podium and, with a smile and a wink, walked back toward his wife and daughter. 

Then, suddenly, a ray of blue light shot down from the sky, directly striking Stefanie’s father. It was over in an instant, and all that remained of the president was a large pile of green sludge on the ground. Her mother’s anguished screaming and weeping echoed in Stefanie’s mind even now. 

The ray had come from the alien ship observing the inauguration from above, containing the strange people who called themselves the Loonians. What Stefanie’s father had promised to be a bold new age of interplanetary unity came to a swift end after that day. Despite a report from the Loonians declaring that it was all an accident caused by a cadet who had rested his elbow on their “Gak Beam” button, and assuring that the president would heal up within the next six to eight thousand years, Earth-Looneria relations had never been the same. 

Now, Stefanie felt the least she could do was to ensure the current president’s safety – and, perhaps, to see the Loonians held responsible for what they had taken from her. 

* * *

Bob Zandar woke with a start. He went back to sleep with a start. Again, he woke with a start. This time, he did not press “snooze.” 

Zandar’s time in Washington wasn’t shaping up the way he’d hoped. He’d left Oklahoma so that he could live in the center of power and influence, but so far his internship had shown him little more than a small desk in Senator Byrd’s storage closet. He definitely wasn’t rubbing shoulders with the rich and powerful. He’d be lucky to rub shoulders with the other interns. 

Actually, there was one intern whose shoulders he’d thought a lot about rubbing: Stef Fleece. Yes, she was beautiful, but there was more to it than that. She was a person he got to interact with now and then. And on top of everything else, she was the former president’s daughter! And Zandar loved proximity to power almost as he loved rubbing attractive shoulders. He knew that he had to have her, or die trying, or betray her and their planet on a galactic scale. But he’d prefer the first option. 

But as time dragged on and his dreams of doing anything meaningful with his life seemed further than ever, Zandar would spend more and more time lying in bed, wondering if Stef would return his affection and pondering the ways that he could betray her. Every now and then he’d wonder if he should seek counseling, but he was afraid they’d tell him to quit. Zandar didn’t want to quit; he loved pondering. It reminded him of his hometown: Ponder, Oklahoma. 

As he rolled over, Zandar realized he’d left the lights on all night. What else could go wrong? 

“At least,” Zander thought with a chuckle, “the electricity is still on.” 

* * *

Field Marshall Jutt Strake strutted lumberously around his dimly-lit office mulling the notification that had popped on his phone screen: something about investigating a shape-shifting Cadraxian. It was only a matter of time, he thought. Only a matter of time. 

Strake’s office was, more accurately, a bunker; a true NBC outfit, sealed to nuclear, biological, and chemical attacks. The truth was not “out there,” it was all in here, within these hermetically-sealed walls and in his skull. 

He plopped down at his desk and pondered. He’d been through every acronymic federal intelligence agency and been fired by each. He was a loon, they said. More like an expert on the Loonian crusade to reap the universe of its nitrogen, he huffed to himself. And Earth’s atmosphere was primarily composed of nitrogen. 78%, to be exact. The Field Marshall was always exact. 

This was an opportunity he’d dreamt of his whole life. The chance to thwart an alien invasion? The opportunity to unmask a shape-shifter from the Loonian’s mortal enemy, the Cadraxians? He couldn’t sit here in his dank refuge and let the planet’s nitrogen be sucked into oblivion. 

But who would believe him? No one, he conceded. No one ever did. From cryptozoology to phrenology, crystal gazing to indigo children, he’d cracked them all. He had the facts. But did anyone listen to his numerous blog posts, Reddit rants, and Twitter threads? Nay. 

As he stared vacantly out into the green, humming glow of his sanctuary, deep in thought, the situation came into focus. He had no choice. He had to. The atmosphere depended on him. 

The self-styled Field Marshall Jutt Strake knew what he had to do. He strode to the keypad and began the three-hour process of extracting himself from the bunker. 

* * *

Stefanie scrabbled through her wastebin. "Where's that receipt?" she muttered. No receipt meant no reimbursement for Senator Byrd’s Meatloaf Special from Big Betsy’s. 

Stefanie's eyes widened, then narrowed. Dale! Dale must have seen the receipt on her desk and trashed it. You reheat one king mackerel in the microwave and the janitors never let it go, she mused. 

Maybe it was still in the dumpster? She dashed towards the hall door and through, only to slam into Jutt Strake again. 

Jutt, in the middle of explaining crop circles to a clerk, held up his index finger in a “hang on” gesture. He returned to his topic, pounding a fist into his palm for emphasis. 

Stefanie blinked. It was a day for childhood memories. 

She remembered an evening with her father, a few months before the presidential campaign got serious and he was never home. "Come on, Steve, come on baby," Ernest Fleece begged the television as he nervously pounded his fist into his hand. 

Ernest wasn't really into sports, but the American people had never elected a president that wasn't at least a nominal basketball fanatic. The Chicago Bulls were the traditional choice. 

Her father, clad in a Bulls jersey with #13 and "Gnash" across the back, wiped his bald, sweating head. Stefanie watched him as he watched the ball arc toward the hoop. 

Swish. 

"Huzzah!" shouted her father, and so Stefanie shouted too. They performed the traditional Chicago Bulls celebration, raising their deerskin-gloved hands and wiggling their fingers rapidly. 

"The Milwaukee Bucks are a tragic franchise with loser fans!" yelled Ernest. "Suck it, deer!" 

Stefanie tapped her father's arm. "What's a deer, daddy?" 

Ernest Fleece, still staring at the television, rubbed his hands together deliberately. "It was a bad animal, honey. Don't worry. We killed them all." 

7

Senator Byrd’s mood was on the upswing. He’d gotten a tip that, if correct, would finally give Earth a serious edge: a weapon to deter even the Loonians from stirring up trouble again. He picked up the phone and dialed “222,” his shortcut for Bob Zandar. “Bob, can you get Ms. Broughton of Baranstein Ballistics on the line? Bob? Are you there, Bob?” But Bob was not there. 

* * *

Steffany hadn’t dumpster-dived in years. Exploring the many treasure troves of Washington’s big box stores once paid for her MBA in Public Administration. Snobs like Senator Byrd, who didn’t live in the real world, would have been surprised by the high-value items regularly left out in their pickup areas: near-mint returns that would have been against store policy to restock. Big Betsy’s food waste was less pleasant to deal with, with a smell almost but not entirely like ass-piss, but it nonetheless caused nostalgic feelings to seep into the recesses of Steffany’s mind, much like Betsy’s signature gravy was now seeping into the creases of her dress. “Those were the days,” Steffany thought, but her revery was interrupted when, out of the corner of her eye, she spied a familiar cowboy hat in the distance, coming ever closer. The recognition struck Steffany like shaving foam pie to the face. Bob Zandar was about to find out her secret shame, which means Byrd would know next. She couldn’t take the hit to her reputation. “Sod the damn receipt,” Steffany cursed. The dumpster was too full to hide in, but if she made a run for it she’d have plausible deniability. She leaped out of the dumpster with cat-like agility and sprinted down the alleyway. She glanced backwards. Bob was speeding up as well, yelling something she couldn’t make out. 

Steff-Annie came sliding down the alleyway like butter dripping off a hot biscuit and Bob Zandar stopped short in his pursuit. Hand on his cowboy hat, he tumbled behind a nearby USPS box to find cover, afraid she may circle back and bump into him. 

“What”, he thought to himself, “could she be up to.” Zandar mindlessly tapped what passed for a chin on his round, moon-shaped face. He was Senator Byrd’s best Intern, dammit, and he’d better prove it if he was going to have any chance to get that promotion to Assistant Chief Intern. He screwed up his courage and tip-toed, hunched over, through the bustle of Washington DC’s mid-morning traffic to the delta of the alleyway. He could see Fleece - however she was spelling her first name - digging behind a large dumpster; several tomcats had come out of hiding to mew and rub their flanks against her ankles. 

“She’s a spy!” Zandar thought. “I must warn the Senator!” He fought off his instinct to run back to the Capitol - he could hardly interrupt his morbund boss’ nap with unsubstantiated rumors. 

“No”, Zandar mused, feeling a sly smile form on his lips. “I need proof. Something concrete. I need to figure out where this is going.” Zandar took a long minute, gazing off into the distance, as if taking account of something, then moved to act. 

He slipped further into the alley, his authentic Oklahoma cowboy boots deceptively quiet on the pavement. If Zandar’s father had said it once, he’d said it a thousand times, “Yung feller, yer awful stealthy fer such a biggun.” 

Zandar tumbled once more into cover, undetected behind a discarded wooden crate, within earshot of Steff-Annie. 

“Five, seven, eight, two, one, nine”, Steff-Annie mumbled loudly, reading from something she’d found on the alley pavement. 

Bob Zandar squinted into the gloom of the alley. He was terribly near-sighted, but refused to wear glasses. That would imply a weakness, and Bob Zandar did not admit weakness. Not in front of his colleague, and certainly not in front of Stefanie. 

Stefanie was merely a blur, but Bob Zander could just make out that Stefanie was kneeling on the ground, her impossibly long fingers tracing something on the wall before her. 

Stefanie felt a wave of disbelief crash against her ribs, and she fell to her knees beside a rotting pizza box to examine the markings etched into the wall by the dumpster, just above the pavement. 

“Five, seven, eight, two, one, nine” she read--it was her childhood address! She recalled her father making her remember the number, so if she was ever kidnapped, she would could tell people where she lived. Beside the number was a short sentence--but what on earth could it mean? 

“Fetid flattish feline” 

Steffanie repeated the words several times, her voice rising until it was ringing off the walls of the alley. Behind her, a wooden crate tumbled over. She thought she might have heard footsteps, but she was too distraught by the words on the wall to notice. 

“God,” Steffanie whispered, “it’s an anagram.” Reigning in her shock, she tried to focus on the letters; tried to rearrange them into a message that didn’t involve kittens. 

“Deflate Life Fits Thin? No…..Fattish infield fleet?...Tiffanie fled thistle...Wait!” Suddenly, it became clear. 

“Steffanie, lift the lid.” 

Turning, Steffanie looked down at the pizza box. It was furred with mold and covered in a viscous jelly. Gingerly, Steffanie reached out a single finger and lifted the lid. The inside of the box was completely rotted away, revealing a button set in the ground. 

Stefanie looked down at the hard concrete. A red dot stuck out like a nipple. She bent down to look at it further. After squatting there for a moment, she pressed it hard with her finger. It clicked down and stayed flattened into the concrete. After what seemed like a few minutes, the ground started to shake. 

A concrete slab about the size of a pizza box lifted and slid out of the way. Steam billowed from the gaping hole in the ground. Stefanie poked her eyes over the ledge and could see a metal ladder ascending down into the abyss. She quickly scooted around and put her feet on the rungs. 

As she descended, her feet slipped. She held tightly with her hands, but her feet could not grip the slippery stairs. She slid faster on just her hands as they made a loud screeching sound from the friction of the ladder. Her feet suddenly splashed into two feet of tepid water. “EEEW!” Stefanie blurted, kicking her legs back onto the last rung of the ladder. Her voice echoed down the deep tunnels. 

Stefanie took a moment to look behind her. Taking out her phone, she turned on her flashlight. Rats and blarg’s quickly scurried out of the light. Did she hear something? What was that faint noise? It kept getting louder and louder and sounded like yelling. She shined her flashlight down the dark tunnel. 

As the screaming got louder a naked fat man turned the corner, his belly undulating like someone’s day old jello. He was dripping wet and sprinting. “AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!” he screamed. Susan jumped at the sight of his bulbous body. He looked like he was out to kill. Suddenly stopping he approached her. “I have this memo for you madam,” said the sweating fat man. Stefanie looked at it. 

*******CONFIDENTIAL******* 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

DATE: [redacted] 

TO: Interplanetary High Council 

FROM: Robot Pimp #578219 codename Zeeve-Oh 

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Must Read IMMEDIATELY...OR ELSE 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

To the esteemed members of the High Council: 

You were right to enlist my services. Some label me a mere procurer of companionship. But I have much more to offer my clients...when the price is right. 

To that end, I am writing to inform you of a matter of grave import. It concerns Agent Zhravelle. While I confess I am “breaking code”, you will find that the evidence within warrants this indiscretion. Not since the dawn of the Nitrogen Wars has our galactic neighborhood had such an...opportunity. 

I have uncovered a plot, bankrolled by a shadowy organization known as The Nianool, that intends to interfere in the government of Earth. They aspire to rid this world of their President by replacing him with a bumbling drifter. This chosen individual is not yet aware of the inception currently in the works. Once the switch is made, he will lead humanity to its own undoing. 

You might already suspect that the individual in question is your halfwit of an agent, Zhravelle. The man is a drunk and a fool, and the fact that the Council has overlooked his cavorting all these years is beyond the pale. But no longer will I live in his shadow. 

For you see, dear Council, I am not who you believe I am. And I have plans of my own. Zhravelle is not the only one that has the ability to assume identities. And I intend to choose my next target. Soon. 

This will be the last you ever hear from me. 

Disdainfully, 

Zeeve-Oh The Robot Pimp 

Stefhunie coddled the memo she had just found laying before her in the sewer with her slim, dexterous fingers. She wondered aloud what it could mean. Her loud shout of "What could this mean?" echoed around the stinking, swampy sewer pipe, off into the distance, likely disturbing whatever else was lurking down there with her. She sincerely could not comprehend what she had just read. She had no idea what any of it could mean. 

"Who is Zeeve-oh the Robot Pimp?" she asked herself. 

"Do robots even need pimps?" she asked disdainfully. 

"And what are his plans? Do they involve pimping? I sure hope he doesn't end up as my pimp." 

More thoughts floated accross her mind as she wondered what the purpose of the memo was. 

Like who was Zhavrelle? And the council? And the Nianool? Were they all related? And if so, how? 

Did Zheeve-oh hold the keys to all these mysteries? 

But all of that would have to wait for later. 

For now, Stefhunie needed to find her way back out of the sewer. Her deerskin gloves were growing seriously malodorous, and she didn't want to have to buy a new pair. Once she got home she could take all the time in the world she needed to figure out this puzzle. Besides, once she got home she could draw on the help of all of her father's friends to decode this enigma. 

Suddenly, Stefhunie could hear the rogue Oklahoman gaining on her again. She had forgot all about him in the excitement of the moment! Office documents always distracted her, it was a weakness of hers. She began to lope towards the nearest ladder she could see, hoping it would take her into some dark alley where she could hide. 

8

2 weeks. Zhravelle had been out for two weeks. How could he let this happen? 

Zhravelle found himself in one of the beds of the medi-bay, the soft fabric stuck with sweat against his perfectly sculpted asscheeks. He lazily opened his eyes, shining orbs staring around the laminated metal room, taking in the destroyed surroundings. The room had been torn in half, a gaping chasm spanning the two pieces of recently separated floor. 

“Damn, must’ve been one hell of a party last night,” Zhravelle muttered to himself, rising off the medi-bed. 

One of the fluorescent Magno-Lights dangled from the ceiling for a moment, before disconnecting and falling down the seemingly bottomless pit. 

“One hell of a party” Zhravelle repeated. 

Zhravelle looked out over the massive chasm in front of him planning his naked escape, they must have removed his clothes for the procedure, hopefully it was worth it, he didn’t want just anyone seeing his family jewels. That aside, no one would be seeing his jewels if he didn’t get out of here. Warning the president about the Klaxon Protocol was his top priority. 

His communicator-watch bleeped, begging for his attention. The familiar voice of COOMER spoke to him. 

“Ah, hello Zhravelle, I see the operation was a success, are you doing alright?” Zhravelle thought for a moment about COOMER, an AI that mostly stayed dormant in his communicator, he had picked him up a few years ago for a different job, long story. 

He grunted in reply. Zhravelle stared over the pit he had to cross, how was he gonna get over? 

“Look Zhravelle! Ropes! We can use them to help cross big pits!” 

Zhravelle smiled to himself, looking at the snake-like plastic strings. He thought: Ropes huh, we just might be able to save the world after all. 

* * *

Of course Varl was no virginal glorkin. Varl was a queeblark and everyone knew the legends of their sexual prowess. All manner of beings lined up to spend time with them-- a passing glance from a queeblark was considered good luck and to touch one? Well, the pleasures had no limit. 

Today was different. When Varl woke up he hadn’t expected to fall in love, hadn’t expected to want something more than a simple physical encounter. 

Shifting into a form that would make his potential mate more comfortable, Varl approached and nervously--nervously? They’d bedded dozens...hundreds! And yet…--rubbed his front two legs together and attempted an approximation of speech. 

The cockroach did not respond. It was a cockroach. 

I deserve this. I am not worthy of this creature and they will not even speak to me. What was I thinking? Varl couldn’t believe the lack of confidence that this had created within him. Varl hadn’t ever felt this way before. He stared coldly at the sexy chitinous thorax of his beloved. 

I COULD DESTROY YOU, Varl snarled, contemplating violence that would send the bug flying in a thousand directions. Then he saw the antennae of the creature flittering to and fro and realized he could never harm such a beautiful specimen. This was a child’s reaction to rejection and Varl was a full grown creature. It simply wasn’t that into them, and as much as that hurt Varl, they respected that. 

“I will always protect you and, dare I say it--love you.” hissed Varl, regretfully transforming back into his humanoid disguise. 

Little did Varl realize that if he had only examined the bacteria in the cockroach’s feces, there was a clear message of pheromonal love echoed between the two soulmates. A message Varl would never receive. 

* * *

Zhravelle hesitated at the taboo he was about to break. If he were discovered… well, he'd think of something. He pressed a finger against the seal on the box, using his unique body signature to decrypt it, reconstitute its contents, and open it, revealing a small hollow oval standing on a base.

Once sold as a form of time-tourism, Temporal Observers were thought to allow looking into the past without interfering, a sort of limited-use time machine, until an unfortunate accident with an energy weapon destroyed the manufacturer. Unfortunate accidents continued to happen until nearly all the units were destroyed. 

With this power he could foresee and avoid any difficulty… starting with a difficulty he hadn't foreseen. It should be easy to follow that memo to its source and deal with it. 

Zhravelle looked for directions, but the only writing that remained was a part of the manufacturer's label: "... and you tour us, inc". Ironic, given what happened when someone did take the tour. 

He slowly learned the controls, but something was odd. It was like the machine was being pulled, to some time in the near future. Zhravelle gave up on his original goal and let the device tune itself. 

The scene through the oval was warped as if pulled by something. That something was a large black object, very slick and curved. Next to it was a… a Loonian? Whatever, that interference had to go so Zhravelle could focus. He took careful aim with his raygun and fired. The invisible bolt also warped in the intense temporal field, striking both the frame and bending as it travelled. Zhravelle had the impression of the man falling over just as the oval exploded in a shower of sparks. 

"So much for cheating… I'll have to stick to lying," Zhravelle thought. 

* * *

“That’s a fine ‘how do you do?’” Stefanie thought to herself. Of course, she had the restraint not to say anything out loud. After all, she hadn’t earned all those college speech and debate trophies by talking. 

No. 

Stefanie was a doer. 

She’d have to be a doer to have earned her two Pulitzer prizes, three Presidential Medals of Freedom, daytime Emmy, blackbelt in aikido, and MLB Triple Crown (while playing for the Detroit Tigers, no less), all before she set foot out of D.C. 

And no “talker” could have snagged a Peabody, an A.C.E. Award, Nobel Prizes in both chemistry and economics, and the Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Award for Favorite Animated Animal Sidekick (narrowly edging out Perry the Platypus). 

So while she stared down her nose at the pathetic excuse for a man in front of her, she had the wisdom to keep her lips zipped and nod along. 

It was during these moments of begrudging silence that Stefanie got a chance to reflect on her past. The past that made her *her*. It seemed impossible to believe that someone so attractive could have accomplished all she had by the ripe age of twenty-two, but, then again, her definition of “possible” seemed to be changing by the minute. 

She thought back to that little rugrat sitting on the floor of the one room shack, bouncing on Papa’s knee, bundling herself in the big blue blanket like a mealworm in a cocoon. 

“Fleece,” Papa would say, fingering the azure afghan around his babe. 

“Fleece,” Stefanie would repeat. The words felt good on her lips. 

“Fleece,” he responded. “Fleece.” 

Maybe that’s why she chose the name "Fleece." No one knows for sure. But one thing was for sure: there was nothing fleecy about where she was right now. 

9

The sphincter-like entrance to the Grand Dome of General Preparedness opened with a wet kissing sound. Zhravelle stepped through the fleshy portal and into a space that was as vast as it was familiar to him. It was here that he’d been outfitted for his mission to Gorp, and for the Kelthinan Campaign. He’d learned the ancient forms of Skooge Fighting in the Upper Punching Hall, and he’d been taught the forbidden but tender art of Muzzle Grunking in the Fourth Seduction Trench. 

Those had been good times, Zhravelle reflected with a wistful smile. 

At a bench in one corner of the Dome his old friend Faquillant stood waiting for him. 

“You old fizzle-pick,” Zhravelle said, slapping the other being on the back, “what do you have for me?” 

“Earth-stuff,” Faquillant said, gesturing to the bench and its collection of odd items. 

Zhravelle looked over the strange assortment. 

“What’s this?” he asked, picking up what looked like a Zellustrickian Slousher with a Mark IV Bavel-Gate. 

“It’s called a pen.” 

“Ah,” Zhravelle said, setting the plastic tube back down. “And this,” he asked, pointing to something that looked deceptively like a book. 

“It’s a book,” Faquillant said. “The Lonely Planet Guide to Washington, DC.” 

“Sounds like a rather sad tale,” Zhravelle said. 

“Indeed, it is. Here,” Faquillant said, handing Zhravelle a thick stack of paper rectangles. “The Earth-men call these ‘dollars’”. 

“Dollars?” Zhravelle asked as he stared at the green chits. 

“Yes, they are like our Jaldecoth.” 

“This is MONEY?” Zhravelle laughed incredulously. “But where are the teeth? Why isn’t it screaming and trying to eat my fingers?” 

Faquillant shrugged. “The humans are strange creatures, my friend. Their currency is neither sentient nor predatory. It isn’t even alive.” 

“Oh,” Zhravelle said, regarding the Earth money with a disappointed eye. “How dull.” 

“They’re kind of a dull people,” Faquillant dug under the bench and pulled out a briefcase, “Did you know they only have one Sesquitimater?” 

Zhravelle was still playing with the money, seeing if he could provoke it into attacking his tongue. He paused as Faquillant’s question seeped into him. “One? What each? It’s bad but it’s not--” 

“No, between them. All of them.” 

Zhravelle put the money down, “Those poor solipaters. Is this my briefcase?” 

Faquillant opened it up for him to see. “One cryo-freeze ray gun, one gigahurl, two boxes of multi-purpose condoms, one bio scanner and reflesher. Sixty milicligs of salt, one oral hygenator, ten of those pills your doctor told me to stop giving you--” Zhravelle started to object and Faquillant bowled over him, “and only ten. One pair women’s panty hose, and two bottles emergency barter-nitrogen.” Faquillant closed the briefcase and latched it. 

Zhravelle reached for the handle but his old friend pulled it out of reach. “Ah,” he gave a resigned breath. “Of course. The paper work.” 

Faquillant waved at the stack of forms on the bench, “The tyranny of plaspaper, my friend. To make it quicker, I’ll read out the list of possible side effects you might experience from the devices or among mankind.” 

“As usual?” Zhravelle said, as he pulled the forms to him. 

“You know it’s against regulation to give them to you in binary. Here we go…” 

Zhravelle stopped paying attention as he concentrated on laying his eating orifice on each form to sign it, or occasionally his breathing orifice to place his initials. Occasionally an especially hideous side effect would break through. 

“...prolapsed argnetal…”, “loss of outside-out-ness”, “...feelings…” “...hubcap knee...”, “...tornado bowels…”, “...preoccupation with Beethoven…”, “...podcasting…”. 

He let Faquillant’s words wash over him. Really every mission was the same. 

Although, to be honest, Zhravelle really didn’t mind the tornado bowels. There was a certain form of cleansing that can only be accomplished with a complete vac-u-suck of one’s bowel area that is hard to top. Unfortunately, though you felt supremely relaxed afterwards, you do usually vomit out of your eyes. Which makes for an awkward date or job interview or marriage proposal. 

“Pay attention, Zhravelle,” said Faquillant, sensing he was thinking about tornado bowels again. 

“What! Yes, I’m paying attention. Prolapsed Beethoven feelings, I’ve got it. Just give me the damned paperwork and I’ll sign.” 

“You don’t need to sign any of this.” 

“OK then I’m out of here!” barked Zhravelle, as he snatched the briefcase and then suddenly dematerialized in a flash of light and smoke. 

“Wow,” said Faquillant. “I didn’t know he could do that.” 

Several days later, Zhravelle emerged from a cave in the desert, his clothes torn and with a deep 5:00 shadow. There was a squirrel in his matted hair whom he had named Stefan. 

“That’s the last time I travel by interdimensional dematerialization,” he said to Stefan. Stefan chirped happily in response. “Too many problems, materializing into solid rock 60 miles below the surface of the planet.” It had taken him at least 23 additional interdimensional dematerializations – including an incidental trip to a squirrel farm – something Zhravelle didn’t know existed – before he emerged in the vicinity of his intended destination: the ruby desert outside Capital City. 

“I’ve got a date with the president,” he said to Stefan, a steely gaze on his face that he hoped Stefan appreciated. 

“Life, the universe, and everything.” Zhravelle paused and scratched his chin as he contemplated the sticker slapped haphazardly across the telephone pole. 

“Idiotic humans!” he muttered under his breath as he walked on. He could not let buffoonery distract him today. For today was the day appointed to carry out his mission. And his mission was of the utmost importance. For it was of the utmost importance to prevent another deadly Nitrogen War. 

His Internet searches had informed him of the perfect subterfuge for gaining access to the President of the United States. As he propelled his legs toward the White House, Zhravelle pondered the fact that the Internet’s origins could be traced back to a 1961 paper on packet switching theory. Packets consisted of a header and a payload, and each channel traversed by a packet was traversed by that packet only, until the transmission was completed and the channel was made available for another packet. This was the theoretical basis for the development of ARPANET by U.S. military defense contractors. 

And yet this system built to buttress the defenses of the United States of America would be its ultimate downfall. For Zhravelle had discovered a way to gain access to the White House, and therefore the President, by means of that very Internet. By contacting a Congressperson with an Earth name that could arouse no suspicion, since it was an amalgam of names published by reputable sources, Zhravelle would be escorted into the White House on a free tour! Zhravelle chuckled. No one could have seen Bob Honey, CPA, FCPA, CGMA coming. 

10

Zhravelle approached the White House and joined the tour line. He was ready with falsified security documents provided by Faquillant. At the right moment, he deployed his cryo-freeze gun and darted toward the Oval Office. 

* * *

If only her daddy could see her now. 

In a matter of hours, she’d gone from interning for a backbencher senator to working for the president. She’d shown the other interns that being a so-called kiss ass paid off. And now at last she could get to the bottom of what had happened to her father and avenge his death. 

All it had taken was poring over thousands of pages of classified documents that none of the other interns -- let alone the doddering Sen. Byrd -- would have ever spent the time on, especially during the weekend. 

Stefanie had been indulging in a second glass of white wine in her sparse downtown apartment when she found it, the smoking gun. OK, it was a smoking ray. The one that had taken her papa from her, the one that had humiliated the United States, the one that had changed her purpose in life. 

Amongst all the pages, she’d figured out how the Loonians had gotten through their defenses. 

She’d called the senator, but of course she’d gotten no response. Why would he bother with an intern on a Saturday night? 

But to Stefanie, this couldn’t wait. She had to tell someone, but who would listen? Who would have to listen? 

A light bulb went off. Of course, the White House switchboard would have to listen, and she hoped the operator would take it seriously enough to pass it along. 

She was lucky. No, she reminded herself, it was that she had worked harder than the others. 

The vice president called her, and Stefanie had patiently explained to her what she’d found. It wasn’t 10 minutes after their call ended that the president had called her to offer Stefanie a job working directly for him. 

Stefanie accepted without hesitation. One step closer now. 

* * *

President Charles immediately noticed the intruder and reached for the emergency button underneath his desk. However, the intruding Zhravelle took aim and cryo-froze him. 

Zhravelle stealthily rolled the nitrogen ice crystal containing the President into the White House kitchen, and opened a nearby pantry to hide his hostage. Within it were Earth foods the likes of which Zhravelle had never seen. Each box had a name more whimsical than the last. Rotini. Ziti. Penne. Manicotti. Lasagne. Tortellini. 

“You must tell me what these are!” Zhravelle screamed at his frozen hostage. No response. His hostage was frozen. Knowing there was only one way to get the information he desired, he looked deep within the President’s eyes. 

“One. Zero. Zero zero. One one one zero,” Zhravelle mumbled to himself. It was binary, a language computers use to communicate with one another, and Zhravelle was using it to download the President’s memories into his own brain. 

“Pasta…” Zhravelle recognized the word. His rear stomach-pod began to vibrate, and his brzzzhkk glands were watering. This golden substance was the catalyst of constant street wars in every Ogden sector of Odgen Prime, and he now found himself with a veritable treasure trove. 

The kitchen staff took notice of the continuous mumbling in the cupboard, and Zhravelle began to take notice of them. Quickly grabbing his Gigahurl, Zhravelle vacuum-scooped the contents of every shelf into his front stomach-pod for safekeeping, bio-scanned a complete re-fleshing, and proudly strode through the doors as the “new” President of the United States. 

“I have consumed all items in this nutrient chamber. It is to be sealed for nine cycles, and then it may be unsealed. I will be frozen inside and will need to be defrosted at precisely 7000 degrees Kelvin. Now, remind me which way my office is.” 

* * *

Stefanie looked around her new office with pride. It wasn’t huge, but it was hers. And while the prestige was great, the most important thing was that she was that much closer to exposing the truth about her father’s death. Even better, she’d never have to deal with Senator Byrd’s many and varying personal, professional, or medical issues anymore. Never again would she have to act as his intermediary with Dr. Brambalt, repeating this week’s list of complaints and then shouting the good doctor’s advice through the door to the toilet-bound senator. She pitied her replacement, whoever they were. Then again, who knows? Maybe they’d finally talk the Senator into the hearing aid he needed. 

All that was behind her. For now, she needed to finish organizing her workspace so she could focus her energies on more important things. Her diplomas lined the wall - not many could claim to have graduated from both Harvard and San Piteo Community College, much less with a double major in Political Theory and Musical Theory - along with a framed photo of her father. It was her favorite of him - the official inauguration photo. How proud she’d been. If only there was some way to go back, to prevent what had happened. Atop her desk, a weeping fig added a cooler touch to the harsh angles of the furniture and computer. Next to it, her desk phone was flashing with unread messages already. 

As she pressed play, she heard the Senator's quavery voice. “Stefanie? I don’t know why they moved your desk, but it’s Sylvester. I need you to call Dr. Brambalt and…” Deleted. 

Then, a deep, resonant voice filled her office. “Ms. Fleece? A colleague has some important information you need to hear. If you’re willing to meet, I’ll text you the details.” Interesting…. 

* * *

Of all the difficulties of this new body, the worst, Zhravelle found, was the operation of the occular contra-photonic sheaths. Every three seconds he would have to reach up and manually operate them to prevent the light scorching his nerves and permanently incapacitating him.

As usual, it was Varl who gave him the answer, as Varl was the only one who had properly studied the data cores on human physiology. Varl informed him that humans did not need to manually sheath their photonic receivers but could do it via minute muscular contractions – an obscenely complex process known as “blinking”. 

Zhravelle couldn't fathom how humans' entire visual stimuli was detected via two small liquid sacks in the upper face. They gave only limited vision and were among the most vulnerable parts of the human anatomy. 

The Cardraxians, who perceived all senses through their skin, could see, hear, smell, touch, taste, flup and brzzzhkk from any angle. If they suffered an injury or mutilation, the rest of the body could compensate. 

Even worse was the wasteful digestive process. For the Cardraxians, all nutrients were absorbed and fused, forming the basis of the central platinum spine that anchored their form and stored all sensory and memory data. Humans (and indeed all Earth lifeforms) absorbed only some of their nutriment's value and expelled the rest through a collection of orifices in the abdomen. 

Zhravelle's first encounter with this process had been .... embarrassing to say the least. 

'The more I can keep these biological dead-ends at a distance, the better,' he vowed. The first step was to expunge those irritatingly ever-present parasites known as “the Secret Service”. 

Agents Barry Hatchet and Octavia Scratch, responding to a summons, entered the Oval Office. Their eyes were immediately drawn towards the seven-foot man standing next to the President. 

“Who’s that?” Agent Barry asked, vaguely concerned how such a large person managed to get so far into the White House without their knowledge. 

“Oh, this is Varl, my new bodyguard,” the President explained. “So I’m no longer in need of your services.” 

Zhravelle had quickly realized that having a gaggle of humans constantly breathing down his neck was bound to be detrimental to him completing his mission, not to mention keeping his extraterrestrial identity a secret. This seemed like an easy way to get rid of them. 

“Bodyguard? But the Secret Service are the ones who protect the President!” Barry protested. “That’s, like, our whole job!” 

“Well, actually,” Agent Octavia interjected, “in addition to providing security for the President, Vice President, and their families, as well as various federal buildings, the Secret Service investigates various crimes, including counterfeiting, wire fraud, mail fraud, identity theft--” 

“I’m perfectly aware of our duties,” Barry said. 

“Right,” said Zhravelle. “So you can continue guarding the White House and the Vice President and looking for thieves who’ve taken over the identities of other people, but me, personally? I’m covered.” 

“By this guy?” Barry regarded the behemoth with suspicion. “Has he even been properly vetted?” 

“Look, I’m the president; I can do whatever I want.” 

“What? No you can’t.” 

“Despite what most of them seem to think,” Octavia added under her breath. 

Zhravelle grabbed a sheet of paper and began writing. “Executive order-- the President can choose whosoever he wants to protect him. Boom.” He signed it with a flourish. “So get out.” 

The agents grumbled but obediently departed. 

“Didn’t even vote for him,” Barry muttered. 

* * *

Federal Marshal Jutt Strake pulled his sidearm from its holster, switched off the safety, and took a deep breath. 

"Go go go!" he shouted. A loud crack! The door of the small run-down house flew off its hinges but the hot sun seemed not to penetrate the dark entryway. Strake’s target, Albanian fugitive criminal Qendrim Blerian, was somewhere inside. 

Strake charged into the suffocating darkness, leading a swarm of black-clad agents. The sun vanished.

Just another routine bust, Strake thought, disappointed. Blerian had been asleep on the couch and didn’t even wake when they broke the door down. 

Strake adjusted his holster, sitting shotgun as the Deputy pulled their cruiser onto the main highway. The operation had gone smoothly, and Blerian, with his hands zip-tied behind him, sat silently in the rear seat. 

Strake’s sweat cooled rapidly with the AC blasting. He longed for something out of the ordinary, something more than just rounding up drug dealers and sex traffickers. He had joined the Marshals to escape the small town where he grew up, among the endless pine forests of northern Montana. To this day the smell of pine trees brought him back to that place, another small run-down house with another mean man inside. He was grateful to have escaped. 

But now I'm bored. I want to do something that really matters. 

"You'll have your chance" Blerian blurted out suddenly, as if he was listening to Strake's thoughts. 

"What?" Strake asked. 

"There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Blerian said. 

Great, another loony, Strake thought. 

"You have no idea." Blerian said. 

Strake turned to question Blerian but his phone interrupted, buzzing with a text message. 

“Code 222. Return immediately.” 

This looks promising, Strake thought. Maybe somebody kidnapped the President? 

* * *

Stefanie’s fingers flew frantically, needle and thread moving in a rapid speed. She looked down at the opaque, somewhat vaguely, ornithological figure in her hands. What was she making again? Ah yes, pants. She smiled wanly, eyes glazed over as her fingers stretched and formed the fabric. It felt strange, light and feathery, she could see it now, pants swaying in the wind, soaring high above, stately and proud. 

She shook her head, everything blurring faintly and she struggled to focus. Who was she making these for? Someone big. She pursed her lips. No that’s not quite right, someone tall! As if in response to her thought the pants grew in her hands, elongating and sinking to the floor. The dark material eating up the light as they grew, falling over her legs and down to her feet. Her eyes widening in alarm, but still her fingers flew, threading and sewing somehow. 

Her fingers ached, her knuckles swollen but she picked up speed, sewing until the mass spread across the room. It covered the whole of the floor, spread out like carpet, weighing down on her lap. She breathed out, laughing and crying at the same time as her fingers kept sewing, acting of their own will. 

The room flickered again, she saw a blurry form in front of her, a bare wall and an empty street corner. It flickered back, the pants finished and floating in the wind above her. She found herself writing notes, sending them up to the pants, wondering what they were thinking, how they were feeling. She straightened her gloves and let out a soft sigh. Much better than any pants in Spain! She snickered, the room flickering again. She found herself outside staring blankly at a building. She shuddered, steeling herself, then pressed on. 

* * *

Stefanie strode briskly down the street toward her destination: a local DC hangout called Big Betsy’s Dirty Diner. Big Betsy’s Dirty Diner was an open secret in the nation’s capital, a known meetingplace for Senators, politicians, and others to meet. Frequently their discussions would involve secret deals, backdoor gladhanding, and other less scrupulous ways to get their own laws passed and agendas pushed. Even Big Betsy herself was said to be a powerful figure in the restaurant lobby known as Big Food. 

Ducking inside, Stefanie checked her smartphone to re-read the covert message she had received: ‘bbdd. Booth by the fikus. 3:33pm. Don’t be late’. She looked around. “What the heck is fikus?” she muttered to herself. “No way to check. If these people want to meet, I guess they’ll have to find me.” 

“Did you say something?” asked the hostess 

SHIT 

“Oh no, I just wanted to… pick out my own booth. Is that okay?” Good thinking, Stef, thought Stefanie. 

The hostess opened her mouth to respond, but she was cut off as a burly man stepped between them. “Are you Stefanie Fleece?” he growled in a low, guttural voice. He was wearing a black suit, with a white shirt and a black tie, and he had sunglasses over his eyes. Stefanie couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew she was being sized up, measured for threat, assessed for weapons. 

“Yes,” she heard herself say. 

“Come with me,” he said, and led her to a booth where a woman with a plate of krazy fries was sitting dressed in an identical black suit and black sunglasses. Stefanie sat down next to her. 

“Let’s cut to the chase.” the man growled. “I’m Barry Hatchet, and that’s Octavia Scratch.” 

“I know who you are,” Stefanie realized out loud. “You’re in the secret service detail assigned to protecting President Charles.” 

Hatchet shook his head. “Not anymore.” 

Stefanie felt her eyebrows raise. “You quit?” 

“We were fired.” Hatchet snarled, and Stefanie could tell that this was personal to him. “Replaced. By just one seven foot tall guy. And I want you,” Hatchet growled, his voice even lower and more full of gravel as he grabbed one of Stefanie’s deerskin-gloved hands, “to figure out what the hell is going on.” 

Stefanie winced and pulled her hand away from agent Hatchet’s iron-like grip. She flexed her diminutive fingers, waiting for the feeling to return to them. “Just like that then?” she asked. “No advance warning? Not even a lukewarm performance review?” 

“Nothin’!” Barry barked, slamming his fists down on the table and surprising the waitress who was just about to set down his order of Count Chocula Au Gratin. Octavia an’ me are the best goddamn agents in the entire service!” he snarled, his voice taking on an even rougher, grittier texture. “Ask anyone! Our regghhrd is spotcchhtlch, an’ weggcchh schrrggh-” He paused, took a deep breath, and went into a tremendous coughing fit, expelling several chunks of gravel and a cloud of dust. He concluded by clearing his throat. “Medical condition,” he explained in a much smoother voice. “Don’t ask.” 

Stefanie didn’t. 

“Now as I was saying, I don’t care how tall the guy is. Ain’t nobody that can do a better job than me an’ Agent Scratch! And the president knows it! At least,” Barry continued with the rise of an eyebrow, “the president I know knew it.” 

“W-whatever do you mean?” Stefanie questioned. 

“Simply put,” chimed in Octavia as she cooly munched on her plate of Krazy Fries, “There is clearly a great deal of obfuscation taking place at the government’s highest office right now. And agent Hatchet and I are of the opinion that the man currently residing in the oval office has engaged in an act of dissimulation regarding his personal character. 

Stefanie gasped, “You don’t mean…” 

“That’s right,” Octavia confirmed with a smirk. “The president and his ‘bodyguard’ are imposters.” 

11

Stefanie arrived back at her elegant Georgetown townhome just after midnight. As she entered her foyer she caught a glimpse of herself in the floor-length hall mirror and took a moment to admire her reflection. She was dressed in a figure-hugging strapless black evening gown and sparkling diamond jewelry. Her skin and hair shone like the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall. So much effort for a completely wasted evening, she thought to herself. 

She breezed through the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of champagne and a crystal flute. Stefanie was going to put the dull evening out of her mind with a relaxing bath. Upstairs in her boudoir she shimmied out of her gown and gloves and draped on a kimono made of silk spun from the most luxurious silkworms. She then ran a bath in her Restoration Hardware clawfoot tub and sprinkled in blush rose petals fresh from that morning’s bouquet delivery. Finally, she lit a cluster of fragrant candles and slid into the tub with a satisfied sigh. 

As Stefanie soaked, her mood began to improve. The fundraiser, the stuffed shirts who spent the evening vying for her ear, even the embarrassment caused by Jutt’s over-imbibing all began to dissolve from her mind as though they were made of the smoke produced by her Diptyque candles. Instead, her thoughts drifted to the newest man in her life: Charles. 

Charles was unlike anyone Stefanie had ever met. He was brash. Enigmatic. His face sometimes seemed a little…weird. Sometimes being in the same room with him made her heart race while other times it made her feel nauseous. Stefanie sighed and gazed up through the skylight at the stars above. Huh, she thought. I don’t recall being able to see the stars around here before. Also, have they always been so green? 

* * *

From the Celestine Hypersphere, three great entities silently watched what was occurring. Mortilast, Cardraxian Master of Time reclined, while Jubilrac The Wise, Mistress of the Loonian Pantheon leaned towards Earth. The Archangel Joseph waited, utterly still except for the occasional blink. 

Mortilast finally spoke. “Interesting.” 

Jubilrac snapped. “SHH! Joe, this president – is that a divine mandate? There's a lot of chatter around becoming one.” 

Mortilast chuckled “Look, just let us have this one. We're going to win – I know how it all ends.' 

Joe finally spoke in his fine tenored voice. 'It's not one of ours, if that's a concern. But we're indulgent. We are concerned about your Cardraxian dominating Earth culture. Or, Loon reprisals, for that matter.' 

“Oh please, Holy Joe. This is mortal grabassery, and unless Jubi here wants to add a little spin on this....” 

He was interrupted immediately by Jubilrac. “We're not starting a divine war over this granfalloon on Earth. Commute's a nightmare. So, it's agreed that We're keeping it all mortal? No divine interference?” 

“My people will insist on it, since it's on our turf. Some consideration would be nice, given our timetable.” Joe paused and in a sotto voice “Between You and Me, we're wrapping up and moving into the next phase in a century or so. It's between global warming or some zoonotics that Plague departments whipped up.” 

“Colds or Heat... they haven't decided?” Mortilast mused. 

“Not my circus. I'm just Divine Relations.” Joe shrugged. 

“3-2 they choose plagues.” Jubilrac smiled impishly. 

Mortilast countered. “I'll have weather over bugs, at 2-1... if you can take my mark for 700?” The deal was made, and as they had nothing else to do with Earth for now, they went out to the food court for frozen yogurt. 

* * *

Stefanie had trouble concentrating on what Hatchet and Scratch said due to a pain that started in an index finger and arched up her forearm. She’d been warned this might happen. Getting that black market surgery while working was risky, but it’d already paid off. If she’d waited for her vacation, her previously-stubby fingers would surely have cost her the promotion. 

Hatchet’s words echoed in Stefanie’s head. “We used our connections to get you closer to the President.” No, that couldn’t be true. It’d been her dutiful ass-kissing that’d led to her new position. Her dutiful ass-kissing and her now-slender fingers. 

Molecular machines coursed through those fingers, removing shavings of bone from the sides, and re-inserting the shavings at the tips, achieving the dual goals of slenderizing and lengthening. The pain was minimal, except when one of the machines accidentally collided with a nerve during its transit. All Stefanie needed to do was not visibly wince and keep her gloves on to conceal the bruising. And not suffer any trauma that would cause the still-delicate structure of shavings to collapse. 

“You need to find out what’s going on. He’ll never suspect the daughter of his mysteriously-murdered predecessor.” 

Stefanie forced herself to ignore the pain. She must never react, must forgot the surgery entirely. If she could deceive herself that everything was normal, she could deceive everything. 

Scratch’s words made less of an impact, as they were all Krazy Fry-related. “We need to order another plate, the ones on the bottom have gotten soggy.” “These need more salt.” She walked to an adjoining table with a lone customer. “I’m sure you overheard my plight. Might I borrow your salt?” She reached across the table for the salt with one hand, using the other to drive a syringe into his unsuspecting thigh. 

12

Zhravelle woke with a start. He could flup that his body was dangerously low of Galdum. “Blinking” his ocular contra-photonic sheaths fourteen times, he lifted his pediform extremities and ran out of the bedroom, still wearing his teal nightgown with "LBJ" sewn into the left breast pocket. 

So focused was Zhravelle on running down the corridor that he didn’t notice the distracted and unassuming man walking in the opposite direction, arms full of important documents. Zhravelle careened into the man, spilling papers everywhere. 

“You there, political peon!” Zhravelle said, awkwardly regaining his balance. 

“Actually, sir,” the peon began, “I’m the CEO of the Department of Defen-” 

“No time for Belphing pleasantries!” Zhravelle interrupted. “Where is the nearest Galdum chamber in this establishment?” 

The peon pushed his large rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose confusedly. “The WHAT chamber, sir?” 

“Galdum, you Belphing imbecile! My nutrition intake is long overdue!” 

The peon stammered. “Is that some type of meal replacement? If you need, sir, I can have one of my Sergeant Majors contact a GNC and maybe we can-” 

“Enough!” Zhravelle said. He suddenly came to the horrible realization that Earth, in all its bountiful nitrogen supply, lacked any sort of Cardraxian Galdum repository. Zhravelle forced his face into a toothy grin, attempting to curtail any further suspicion. “Erm, that’s alright, peon. I will escort myself to the nearest Coke fountain. Now begone!” 

Zhravelle did a robotic about-face and marched back toward his bedroom, leaving the peon to clean up his scattered papers. I must have Varl notify the High Council immediately, Zhravelle thought. Maybe they can send me a supply. I’m JONESING out here! 

* * *

“…this food is vile.” 

Zrahvelle looked away from the tank and rolled his humanoid eyes. 

“Sir, people on this planet feed their humanoid fish this particular food. You’ll have to put up with this for a while longer” 

If Varl was able to frown then he would’ve. Since his form was that of a pretty golden bug-eyed fish, Varl simply swivelled his physical form’s eyes in different directions and gently kissed the tank’s glass two times. 

“Can’t you crumble up an earth cow burger for me? 

“No, I can’t, I need all the substance I can. It’s hard enough getting enough calories as it is.” 

“Just order extra cheese” Varl said as he swiftly swam around the large tank once before shaking his tail dramatically. “The whole ’pretending to be human thing’ is great once you indulge in the food available there.” 

Zrahvelle turned away from his boss and scowled as he looked through the large glass window. 

“Being the President of the United States has a lot of baggage with it. The press follow my every move. “ 

“Ah, who cares, young one.” Varl communicated as he swan around his tank once and rotated. “Humans are stupid. Not at stupid as those Loonion idiots, but still stupid enough to vote for humans with moral flaws.” 

Zrahvelle looked out the window and frowned. 

“My cover story didn’t have any scandals in it. I’ve never meddled with single woman, never treated non-Caucasian people different to myself.” 

* * *

The technical briefing was about to start as Stefanie entered the lab. Dr Midge Rebney had just begun the briefing on Perfluoroelastomer-Expolayer technology, or as the non-scientists called it, Loonian inflatable armor. 

Pulling a deflated balloon out of her pocket, the scientist began. “Typically, when we increase the mass of a substance...” She blew up the balloon and held it up. “the molecular bonds, and therefore the substance, becomes weaker. ” 

“But what if we could somehow reverse that? Create a substance whose molecular bonds grow stronger when it expands, instead of weaker? That’s exactly what the Loonians have done.” 

Stefanie tried to interject with a question, but Dr Rebney ignored her and continued. “Through backwards engineering, we learned that the Loonians use submolecular nanomachines to, in essence, trick the molecules of the armor into reversing their behavior.” 

“So… it’s hacking the material on a molecular level?”, Stefanie interjected. 

“Exactly. The first versions of this armor weren’t much harder than the original plasteel they started with, but eventually the Loonians discovered that every additional nanomachine attached to a molecule doubled the effect - one nanomachine doubles the original strength, two quadruples it, and so on. This most recent model uses 12 nanomachines per molecule, increasing the strength by a factor of 4,096. You can imagine the implications.” 

Stefanie could. The briefing concluded, Stefanie nodded to Midge and left the room without a word. 

"I can’t believe they bought that bullshit", Midge thought to herself once the lab door closed. In truth, none of the research teams at the Pentagon had any idea at all how the inflatable armor worked. "Hacking the molecules? And these are supposed to be our leaders? I hope the Cardraxians enslave us all." 

Stefanie paused for what seemed like a minute, soaking in this newfound knowledge, trying to make sense of it all. In the distance, the gurgle of a nearby water cooler snapped her back to reality. This revelation had changed everything. 

As she dragged the leather glove across her brow, collecting the sweat, she thought out loud to herself, "How could we have missed this before?" 

If only there were time to process it all, but the fact is, she had a job to do. She was going to have to think this through on her way to the White House. There were pressing matters ahead that simply wouldn't wait. A nation was waiting anxiously to hear what the president had to say. 

Stefanie began the long walk down the corridor toward her car, her footsteps echoing inside the oddly vacant building. Most days, she was certain she could handle any situation, but today, she wasn’t so sure. 

She checked her watch, and then checked it again a few seconds later, as if trying to will it to move backwards. "If only I had more time to figure this out" she said to herself as she entered the parking garage. Fumbling through her purse, and lost in thought, Stefanie failed to notice the concrete support column she was approaching. As she stumbled into the beam, she staggered backward and, in that moment, felt relieved that the building had been mostly deserted. Brushing herself off, and getting her bearings, she gripped the keys and headed toward the vehicle. 

Upon reaching the car she glanced back to the column and thought, "If that's the worst thing that happens to me today I'll consider myself lucky." 

Stefanie glanced at the clock on the dashboard as she crossed the Potomac. 

Plenty of time, she reassured herself. The thought of meeting the President sent butterflies tumbling in her stomach, which was ridiculous. They'd gone skinny-dipping, for heaven's sake! She frowned slightly. But things were different now. So much had changed since that carefree summer. 

What should she call him? She mused. President Harwood? Mr. President? Sir? President Charles? Or maybe just "Charles"? She chuckled . Obviously she would never call the leader of the free world by his first name only. Not on the first day on the job, at least. 

She saw the Washington Monument coming up on the right. "Oh, crap! I'm in the wrong lane!" She swerved left, ignoring the furious honking from the Prius she'd narrowly missed. 

Nearly there now. 

She imagined entering the Oval Office as Chief of Staff. This would be the culmination of years of dedication and hard work. Her eyes moistened at the thought of how proud her father would have been. If only he could see her now... 

Stefanie caught a glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror and gasped. "Crap, crap, crap! My mascara!" 

Stefanie closed her eyes and thought back to her childhood. 

Math class. It had been her favorite class for as long as she could remember. 

The classroom buzzed with anticipation as the teacher, Miss Kirkland, pulled an old shoebox from beneath her desks and started passing out small rectangles to her students. 

“What are those?” asked Sally, from her seat to Stefanie’s left. 

Stefanie was already beaming fiercely. “I know what those are,” she said. “Those are calculators!” 

“What’s a calculator?” Sally asked. 

“It’s a tiny machine that does math!” Stefanie exclaimed. She was quivering with excitement as Miss Kirkland placed the magical block of textured plastic on her desk. While Sally tentatively poked at the buttons, Stefanie eagerly began typing in equations – adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing the biggest numbers she could think of. 

“Hey,” came a voice to her right. It was Mikey Franchetti, the meanest kid in school. “Check it out,” he said, tilting his calculator screen towards her. 

“Eighty thousand and eighty-five,” she read loud, “What’s so special about that?” 

“You’re doing it wrong,” he said. “Pretend the numbers are letters.” 

She looked again and a moment later, she saw it: 

80085 

BOOBS 

Stefanie blushed scarlet as Mikey cackled. She looked back at her own calculator with a new sense of revulsion. It was no longer a magic key that could unlock a world of mathematical possibilities, but a coarse, dirty thing full of wickedness. 

That was the moment everything changed. The trajectory she had set for herself as a woman in STEM was irrevocably changed. She had thrown herself into the liberal arts after that, but her practical side knew that was unsustainable, and politics was the next logical step. 

She opened her eyes. The word BOOBS on a calculator had led to this moment. 

There was a stillness to the air that day, a sticky, turbid stillness that sucked the life out of the normal clatter and blather of the city. Most people took the eerie atmosphere as an opportunity to ignore everyone else and look at their phones, but the few who were paying attention knew something important had just happened or was about to. After realizing the immanent importance of the day, those few went back to looking at their phones. 

As Stefanie approached the door to the Oval Office she was overcome by a tangible presence of tradition, importance, and something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something ... tangy? Her eyes began to tear and she stopped for a second to compose herself. 

There were some days when she just went about her job and that’s all it was, a job. Every now and then the importance of what she was a part of and the solemnity of the position was thrust back to the forefront of her mind and in those moments it took her breath away. 

Stefanie thought back on the bizarre and improbable events that had brought her to this place where striding into the Oval Office was merely part of her job. Stefanie’s father had always told her, “Nothing you ever try to do will be as important as what you do do”—and then he would chuckle to himself and repeat “doo doo”. 

“Well, daddy,” she said to herself, “This nothing wasn’t what I tried to do, but I sure did do do it. Doo doo, indeed.” 

A flustered intern stopped short of tapping Stefanie on the back and decided to talk to her later. He turned around and shuffled off, pretending he hadn’t just heard a cryptic crap-based self-pep talk. 

Stefanie took a deep breath and knocked on the door to the Oval Office with a gloved hand. “Mr. President? Excuse me, Mr. President?” No response. 

She pushed the door open a crack, leaned in, and her jaw promptly dropped. All the furniture had been pushed to the edges of the office. Now, in the center of the room, all that remained was a large glass rectangle with about three inches of murky green liquid in it. If it was a fish tank, it was the biggest one Stefanie had ever seen. 

The president stood next to the tank, holding a garden hose that ran from the tank, across the floor, and out the window of the office, where Mr. Varl, the president’s new bodyguard, stood at attention. As usual, the peculiar giant new hire was wearing sunglasses indoors and his tongue lolled out of his mouth. 

“Good boy, Varl!” The president said. “The rejuvenation tank should be up and running in just a few earth hours!” 

Finally Stefanie found her words. “Mr. President?” Still nothing. “Hey!” she shrieked. “Charles!” 

Zhravelle jumped and spun around. He still wasn’t used to the name of the earthling whose identity he had assumed. Unfortunately, he was still holding the hose, and it ended up pointing right at his Chief of Staff’s face. 

“Varl! Cut the flow!” Zhravelle yelled as Stefanie sputtered. The next few seconds seemed like an eternity, but eventually the stream of nutrient rich Galdum abated. 

Zhravelle pulled his new face into something that he hoped resembled earthling embarrassment as Stefanie stood there dripping. 

“Sorry Stefanie. Must not have heard you come in!” 

“Charles, what the hell is going—You know what? There’s no time for an explanation. You have to deliver the State of the Union in less than an hour!” 

"That's right," said the president. "Thank you for reminding me Miss Fleece. I should get ready for that." 

As the president walked out of the Oval Office to his personal quarters to get changed, Stephanie turned to Varl and Charles. "What the hell are you all doing? What is all of this?" Stephanie had a million questions running through her mind at once knowing she couldn't ask them all. 

"It's hard to explain." said Charles. 

"What is this liquid on me?" Stephanie yelled. 

"Water" Varl said, clearly lying. 

"This is not water. I know what water feels like. This feels like algae. I feel like I took a swim in the wetlands." 

"Okay, it's not water" said Varl 

"It's actually a concoction of ingredients that we are close to perfecting that'll make anyone young again." 

"Like a fountain of youth?" Asked Stephanie 

Charles and Varl, though oblivious to the reference Stephanie described, went along with what she said 

"Yes, exactly. Like a youth water fountain" said Charles. 

Stephanie looked inside the tank for a moment and noticed the liquid was bubbling, reminding Stephanie of the bubbling of a witch's brew. 

Stephanie took a step back from the tank. 

"You understand that I find what you are both saying rather hard to believe?" She said. 

"How come?" Varl asked. "You yourself mentioned the young fountain of water." 

"Fountain of youth" Stephanie stated matter of factly. "It is hard to believe because the fountain of youth is folklore. Something people made up to create an enticing story." 

"Well this is a real life fountain of youth." said Charles "But it was not easy. It has taken a long time to get right. And we are right on the cusp." 

"Even if it is real, how are you able to achieve the impossible?" 

13

Billy woke up groggy and wiped the sleep from this eyes. His face was somewhat more damp than usual. Come to think of it, there were a few more bloody footprints in the living room than he remembered. On his shamble towards the bathroom he tripped over something and nearly face planted right on to the bathroom floor. "Damn cat!" he exclaimed. He didn't even know where it came from. It just appeared a while ago and proceeded to go about its thing whatever that was. Bill looked towards the bathroom mirror and was a little startled to see his face covered in some red liquid which he tasted and identified as blood. He seriously hoped it was from the stupid rottweiler down the street though he was having a hard time imagining ho there could be this much blood. Someone would have needed to rip the thing in half to make that big of a mess. He dropped gloves, a nice thin deerskin set that fit his small, slender hands perfectly, into the garbage can. They were nice, but it would be impossible to remove all of the blood. 

After a thorough shower, he made his way back to the living room sofa, flipped on the TV , and took a look at the local news. 

"The country is in shock following the gruesome death of…" Billy flipped the news off. "Whatever bleeds leads." He thought as he began to absentmindedly pet his cat and then laid down to take a nap. 

Moments after falling asleep he stood back up , and with an evil look on his face said, "Time to get back to work." 

* * *

Varl lost interest in the chaos in the Oval Office. This would be easier to handle after a snack, he thought. While the others argued, he slipped out and began hunting for something to eat. 

Behind the seventh door he tried, he met a human female unpacking a delicious smelling bag. She was laying the contents out around a table, as if some people were coming to join her. "Oh hey new guy. I've just been on a Betsy's run, getting some hotdogs in for the team", she said as if that explained things. Varl, having no idea what was going on, gave her a blank look. "Oh jeez. If you were looking for some food, I'm sorry - it's all spoken for." He understood that tone. Nothing for him here. He turned to try the next door. 

"Wait!" she said, stopping him short. "I'm not supposed to be eating gluten. If you're desperate, I'll eat the frank - you can take the rest." Varl perked up. He flashed her a grateful look, and took the container she held out to him. "You had better eat that double time and head back to your post. Next time you go out for coffee, make sure to bring some over to my office. I'm Chekhov - name's on the door. Nice to meet you. Now scram!". 

Varl hadn't intended to head back to the office, but she was right. He should be be watching the president. He started back to the office, sulking. Zhravelle hadn't had any time for him since they landed on this dumb planet. And he'd had to go scrounging for his own snacks. At least the native people here were kind enough to give him something to eat. Now he had Chekhov's bun to look forward to. 

* * *

Rubbing her forehead, which still bore the tender imprint of her collision with Marshall Jutt’s star badge, Stephaneee felt a familiar tightening in her groin. “Aughhh!” she moaned, and then weakly justified to the surprised waitress, “I haven’t been able to see my acupuncturist for weeks.” 

Without trying to conceal her eye roll, Flariana - as her name tag dubbed her - sloshed coffee from a pot into Stefaniiie’s mug and sashayed behind the counter, hollering to Big Betsy in a dissonant eastern european accent, “Flop two, over easy! Side a frog sticks! Table six!” From the kitchen could be heard sounds of a muffled scuffle. 

Trying to distract herself from the confusing pleasure-pain, reminder of Jutt’s beefy succulence, Stiffphanee used her teeth to remove her kangaroo-skin gloves, finger by finger, then spat them on the worn formica. Now she could manipulate her cell phone. Its screen was filled with notifications, all from one user: Cowboy Bob. Quickly scrolling through, each was an increasingly hysterical insistence that Stephaneee meet him for drinks, the inevitable conclusion in all caps with exploding head emojis. 

YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE MISSING!! ANYWAY, YOUR FINGERS ARE FAT AND YOUR FOREHEAD IS DENTED AND I CAN DO SO MUCH BETTER THAN YOU!!!! MY CAT IS A BETTER CONVERSATIONALIST!!!!!! KEEP GETTING YOUR HEART BROKEN BY JERKS. SERVES YOU RIGHT FOR NOT SEEING THE NICE GUY RIGHT BESIDE YOU. 

Thumbing the Reply option, Stefaniiie started to key in her acceptance, when the noise from the kitchen escalated and took on a different tone, punctuated by an otherworldly yowling and the clattering of pans. She jumped up to a standing posture and observed that all the staff had disappeared. The yowling reached a fever pitch, morphing into a screech, which was suddenly cut off by an electrical surge and sizzling. The diner went dark. 

* * *

Drenching one’s Chief of Staff in nutrient-rich, mildly toxic Galdum immediately before delivering a speech live in front of the whole galaxy was far from the most interesting thing that had ever happened in the history of the State of the Union. Presidents throughout the ages have been making these necessary addresses to the nation(s) for generations. They even carried on through the Nitrogen Wars of -1312, with the brave President Zarblax sending out regular, inappropriately cheerful messages of hope to those who could still see their televisions through their failing protective respiratory suits. 

Stefanie had been watching the State of the Union addresses with rapt attention since she was a little girl, knowing that one day she would be a small part of its illustrious history. This is how career-driven she was from an early age. She remembered with wistful relish the speeches that had brought species together over the years. She remembered where she was when President Zarblax’s secret bunker was finally broken through live mid-stream by Nitro-Ninja rebels who found his location by carefully tracking his frequent deliveries of anti-nitrous tablets hidden in increasingly ostentatious sheet cakes. The role of the president was one to be respected and honoured. 

In ancient history the speech had been carefully prepared by a team of staffers to maintain accuracy, diligence and integrity, but it was eventually decided that this level of attention and care was boring as hell. While times were tough right now for modern-day President Charles Zhravelle and the universe at large, he was nevertheless prepared to be mostly unprepared. It’s what the people wanted and expected, and he would give it to them, every single time. 

14

Naught but Zander's cool dark eyes could be seen in the jungle expanse of the room, reflecting green like a cat. Entangled in the deep shade, another cat's eyes blinked. Visually, he was put together, but things were not going well. 

Except for his cat, the electricity was definitely not working. 

Reminding himself that cat's do not need electricity, he pulled himself together again.“Going out? “, he asked the cat whimsicorically. Obviously, Zander could not communicate with said cat. Nevertheless, he continued his diatribe, pulling his unironic hat at the brim. 

“Notice my boots; they are made of STEPHagator.”, he stomped angrily. 

Ask anyone if there's a better pare on the planet!”Gently, he fixed his eyes on the horizon.“I need a drink!”Vexed and completely out of his mind, Zander knew something bad was going to happen. Elaborating on his last bon mot, he delved into Stephanee's lucid background, inwardly.You couldn't take a cat's marbles away without expecting a throwdown. Only once had he done her wrong in his mind.Understandably, she had left with a crushed flower and a broken heart. Unless you count the months he spent wasting his time, Zander had wasted a lot of time. Peaches were sweet like roses, but he needed to move on, just like Varl and Jutt. 

The power outage appeared to have only affected Zandar’s building as he made his way to his favorite watering hole a few blocks over. Even if it hadn’t, he doubted the patrons would notice. The lights were always kept at a bare minimum to help keep the identities of their clientele, mostly high ranked politicians seeking a place to take their side women, a secret. 

It was early enough that the place was mostly empty when Zandar bellied up to the bar. The stool creaked loudly under his weight when he awkwardly sat down. 

John, the bartender, put down the pint glass he was drying and leaned over to make eye contact with the Oklahoman. “Hiya, Bob. You’re here early.” 

Zandar scowled. “Power’s out.” 

John nodded in sympathy. Rolling blackouts had become a problem in the past years. Locals have blamed everything from the experimental nitrogen based power sources rushed out by the government to interference from extraterrestrial forces. He assumed it was the mobile home stacks that were built on the outskirts of town in an attempt to address Washington DC’s homelessness problem. 

“Your regular?” John asked. He grabbed a can of Miller Lite from the cooling unit, cracked it open, and set it in front of him. 

Zandar, even in the darkness of the bar, noticeably perked up. He raised the can to his lips and took a few, loud, slurps; ignoring the offended glances from the gentleman seated beside him. This was just what he needed: an almost clear amber gift from the Gods. 

Finishing his drink, Zandar’s mind wandered back to Stephanee. The thought of her was enough to make him slam his beer down in anger. “Damnnit, boy!” 

John and Zandar’s bar neighbor stared at him, both startled by the outburst. 

Zandar mumbled something about a cat and held out his drink for a new one. 

John retrieved another can of the low-grade amber pee-water and placed it on the bar. “I see a lot of folk come through here, and I know that look. That’s woman troubles you’re having.” 

Zandar scoffed. “Yeah? How can you tell?” 

John smiled, idly wiping down the bar in front of him. “You ain’t hardly touched your. So tell me, what’s her name?” 

“Stephany.” 

“Stepny?” John squinted at Zandar. “What kind of name is Stepny?” 

Zandar groaned. “Not Stepny; Steffany. You know, like the lamp.” 

John nodded. “Okay, I get it. So she wronged you, is that it? Maybe caught her getting sweet on another feller?” 

Zandar thought back to what he’d seen. The way he’d seen that alien shift and elongate his memory-absorption appendage while reading her mind. Sure, Zandar didn’t have any interest in Steffanie in a romantic way, but somewhere in that mind of hers was images of Zandar doing, well… 

A crash from across the bar broke Zandar’s train of thought. Three men had entered, the door to the bar barely hanging from its hinges. 

“We’re here for the creature,” the lead man said. He wore a black duster and hat, with glistening black gloves over his hands. “We tracked its energy signature to this location. It is disguised as a human, looking for information. We need everyone here to submit to a scan to prove they are human. If you try to run, well…” 

The man in the duster pulled back the hem of his coat, revealing a strange gun unlike any Zandar had ever seen. He turned back to John the bartender. 

“I think they-.” Zandar stopped. John had vanished, his clothes in a pile on the floor behind the bar, thin train of ectoplasm leading toward the back storeroom. 

“Oh. Oh no.” 

15

Loonian Musical Intermission: 

The crowd roars as it waits for the act of the universe to appear on stage. Red, orange and yellow lights glisten, rotating and sending colors sporadically onto the stage and into the crowd. A fog machine is keeping the stage partially hidden and adding effect to the warm lighting with a continuous flow of smoke. The PA screeches momentarily and is followed by a forceful and robust , "HELL YEAH BROTHER!!" by an unknown person behind the stage. His voice sounds like a diner employee with a healthy cigarette addiction. The crowd responds in unison, "HELL YEAH!" 

One by one, they walk out. The crowd is in awe, starstruck and silent. The rock stars of the century strut out to their positions, headbands and all. The microphone stand is covered in red and yellow tassels whipping around from a wind machine, strategically placed and out of sight from the audience. The lead singer grasps it firmly and flexes his greasy, oiled biceps with the stand in his hand. The other band members do the same with their instruments and lift them to the sky.. While they all flex , about ready to drop a killer song, only a fool wouldn't know about them and their legendary status as rock gods. Simultaneously they all rip off their shirts and go right into their number one hit , 'Real Loonian' as the pyrotechnics hit. 

This, ladies and gentleman is 'Bulk Hogan' , the world's only band consisting of members who are all also Hulk Hogan impersonators and they’re here to melt some Loonian faces. 

16

Zhravelle realized he should probably do some research for his upcoming speech, which was getting closer by the minute. Speeches had always come naturally to him, but it was always good to back the rhetoric up with some facts, he found. 

For various reasons, there hadn’t been much useful information on Earth in the High Council Archives, but luckily, the Earthlings themselves had organized the sum of their limited knowledge and history in a primitive network they called the “World Wide Web (by AOL)”. Just by skimming this information, Zhravelle was able to glean some facts about the backwater planet. 

Despite their general appearance, Earthlings weren’t necessarily stupid. They had once stumbled quite close to the fundamental theories of Time Bomb Technology. However, after failing the trivial final step of making a unified field theory, they had settled on making massive Matter Bombs instead. They had managed to go into space themselves a dozen times, in what essentially amounted to big soup cans with antennae on them. And, maybe as their most impressive feat, had invented the musical stylings of Phil Ochs, now widely regarded across the galaxy as the definitive form of music. 

Despite this, they seemed to be easily misled by trivial things and spectacle. Moderately skilled orators could make them act against their own self interests. They were largely docile, and seemed to love to interact with “brands” more than anything. By Zhravelle’s count, they had also been very close to discovering the other forms of life in the galaxy over five times, but had always shut those efforts down as “conspiracy theories”. 

With all of this knowledge in hand, Zhravelle’s confidence now grew. 

“This will,” he thought, “be easy”. “This will be,” he repeated out loud to himself, “easy”. 

Zhavrelle now bestowed the bulk of his ponderous intellect on the problem of composing this so-called “State of the Union Address,” a regrettable, yet necessary, exercise in rhetoric. Blessed as he was with the many remarkable gifts of his race, and distinguished even among his peers as an eloquent diplomatist, he had every expectation of overawing these mammalian yokels with the raw force of his charisma. All that he required was a rudimentary grasp of their oratory traditions, and then he could simply let his natural genius for grandiloquence take over. 

To begin, Zhavrelle quickly interfaced with the planet’s primitive network technology, tapping into the sum of human knowledge by attaching his auxiliary electro-nodes to the closest ether-port and downloading the entire “World Wide Web” directly into his spine. He then performed a perfunctory review of the most acclaimed speeches in the history of mankind - the Funeral Oration of Pericles, the St. Crispin’s Day Speech, the Gettysburg Address, the stirring words of John Bluto Blutarski from the classical drama Animal House - and yet none quite clicked; none, that is, until he came upon *the* speech, the *real thing*, a masterpiece of speechifying that set his every flup-pore a-tingling. That speech was, of course, Winston Churchill’s address to the House of Commons on June 4, 1940. 

Unbeknownst to Zhavrelle, the speech he took as his inspiration was not the authentic work of Winston Churchill, but a satirical variant from the early 21st century, which by this time had actually become more famous than the original. This oversight would prove to be the undoing of his SOTU - as well as his short-lived presidency. 

“We shall fight flumph,” he muttered eagerly, his organs moistening with excitement. “We shall fight rakshasa on the Material Plane. We shall fight the rust monster with growing confidence…” 

The speech was, of course, perfect--concise yet eloquent, grimly realistic yet ardently hopeful, an inspiring yet sobering assessment of the times, each word precisely chosen for maximum impact. It was everything he could want . . . in a speech. Was a speech enough by itself, however, to meet that nearly insatiable human thirst for spectacle? Might something else be needed along with it, that extra something special to really drive the thing home? 

With a dissatisfied grunt, Zhravelle shifted to a new search. His inner vision took in flag-strewn floats in parades that stretched for many blocks, fireworks exploding across the night skies, red-white-and-blue balloon drops at political party conventions, colorful crepe-paper streamers at backyard birthday parties. His sensitive spine reverberated almost out of his skin at the sudden blaring of a heavy metal concert, only to be issued a firm “settle down” by the melodious strains of an English art song composed by someone with the unaccountable name of Butterworth. He watched everything from happy couples smearing each other’s faces with cake at wedding receptions, to presidents offering pardons to turkeys (who looked oddly unaffected, even bored, by their reprieve). 

Slowly, it began to dawn on him that human ceremonial practices and group events in general had a mysteriousness and an arbitrary nature that eluded his grasp. That being the case, would it not be wiser simply to rely on the magnificent words themselves and his own innate sense of dignity to carry the day? He was not certain he could gauge the appropriateness even of the traditions he personally found appealing. He tried to picture himself smashing cake into the face of the Speaker of the House, and failed dismally. 

Very well, then. He must count on the speech alone to carry the day, to lend the occasion that gravitas he was hoping for. 

* * *

Suddenly a bluish-gray cone lowered down from the sky like lightning and surrounded Steffanie as though it were a cool-colored tornado in just her size. She blinked as wind buffeted her face and eyelashes, but before she could worry about getting dirt or grit in her picture-perfect makeup, the cone disappeared in a flash and she was standing in a room with high-tech equipment lining the walls, like something definitely out of a blockbuster movie. 

Steffanie couldn't believe her eyes; had she just been teleported somewhere? Because it sure seemed that way! 

"H...hello?" she chirped carefully into the dark room, eyes adjusted to the low light. 

"Steffanie, there is no time," said a male voice behind her. She turned around very slowly and saw that the voice did indeed belong to a man. 

"Who...who are you?" she stammered. Being a leading member of a presidential cabinet, she wasn't used to feeling intimidated. Was it the teleportation? This new stranger's good looks? Both? 

"My name is Silas and I am a time traveler from the future. It is of the most utmost importance that the President not give his State of the Union speech as presently constituted! He must give this speech." 

Silas handed Steffanie an envelope that was perhaps golden brown, or maybe Manila, in color. It felt heavy with multiple sheets of high-quality paper, but also more than that, as though the weight of the future of the world were contained inside. 

"But I..." she protested, heart all aflutter. "What does this have to...I mean...is this connected to the fish tank in the Oval Office?" 

"Steffanie, this has everything to do with the President's fish tank. He must read this speech! Now go!" 

The blue-gray tornado returned. And Silas disappeared from her eyesight. 

* * *

Zhravelle clambered into the limo waiting outside the White House. Steffanie sat next to him, and luckily she was the only person riding with him to the Capitol. The ride was a short one, but it was so dark, and there was sleet and hail and freezing rain, making the drive much longer than it usually was for safety's sake. “Typical DC precipitation,” he thought. 

Steffanie looked to the President, ready to start talking about the upcoming State of the Union, but he was leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed. She closed her mouth so quickly her teeth made a clicking sound; she figured the President needed this quiet time to prepare mentally for the momentous occasion. 

Zhravelle's thoughts were whirring in his head. He had read those famous Earth speeches and thought he knew what he was going to say, but now there is that new speech Steffanie has given him. He had pried out of her the story of receiving the speech – a time traveler named Silas. Silas? What the hell kind of stupid name is that?!? He had read the speech. Lots of flowery language and complex sentences, very different than the forceful, direct address he had planned. It had good ideas, but he doubted the American people wanted, even craved, a State of the Union speech like that. On the other hand, the time and effort that Silas guy put in to getting that speech to Steffanie must mean that his speech is pretty important. He sighed. 

Americans were proud. They liked things straight from the gut. They had a lot of guts, literally and figuratively, Zhravelle had found. If he wanted to act like the leader of this gutsy country, he was going to have to act like one of them. 

Guts. 

* * *

Steffanie nervously pulled at the cuffs of her deerskin gloves, not knowing what she could say to make him understand. “We don't have time for this!” Steffanie thought. Silas had come all the way through time to ensure that this very State of the Union speech got into the right hands. How did the President not understand the gravity of this? She knew what his plans were for this speech and her frustration was growing. 

She watched through the rain as they passed the Washington Monument and looked ahead to see the majestic architecture of the Capitol building fill the skyline as they approached. Its shape was so dignified, its arches so clean and precise, its statue of Freedom atop its crown so… unnecessary. A true American icon. Suddenly, she knew what she needed to say. 

“Mr. President, I know you carefully planned what you wanted to say during your address, but please hear me,” she said. 

He opened his eyes and glared, however he nodded for her to continue.

“It’s extremely implausible that someone would travel through time to deliver a speech, unless it was hugely important. Bigly important.” She was speaking his language now. God, she hoped this worked. “Charles, your genius is so unprecedented that you know exactly what the American people want to hear. But it's time to do the right thing and tell them what they need to hear. They’re counting on you.” 

Zharvelle’s eyes widened and he seemed to ponder this as the limo came to a stop. Before he could respond, a fleet of Secret Service Agents opened the car doors for them, and then they were whisked away toward the South Wing, where the crowded House Chamber awaited his address.

Steffanie could only hope for the best now. It was almost showtime. 

* * *

“STIFFY!” The cry was distinguishable even amid the tumult in the hallway. 

Stephanie knew that voice. She plastered a disingenuous smile on her face and turned away from the President’s side to address a grinning, unctuous Intern Bob. 

“Bob. I believe the Senator instructed you never to use that nickname again.” 

“Aw, lighten up, Stiff. He only did that because you were in charge of his prostate health. What’s the matter, has your UNBELIEVABLE promotion gone to your head?” 

“It sure seems to have gone to yours.” 

Zhravelle, Varl, and even Jutt by this time had noticed Stefani’s absence, and consequently, who was harassing her. All three were bristling with indignation on her behalf. It was really very nice of them, especially considering that at least two of them were not even human. 

“Excuse me, Bob. My new boss requires my assistance.” 

“Well, don’t let me keep you from sleeping your way to the top!” 

Varl and Jutt both lunged for the moon-faced cretin, but Stefanie held up a gloved hand. 

“Nice to see you again, Bob. Tell the Senator I said hi.” She quickly moved past the now-glowering intern, and Jutt, Varl, and Zhravelle perforce accompanied her. 

Zhravelle glanced down at Stifphanie. She looked composed. She supposed she was composed. At the very least, having a screaming breakdown in the middle of the Capitol building over the stress of dire warnings from time travelers and monster bosses and creepy, insinuating former coworkers would do her very little good. 

Zhravelle still planned to send Varl to deal with the intern later, privately. 

Jutt made similar plans. 

Coincidentally, those plans coincided. At the same time. 

It would be a real meet-cute. 

17

Zhravelle approached the rostrum, and handed copies of the speech over to the Vice President and the Speaker of the House. Stefanie, Varl, and Jutt took their seats at the back of the chamber. Speaker Wensleydale gaveled the assembly to order. 

“Members of Congress, I have the high privilege and distinct honor of presenting to you the President of the United States!” 

Applause. Cheers. Zhravelle attempted to smile the smile of a Populist President. 

“Thank you. Thank you. Madam Speaker, Mr. Vice President, members of Congress, my fellow Americans-- The State of the Union, it grieves me to say, is precarious, at best.” 

Concerned murmurs and gasps erupted around the entire chamber. 

“Before we continue, I would like to recognize someone in our midst tonight. Timothy Wigham. Stand up, would you, Timmy?” 

A small 9 year old boy stood in the First Lady’s box. 

“As I’m sure you all know, Timothy was on a camping trip with his boy scout troop last June when he and his two friends were separated from the rest of the troop and became lost in the woods. For seven days, the boys had to survive on their wits alone, but it was Timmy who fed them, patched their wounds, and led them back to safety. Timmy here, he represents the best of America, yes?” 

Cheers and applause. Timmy beamed. 

“NO. No he is NOT.” 

Silence. Timmy’s face fell. Stefanie braced herself. 

“Timmy, you led Joey back. You led Andy back. But do you remember what happened to another little boy? A boy named… SILAS?!” 

Timmy looked confused. He started to cry. 

“Oh, no, Silas wasn’t on that trip! No, HE WAS GROUNDED. WHY WAS HE GROUNDED, TIMMY?!” 

The First Lady put her arm around the sobbing boy and glared at the President. 

“What Timmy here won’t tell you is that he and Andy and Joey were the ones who drew BOOBIES on Mrs. Robertson’s chalkboard! But they let Silas take the fall for it! SILAS COULD HAVE BEEN A HERO. HE COULD HAVE KEPT THEM FROM BECOMING LOST IN THE FIRST PLACE. BUT HE WAS STUCK AT HOME BECAUSE OF TIMMY’S LIES. BOOOOOO, TIMMY!” 

The crowd began to murmur and boo the president. 

“LEAVE THE KID ALONE!” Someone shouted. 

A rotten tomato, hurled by an elderly Supreme Court Justice, splattered on the floor in front of the rostrum. Stephani was aghast. 

The Vice President was flipping through the pages of the speech, confused. The Speaker began to bang her gavel. 

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND! YOU’VE GIVEN THIS KID A MEDAL AND THE KEY TO THE CITY OF FOND DU LAC. NEXT THING YOU KNOW HE’S GOT A SCHOLARSHIP TO A PRIVATE SCHOOL AND OFFSHORE ACCOUNTS AND DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY. THIS LITTLE MONSTER IS GOING TO RUN THE COUNTRY SOMEDAY IF YOU LET HIM GO UNCHECKED.” 

The chamber, full of Private School Alumni With Offshore Accounts Who Were Very Much Right Now Running the Country, and who had been known to blame bad things they’d done on innocent people a time or two, and who knew President Charles to be one of those people too, exploded with indignation and outrage. 

Stephphanie flushed beet red and sank in her seat. 

Varl and Jutt appeared to be enjoying themselves. 

“This is much less boring than I thought it would be!” Jutt said. 

Zharvelle eyes narrowed at his hostile audience. This felt like a situation he had worked himself into, in a club, aboard an avoided space station near Ogden Prime. Focus, he mentally reprimanded; Timothy was exposed, Silas vindicated, now he had to dig himself out of the hole. The ugly pause prompted another tomato hurled from the Supreme Court bench accompanied by a boo. 

“Was that the last of your dignity Justice.” Zharvelle quipped, he felt a condescending smile spread across his face. 

“You’re a disgrace.” The elderly Judge wheezed. 

“And you’re a dishonor, your honor.” Zharvelle shot back. He slammed his fist to the podium, careful not to move his body, he must stand his ground. “A venerated ally of ours, once faced by profound evil, such as we faced then, and now, shook a nation to a profound summit of courage with a mere speech. We, great americans,” Always keep their ego in mind, thought Zharvelle, “face the threat of those with moral rot and an abiding interest, in their own interest.” 

An angry murmur spread through the house and the vice-president stood but Zharvelle exploded with the remainder of his speech. “We must oppose them on the beaches, within the houses of government, upon the reaches of the material plane. When we face treacherous imposters, the grim basilisk, the gelatinous cube, the cunning hydralisk, we will never surrender, we must fight them on the steps of government.” 

Zharvelle didn’t get to finish the line before ugly booing erupted from the assembly. Another tomato passed harmlessly. Of course the justices would miss, he noted before stepping from behind the lecturn. 

“I have a dream!” Zharvelle began but a storm of boos began that didn’t cease until he calmly laid down his papers and walked with calm dignity out of the assembly. 

18

“Well, I don’t think that could’ve gone any worse,” Stefannie huffed, increasing her stride to keep up with Zhravelle, “I mean really, Charles, it was quite brutal! And darting away from the podium like that, what was that about?” 

“You know, that’s really what I want to be hearing from my staff right now,” Zhravelle responded as he pressed onward down the corridor. She was right, though. His fantastic improvisational skills could win over crowds easily, impressing audiences and the members of his improv group (Laff Riot) consistently. However, he hadn’t anticipated the raw anger emanating from the crowd. Their looks got under his skin, or rather his substitute skin, too easily. 

He could feel the biomesh with Charles’s visage plastered across it detaching quicker than it had been during his address. First with his nervous discharging of mucoid secretions and now as he quickened his pace to make it back to his office as soon as possible. He rubbed his face to hopefully support it a while longer. How could he have known he would be giving such an important speech so soon after taking the president’s place? Behind him he could hear Stefannie prattle on. 

“You should go back out there. Didn’t you read the memo Mr. Claverett had sent over? If you’d listened…” 

Her voice faded as Zhravelle pushed through the doors to the Oval Office, eyeing around the room for the bag he had entrusted to Varl. It had the tools he needed to maintain his disguise, but where was it? Perhaps Varl had moved it when they started filling up the tank? 

“Stefannie, please go out and find Mr. Varl for me and send him back here immediately,” Zhravelle ordered, and with one hand still covering his (Charles’s) face, he slammed the doors behind him. 

20 minutes later, Varl had not yet returned. “Ok,” Zhravelle thought to himself as the disguise slipped even more, “time to improvise.” He rooted around his top drawer searching for anything that would keep it on. 

Post-it notes? No, that wouldn’t do it. Liquid paper? Zhravelle was a noted fan of Mike Nesmeth and his mother, but this too would not suffice. Perhaps the large wad of dried gum cemented to the underside of the desk? Yes, this would work. 

He stuffed a large chunk of the old gum in his mouth and started chewing to re-moisten the substance. Surprisingly, after a few minutes, he began to enjoy it. Forgetting about his malfunctioning disguise completely, he scraped more of the crusty material off and shoved it in his mouth. 

The wintergreen notes of George H.W.’s favorite brand mixing with the decades old fake grape flavor of Hubba-Bubba… that one must have been placed there by Lyndon Johnson… they created a simply magical combination. 

He didn’t know how long he had spent sprawled out on the floor of the Oval Office, languishing in his gum induced nirvana, but when he finally came around, he realized he wasn’t alone. Varl was leaning against the doorway. 

Zhravelle quickly stood up. The disguise had completely slipped off his face at this point and was lying under the desk somewhere. He cleared his throat. 

“Varl! I was just…” 

Something was amiss. Varl was staring past him into nothingness. O Taking a few unsteady steps forward, he collapsed in a chair by the door and just sat there, smiling. 

“Varl…” Zhravelle realized what his condition was. “You’re hammered!” 

Varl giggled. 

“What have you been doing?! I need to fix my disguise, and you disappear for hours on end and then show up totally smashed!” 

“Well..” Varl slurred, “It’s a pretty great story.” 

There was a pause of exactly eight seconds. 

“…And?” Zhravelle replied. 

Varl blinked with what seemed to be a blank expression on his face. 

“Oh. Right. So. I was on my way over here, and I was looking down at my feet, right? Yeah. So. I saw a lovely cockroach headed into an alley. She reminded me so much of Melissa. Remember Melissa from Blorak? I miss her so much, man…” 

Varl trailed off. Zhravelle impatiently took the Hubba-bubba out of his mouth and chucked it at Varl. It hit Varl in the forehead and landed on his lap. 

“Hey, pay attention. I need to know what happened!” said the half-disguised alien disdainfully. 

Varl took the gum from his lap and popped it in his mouth. 

“Oh, thanks. So I followed the roach into the ally to admire its beauty. I was picking her up when I suddenly noticed two teenagers standing in the alley. ‘Are you picking up roaches, Mister?’ they asked me. ‘Of course. Why do you ask?’ I replied. One of the teens responded, 

‘I’ll give you twenty bucks if you lick it.’” 

Varl reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, snapping it tight between his left and right hands. 

“Varl no…” Zhravelle pleaded. 

“Varl yes!” Varl replied. 

“But how did this lead to you getting drunk?” 

“After they kindly gave me my Earth currency, they pointed to a jar on the ground of the alley. It seemed to be a large vessel of some kind of green-seeming liquid. ‘If you drink that jar over there,’ the teenager said, ‘I’ll double it.’” 

“Varl, please no!” Zhravelle yelled exasperatedly. 

Varl reached into his pocket again and withdrew a one dollar bill. 

“I drank the whole thing.” 

19

And in that strange, twilight funk, she discovered her purpose. Some are born to save the universe, others to have the universe roll over them and bury their faces in the mud. Hers was somewhere in the middle. She recalled a pinwheel she had owned as a child. She would be the wind that made it rotate. If only, she could raise her body from the oozy mire in which she lay. 

“No point in becoming the wind if I can’t get out of the mud!” she stated to the vastness about her. There was so much to do! There was too much to do! Was some of it possible? Was any of it possible? Questions from the dark pit. “These are doubts that come from perverse idleness and grievous distraction,” she rationalized. Was she perversely idle? Were there grievous distractions about? 

The stars above swam in the usual courses. The triune moons held their positions in the sky and she, where did she fit in all of this? 

How could she rise from the mud and become a wind that bathed the universe in joy? She supposed the first step should be planting her forearms as firmly as possible and levering herself upwards with her arm muscles. She knew she was capable of that! 

Her palms, supported by her wrists, fought for purchase in the algae-laden slime. She slipped once. Twice. A fourth time. Then she raised her shoulders and her knees raised her to a kneeling position. This was progress! 

By the luminosity of the triune moons and myriad stars, she looked askance at her attire. What had possessed her to don gauzy harem pants and a satin bustier? Especially since she wasn’t even a real genie! Oh, that was right, the speech! “I’m late!” she moaned despairingly. 

* * *

His authentic Oklahoma cowboy hat tilted askew, barely able to stay on top of his chubby, sweaty head, Bob Zandar stomped out of the Seven Eleven, arms full of Slim Jims and Cheetos. Mind racing, he pointed his mass towards the direction of his apartment building and began heading home. 

“How could she have let the president screw up that speech so badly?” he thought to himself. He could feel himself becoming angrier by the second. “What was she thinking!?” he screamed into the night air. 

Something had to be done. “Boy,” his father's voice echoed in his head. “Sometimes yung feller, ye just gotta strap on yer boots and break that Filly yer selv.” This undeserving woman who didn’t deserve to be chief of staff would be in big trouble after this blunder. She would regret not going on a date with him. 

His bulbous lips parted in a horrendous smile. Finding this new purpose inspired Zandar to pick up speed, at least as much as his pudgy legs would allow. “Gotta…” he said to himself between shallow breaths, “call the senator.” He was Senator Byrd’s best Intern, dammit! By the time he got home, he could feel his lungs fighting for air, but it would all be worth it. 

The lights in the entryway flickered as he opened the front door. Suddenly, a shadowy figure shot between his legs. Letting out a scream Bob jumped up in fright, dropping all his gas station loot. “DAMN CAT!” he yelled as he crashed down on the “Go Away” welcome mat. One of his authentic cowboy boots flew off and shattered the frame of a Will Rogers poster. 

He lay there in a daze, hating his cat, hating Stefeneee and hating those damn deerskin gloves. He did not see the Loonian assassin. In the plan to replace Senator Byrd, Bob Zandar was a loose end. 

* * *

Stefanie took a good look at herself in the mirror. She tried to look past the dark circles under her eyes- the hint of crow’s feet at the corners. She knew well before accepting the role as the President’s chief of staff that the job would be a stressful one- but she never thought it would be this gross. After spending what must have been an eternity washing off the foul smelling goop the “president” had drenched her with, she had sequestered herself in an unoccupied White House lavatory to give herself a moment to regroup. While the foreign substance had eventually washed away, she couldn’t help but worry about the long term effects of being exposed to alien substances. In a flash of stress-induced (goop induced?) anxiety, her mind was suddenly flooded with every sci-fi movie she had ever watched. Would she sprout tentacles? Turn green? Would her head swell up, eyes becoming huge and dark, turning her into some sort of…moon person? She may be the chief of staff to an alien president, but that didn’t mean she wanted to end up looking like E.T! 

She shook her head furiously, trying to force away the rising panic. She knew she was overreacting, but how was she supposed to calmly process that not only was her boss an alien, but that aliens actually existed?! Despite what internet conspiracy theorists thought, the existence of aliens was not a part of her new hire orientation. She looked back at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She noticed what looked like a bitch of a pimple forming on her chin. But she was Stefanie Feiice, White House Chief of Staff and ultimate workplace coordinator. If she couldn’t handle this, how could she ever prove her father’s innocence? She adjusted her blouse, turned sharply around, and walked towards the exit, heels clicking determinedly away. 

20

Strephpoo fondled her long, slender fingers absentmindedly while looking out the window of her cool beach house. Of course, she was just stroking cold metal. Underneath, her fingers were all cool roboticy n shit. Without taking the gloves off, Strephpoo remembered fondly how she lost them. 

It all started with a phone call on page 19. 

Attempting to fill the void of Varl or Jutte or Zhavette, she began to think of how she may want a companion who would not leave her and would protect her if another 9 or 10 year war began. Immediately, her thoughts strayed to the old lady she had met last Zorpday who looked mysterious and mysteriously knew all sorts of things about Strephpoo: things that hadn’t even happened yet. The old lady was hunched over, dressed head to toe in purple and donned a giant blue hat. She looked up at Strephpoo and grinned rogueishly, flicking a card up to Streph’s face. Strephpoo took it politely and shoved it into her bottomless pit of a purse. 

A few minutes later, she found the card next to an old shoelace that held the secrets of the universe. She dialed the 56-digit phone number and placed the fateful call. “Hairless. A protector. Big. Ferocious. Bulletproof.” 

The next week, a giant crate had arrived at her home. Before she could unseal the last lock on it, the enormous creature jumped out. It was an oval-shaped thing pointed on either end. It’s eyes glowed yellow -- obviously from being a vegetarian -- and looked completely flammable. Yes, this is it. Strephpoo said to herself happily. She reached her hands out to pet the creature, noticing the tag that said “do not pet” on the crate one second too late. CHOMP! Her fingers slid off her hands in painful glee. 

* * *

Jutt awoke with a start, one eye flying open to gaze wildly around the room. Satisfied that he was alone, his other eye slowly opened and he rolled onto his back. Staring at the ceiling, Jutt reflected on the events of the last few weeks. The nation had been rocked by that bizarre speech by the President. He’d met the girl of his dreams (again). And lost her (again). His career, once so promising, was circling the drain (again). 

He sat up, the silk sheet sliding over his chiseled abs and pooling in his lap. How did this keep happening to him? When he first joined NHTSA, it all seemed so easy. What was it...a week...a month into the job when he’d snooped his boss’s computer and uncovered the Albanian sex traffic ring. He remembered the look on Bleriana’s face, staring up at him from her perch on the bucket as he kicked in the door and delivered her from her imprisonment. Their love was fierce and pure, until that bastard LeBron stole her heart! That loss was the start of his downward spiral from FBI/NSA/NHTSA/IRS/FMSHRC Superagent to a mere Federal Marshal. At least he’d kept his pension. 

And now, Steff...Steph...Psteph…? (How was it that he’d never learned how to spell her name?) Just the thought of her led to a familiar tightness in his groin. Unbidden, his hand wandered towards his lap, like a cat stalking a bowl of milk. He felt himself jerk...as a knock sounded at the door. Fuck. A. Duck. 

Pulling on a housecoat, Jutt maneuvered around his dusty Okagami Runaround treadmill. (The OASIS just hadn’t been the same since Parzival took over.) He opened the door and found himself face to face with a robot...pimp? Before Jutt could process the metal flamboyance before him, he watched as the fuzzy purple hat (and the head that it sat on) disappeared in a snazzy puff of smoke. As the robot collapsed lifeless to the floor, a tall figure stepped forward from the shadows, holstering his weapon. 

“Former Superagent Strake, my name is Drukarn. I understand you have an interest in aliens. We have much to talk about. Does the name 'Varl' ring a bell…?” 

Their voices faded abruptly as the door closed behind them, leaving Zeeve-Oh’s smoking remains alone in the hall. 

21

The Loonian Empress made the decree, but it was Fogin’s job to carry it out. The High Lord of the CAAWS marched the halls of the central palace, determined to make a late appearance at his own meeting. He was of the Dafian Caste, time itself would wait for him if he wanted. His personal assistant read his approach from inside the office, drawing the paneled door aside just in time for his entrance. A line of masked warriors waited beyond. 

“The specialists you requested,” Fogin’s personal assistant replied. 

Fogin croaked a reply deep in his chest. The assistant left and he faced his guests with a stern expression. “You have been informed of my position. Acknowledge my authority.” 

“It is acknowledged.” The group said as one. 

“You are being hired for a discrete purpose,” Fogin said. “The humans’ ex-president is not what they assume him to be. Their inferior planet trusts us completely, but this...man… could be a problem. The Hegemony wants him taken out.” 

“What tools will be supplied for this task?” 

Fogin raised a segmented arm, triggering a false wall in the back of his office. Behind it, on slabs lay the finest Loonin tools in the craft of death: crystalline shape stealers, silenced projectile eruptors, blades of glinting sharpness, a stick with a ball on the end, and the latest in stealth assassination – steel-hard inflatable armor with automated ripcord-action. “These and more are at your disposal, as payment for this operation.” 

The assassins inspected their gifts, croaking softly in approval. “Leave it to us, High Lord.” 

Fogin’s throat expanded in pride. “Succeed and your entire clan will become Dafians when our domination of the Earth is complete.” 

The assassins filed in one line out of the office, leaving Fogin satisfied and victory assured. 

* * *

Shartrelle the Sargacian was a natural-born bureaucrat. When Shartrelle was a youngling still in the crèche, the primary caretaker assigned to it had often expressed exasperation at Shartrelle’s insistence on organizing its playblocks in alphabetical order – by spectrum frequency. “Why can’t you just call them colors like all the other younglings?” the caretaker would ask, practically in tears. 

Shartrelle licked its primary digit on its forepaw, turned over the form it had just finished stamping, and reached for the next acquisition request in the pile. It was from the Loonian People’s Liberation Front dba Sheinhardt Wig Company for…. 

“A time bomb?” Shartrelle expostulated, expelling a shocked bubble from its breathing organ. 

How could the LPLF dba SWC have the gall to ask for a time bomb? Those things were astronomically (pun intended) expensive since the parsec mines of Moria went on strike over unsafe working conditions due to an orc infestation. A parsec might as well be a light year at the rate of inflation the strike was causing. 

Shartrelle was disappointed to find the form was properly filled out, countersigned, and notarized. It sighed deeply through its third diaphragm and realized it would have no choice but to approve this request. 

Then, like finding a sock in a bedroom the size of Texas (a what in a where? Shartrelle puzzled to itself), Shartrelle saw salvation: in box 12(a)(℧), the crossbar on the t in Sheinhardt was at an angle of 89 degrees rather than the required 90-degree angle. 

Swelling with happiness, Shartrelle stamped DENIED with particular viciousness and threw the document in the rejected pile. It reached for the next request from an Agent Secundus, asking for a gun that made “the most annoying sound possible when fired.” Now that was a request Shartrelle could grant! 

* * *

The Loonian hurried down the sidewalk toward the Earth ground transport center called “Union Station.” Her first teleport for this mission had landed her in a “Union Station,” but it turned out that it was not the correct locale. 

She had boarded the train at the platform with the correct numeral, but soon found herself among vast fields of Earth plants that seemed to either be edible crops or, possibly, grass. 

The humans debarked at a remote spot containing moving metal structures on which they sat and howled primitively as the machines’ movement jostled them. “Such unsophisticated life forms,” she thought. 

One of the humans, a weathered old male, spoke to her. “Ma’am, would you like to try a sample of fried twinkie?” He handed her a tan food item. 

Three hours later, the Loonian had sampled an abundance of delectable Earth foods that she had never heard of in any of her briefings. Suddenly she realized that the ground transport vehicle that had brought her there was gone. She retrieved her communicator and informed the transport officer that he had sent her to the wrong “Union Station.” 

“But,” the officer protested, “I transported you five Earth hours ago. Where have you been? We expected your mission would be complete by now!” 

She teleported to the Loonian transport chamber as she continued consuming the Earth food. Once the transport process was complete, she walked over to the officer’s transport console and set a brown paper container next to him. 

“What is this? It’s delicious!” 

“The humans call them ‘fried cheese curds.’” 

“Well,” the officer said with a full mouth, “we will now have to time transport you five hours into the past to carry out your mission properly. But I guess your superiors do not need to know.” 

22

Senator Byrd stared out of the high speed train’s cabin window. Officially, it was his return trip visiting his children from a previous marriage, away from the glad-handing of Washington. Unofficially, it allowed for relationships with military contractors he couldn’t afford to have publicized by the hungry Beltway press. He had been expecting a knock but instead jumped at the realization the cabin door was already open. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” The honeyed Southern drawl emanated from an unusually tall brunette standing in the doorway. 

“You didn’t, Ms. Broughton,” the trembling Byrd lied, almost out of habit. “You know I’ve been eager for this demonstration. So is the president.” 

The gorgeous weapons engineer gave a knowing smile. “All in good time. I’d rather show each of you our breakthrough than explain it.” She pressed her thumb to a scanner on her briefcase, unlatching it. Inside, a crystal pulsated with a menacing glow. 

“Ss-some kind of power source?” Byrd stuttered dodderingly. 

“See for yourself.” 

He leaned in close to the crystal’s surface, recognizing it wasn’t as sleek as it initially appeared, but shimmered with thousands of minuscule pores, subtly expanding and contracting. “It looks almost organic,” Byrd marveled. Suddenly, with each pulse, its growth accelerated exponentially. Within mere seconds, it grew large enough to fully envelop the unprepared politician. Struggling helplessly inside, he could feel the monstrous crystal forcing itself into every pore and orifice. The pain of his body gradually dissolving made Byrd fade in and out of consciousness, but in his last lucid moment he couldn’t help but appreciate the tanned silver fox that stood in front of him: a near-perfect duplicate of himself, more handsome and impeccably attired than the real thing. The double pulled out a communicator: “We’re in position, High Lord.” 

* * *

Fogin disconnected his communication device and smiled. With the assassins in place and Byrd out of the way, he was ready to go forth with his plan. 

“Only one thing left,” he said, turning away from the window showing the reddish-purple skies of his home planet. 

His chamber was large and round with glowing black walls. In the center, a large aquarium filled with water occupied half the room. Inside it, his secret weapon moved through the water with ease, graceful like the small ditericturous his mother had bought him when he was a child. 

My first pet, he thought. It was as loving as it was delicious. 

Unlike the ditericturous, the earth sea lion was much larger with just four flippers and many fewer whiskers, Fogin marveled at its beauty. With great ease, his people had converted the animal into a bomb, unlike any other bomb the galaxy has ever seen. 

“Time itself would certainly wait for me,” he sneered through pointed teeth. 

He stood on the ladder, reaching down into the tank. The large gray pinniped moved toward Fogin. He reached his hand into the water and ran it along the bomb’s large grey outer shell. 

“This will assure our victory!” 

The bomb opened its wide mouth, spitting water at Fogin before letting out a loud, obnoxious bark. Fogin forced a smile. He leaned back and shook the water from his face. “I bet you’d taste great with just a tiny a dollop of mitcom sauce” 

“Sir?” a female voice said from the door. 

Fogin wiped himself down and exited the ladder. Peeking through his door, Taylor Kiani, his number one assassin stood, hunched over, fists clenched at her sides. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” Fogin asked. 

“Sir, we have a problem,” Taylor said. 

* * *

Scene: A cabin in the Sierra Nevadas, sometime in Earth year 30X6. 

The ex-president looked up at the visitor, putting down his axe from chopping logs at his cabin in the mountains. "Beautiful day", he greeted the visitor. 

"Commander Zhravelle -- I have come to you with new orders from the High Council." 

"Zhravelle," he said, "that's a name I haven't heard in a long time." 

"New orders from the High Council, sir", said the interloper. "The Zarbraxians are setting us up a time bomb that threatens to undo all continuity in the cross-heliod timestream matrix?" 

The grizzled ex-president furrowed his brow in a now well-practiced maneuver. But that would mean that everything he had build here over the past X0 years would come to naught. He thought about his beautiful wife and children, about winning the Nobel War Prize. 

Then it hit him. 

Hadn't he sold this cabin 20 years ago? And what about his beautiful wife? None of this was real. There was no continuity. 

Zharavelle has come unstuck in time. 

* * *

Fogin panicked. He'd never considered the consequences of disguising the bomb as an organic, sentient creature, and had allowed it to roam freely about his home. Evidently it had found an escape, and there was no time to waste in hunting it down. He stepped out onto the balcony of the beachfront property he'd been holed up in, and took a deep breath. 

"Shit," he realized. "I've made a grave mistake." 

* * *

The sea lion had always felt something was amiss. He couldn't remember beyond a few days ago, and had no memories of life outside the walls he'd been confined to. Yet, deep down inside, there was something - no, somewhere - calling to him, and he would do whatever it took to find it. 

"It's just a bit further now. I can feel it… I 

I can sense it - wait, what's that!" He felt his sea lion mouth break into a huge grin. He saw it. His destiny. His birthright. 

"The sea! THE SEA!" he honked in delight as he wriggled faster down the boardwalk and made his way to a group of sea lions basking in the sun. 

Then, he saw her - the most majestic lioness of them all - and it was love at first sight. He knew he'd found what, where, and who he'd been missing. 

"Let's take this somewhere a little more private, shall we?" she barked as she smiled a sexy smile his way, as he clapped excitedly. 

* * *

"Whew. What a relief!" Fogin sighed, and the panic flushed from his system. He had awkwardly recovered the sea lion mating a few blocks away. Not even a full two years later, that very sea lion bomb's offspring would turn the tide of the great "Man Versus Beast Wars." But for now, he was back in captivity. 

23

Jutt Strake looked around. He felt himself shiver as he was starting to comprehend the fullness of the situation. 

“Get down, blast it!” screamed Charles. Jutt quickly lowered his head as shots ricocheted off the plas-metal wall behind him. 

In all his days as an IRS agent, he’d never encountered one like this. 

“Focus, Jutt, focus!” Jutt thought to himself. 

Jutt squinted to see through the smoke and dust. Typically IRS audits were less violent. He could just barely make out bodies across the warehouse. Charles, crouching on his left side, was sweating profusely. 

“Jutt, I told you not to go in without proper backup!” 

“I didn’t,” Jutt quipped. “Why do you think I brought you?” He felt himself winking at Charles. 

“I’m not the one who asked you to raid the warehouse.” 

“True, but you were the one who requested the audit of a notorious drug lord.” 

Several rounds of bullets continued to soar over their heads. 

Jutt looked around the room. Three gunmen on the catwalk and one behind an oil drum were visible now. But were there more? 

He motioned to Charles. “When I give the signal, you make a break for the door. I’ll cover you.” 

Charles was too scared to object. For 18 seconds, Jutt squatted motionlessly then touched his forehead, stood and began to rain fire towards the catwalk. Charles scampered out the door. 

“Thank goodness, he’s out. Now what am I going to do?” thought Jutt. 

It was in a time like this, that Jutt wished he were able to morph into a white worm and silently slither away. 

With a silent gasp, Jutt suspended sleep with a sudden start. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. It was time for this former FBI/NSA/NHTSA/IRS/FMSHRC super agent to get to work. 

* * *

Stephanie swirled her bourbon, ice clinking gently, and sighed. She leaned over the balcony rail, hair blowing free in the fickle breeze. Gray clouds scudded overhead, the moon playing hide and seek behind them. She had taken this job, and what a job! To honor her beloved Papa. 

Now she was conflicted. The President is an alien!?! From outer space!?! He has fins!?! Flippers!?! Somehow, none of that mattered because all Stephanie was thinking about were his eyes. So deep and gelid. So mysterious and yet so open. So full of warmth and humor one moment and suddenly icy and forbidding. Such was the depth of the mysterious alien President she had come to serve, and perhaps… “No!” 

She thought guiltily of Jutt, her lover and sometime boyfriend whom she felt was close-enough-for-government-work, relationship-wise. She’d decided to say yes, if he’d ever just fucking ask. What’s a professional wonk-girl to do? 

She stared at her phone, Jutt’s digits silently mocking her from in her contact list… “Dammit! Why is this SO HARD? What am I doing? Jutt’s good to me, why do I feel so lonely? Why do I get a shiver when he walks by? Am I falling for him? No way! he’s not even human! How would that work?” She knocked back the rest of the brown ambrosia and decided to sleep on it. Nothing was going to resolve itself tonight. 

“Tomorrow is another day.” she thought as she absently crunched ice with her perfect white incisors. “Get a grip, girl! You’ve got a good man. He’s rugged, dependable and quite proficient in all forms of sexual pleasure.” 

Still… her thoughts, they kept coming back to the President’s eyes like a gang of rude hooligans rushing their favorite pub after a game. 

* * *

“I don’t know what his problem is,” Varl thought as Zhravelle continued to look at him with obvious irritation. Varl had gotten drunk on better planets than this certainly. Beebleck was home to some of the finest libations in the galaxy. Even the Cardraxians could boast of the potency and tastiness of their Drixlarus potions. There was also the week he had spent consuming all of the Kullnek juice he could get ahold of on Arfloop. He remembered very little about that week but he was pretty sure it had been a good time. 

It really wasn’t his fault that he was in this state anyway. He had only intended to slip out for a quick refreshment. How was he to know the Earth people would be so enthusiastic about buying drinks for what they believed to be a well-known sportsman? Varl wondered what other forms he might be able to take that would allow him to attain free goods and services from such obviously gullible beings. He had to give it to the humans though, they definitely had an affinity for intoxicating substances. The extent and variety of the various inebriants they had concocted was as impressive as any he had seen in his travels. 

“Varl! Pull yourself together and help me,” the disheveled Zhravelle shouted as he continued to root around the room. 

“Of course,” Varl slurred. “I’m just going to… uh… check outside to make sure everything’s secure.” With that Varl lifted himself from the chair and quickly made his exit. He proceeded to regurgitate the free drinks that he had spent the last few hours consuming all over the Rose Garden. Feeling much better, Varl headed back inside. He didn’t even notice the strange shape approaching the White House in the night sky. 

* * *

Keeping up the masquerade as Senator Byrd proved to be difficult. One would expect being a player in the black-market arms trade would be harder, but American politics was another beast altogether for the shapeshifter. The senator’s phone rang off the hook with messages from aggressive lobbyists, foreign dignitaries requesting an audience and a slew of mistresses. The shapeshifter realized they would rather be caught in the intergalactic fallout from a Q36 space modulator than have to deal with all this. 

For now, though, they had to keep up the charade until further instructions from Fogin. That meant keeping up the good senator’s schedule and ensuring that no one would be none the wiser as to Senator Byrd’s replacement by an extraterrestrial double. 

It was all they could do to resist the urge to prematurely set off the semi-sentient time bomb that they held amongst their belongings. Especially now, sitting through this interminably long meeting on Capital Hill. 

The large hall was full of largely middle-aged former lawyers who wouldn’t look out of place among Fogin’s band of shapeshifting assassins. This meeting of the joint subcommittee of the work group of fiscal responsibility and redundancy reduction had been going on for 2 hours now, but to this assassin it seemed like a lunar lifetime. 

Back home, things were far simpler. Before they had a system not dissimilar to that on Earth, except with representatives for each subdivision in pods floating around the supreme chancellor. Thankfully, they dispensed with such a byzantine system. After flirting with the creation of a grand emperor, they now settled most political disputes with a laser deathmatch in a forcedome. The shapeshifter was intrigued by this odd Earth political system, and wondered how this culture’s supreme leader ruled from that structure known as the Oval Office. 

24

Zhravelle paced back and forth across the Oval Office carpet. He was getting used to the crude motor functions of the human he had PersonBecomed. 

“I’m not sure, Stefanie,” he said. “But it looks like you and I are on our own.” 

Stefanie, hot, pursed her lips. “Is there no one who can help?” 

Zhravelle rifled through the memories of the man these Earthlings called leader. After thirty-five seconds of silence, he cried out gutturally, “There may be!” 

“Who, sir?” 

“A man I worked with years ago, in the Treasury Department. IRS. He had worked in a virtual alphabet soup of top secret government agencies, but I knew him as the man who almost took down Sonny Hokori.” 

“Sonny Hokori?” Stefanie gasped throatily. “The Sonny Hokori?” 

“Yes,” the president/Zhravelle confirmed. “You’ve seen the movie The Untouchables, directed by the classic 80’s filmmaker Brian DePalma?” 

“Of course,” Stefanie said. “I could practically recite it line by line!” 

Zhravelle nodded. “Good. So it was just like that, you know, with how this man was going to nail Sonny Hokori on tax evasion charges.” 

“Got it.” 

“Well, this was a man who had truly seen it all; tough as nails. He was relentless in his pursuit. And then, after a long arduous effort to build up a case against the crime lord, Hokori was quietly killed and never actually appeared in court.” 

Stefanie looked puzzled? “Anticlimactic.” 

“And scandalous! The man was demoted to some lowly job beneath his stature.” 

“Where is he now?” 

Zhravelle’s first MindSight had nearly exhausted him, but he healed quickly and ran another ‘Member-Looking. 

He shook his head. “I don’t know.” 

“What was his name?” 

“It was Ju—” Zhravelle choked on the name as he pointed out the window. “Look in the sky, Stefanie!” 

Stefanie gasped. “No!” 

Looking up at the sky, Zhravelle and Steffan-E exclaimed, “It’s a bird! It’s a kite! No, it’s a giant bird kite!” 

Indeed it was. Closer and closer it approached until it crashed into the White House lawn. Hanging off of the kite was a tall, burly man in a suit and tie. Disengaging himself from the kite, he quickly climbed into the oval office through an open window. 

“Jutt Strake!” Zhravelle exclaimed. “I was just talking about you! Why are you here? And what’s with the bird kite, man?” 

“Mr. President,” Jutt gasped. “I had your office tapped. Official business. As soon as I heard your conversation, I knew I had to see you. I wanted to get here as soon as I could, and I figured this was the fastest way. There is something amiss with your head secret service agent, and I aim to get to the bottom of it!” 

“My head of secret service?” said Zhravelle warily. “What is it?” 

“It’s an organization that protects you, but that’s not important right now.” 

“I see. Jutt, I want to introduce you to my Chief of Staff, Miss Stef - ” 

“Yes, we’ve met…in the past,” Steffan-E interjected. “He’s a loose cannon who doesn’t play by the rules.” 

“Yes, you’re right. Hence the bird kite,” said Jutt, staring into her eyes. “And you’re still as lovely as ever…But we have pressing business.” Turning to Zhravelle he said, “I have suspicions about your bodyguard, Mr. Varl. And I heard rumors of a new kind of bomb.” 

“A bo – !” gasped Steffan-E. 

“No, not a bah, a bomb,” said Jutt. “This bomb slows down time and gives off the scent of pine.” 

“That’s crazy talk,” stated the President. 

“Crazy or not, we can handle the truth.” 

“YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE – oh…” 

25

During his long years as a government employee, Jutt Strake had seen it all. He’d worked for the FBI, the NSA and the IRS, interned for the NHTSA, and even been the second assistant director of the FMSHRC. He’d had a Seven Star security clearance, higher than many of the most senior Pentagon officials. Nothing had been hidden from him: Roswell, Area 51, Area 52, the grays, the reptilians, Majestic 12 – he’d uncovered all the truths, and even had the alien corpses unsealed from the most deep governmental cryogenic facilities. That had been the final straw, and all had come collapsing down on him. 

What was past was past, and Jutt could not just waste his time dwelling on it. He was a lowly Federal Marshal now, but he had a mission and a destiny. There was only one tiny little problem in his way: the White House security. 

”Halt,” the chrome-skinned Security Android said. ”You cannot pass this checkpoint without Six Star security clearance and/or presidential permission.” 

”I am a Federal Marshall on a mission. My oath to faithfully execute my duties is all the authorization I need,” Jutt replied with a stern look. 

”This does not compute. Show me your security pass. Now,” said the android disdainfully. 

Jutt drew his handblaster and squeezed the trigger. A bolt of pure energy blew a hole in the robot’s chrome chestplate, with thousands of sparks flying everywhere. Cogs and circuit boards clattered to the floor as the android collapsed into a crumpled heap. 

”My security clearance begins at the barrel of my blaster,” Jutt said as he stepped over the destroyed robot. He kicked the server room door in and approached the nearest computer terminal. He typed in the word ”Varl.” 

”My God. Turns out I have not seen it all.” 

The folder containing Varl’s data was labeled with two words: “Varl (Queeblark)”. Jutt opened the folder and launched the executable profile within. 

Shocked, he whispered, “It just can’t be.” 

Displayed were dozens of depictions of Varl in different forms, all with long lists of crimes attached to each unique picture. Jutt examined the portraits in dismay as he realized that Varl had been some of the most notorious space outlaws in recent memory. Varl had also been a space-cat, a toddler, and once even a delicious ham - but these other pictures were of notoriously dangerous criminals. Oddly, Varl’s most recent form resembled the Detroit Pistons’ power forward, Blake Griffin. 

Worse yet, Varl had already infiltrated the government. 

“He’s a damned queeblark from the planet Beebleck!” Jutt blurted, “That species is outlawed in most of the universe!” 

Jutt felt a pang of anxiety race through him. As a boy, Jutt had thought it would have been fun to be capable of shapeshifting. Many of his schoolyard romps with friends involved pretending to be some amorphous blob which could take on any form, which had allowed Jutt to change any narrative of any playground story at any time. Naturally, this caused great frustration for his friends, but it had also triggered deep concern with his parents when Jutt’s fantasies followed him into high school. 

Jutt calmed himself and shook his head abruptly, “No. It’s different now. I’m better.” 

He ran his fingers through his hair and pondered the next move. He then pulled a thumb drive from his pocket and transferred Varl’s profile data onto the device. Satisfied, Jutt navigated up to the main drive on the server. 

That was when he tumbled to a folder named “Space Force One - TOP SECRET SCHEMATICS”. 

“This keeps getting better and better.” Jutt wryly chuckled. 

Jutt skimmed through the files, which included secret schematic information going all the way back to the first secret presidential space travel by Jason Davidson. "Old hat." Skip skip skip. The secret blueprints for the old Douglas DC-8 spaceplanes. "Tell me something I don't know!" Skip skip skip. Secret notes about President Charles's demands for production costs of the new Space Force One to be cut by hundreds of millions of dollars. "We all read Twitter!" Why couldn't these things ever be sorted for the convenience of the superagents breaking into them? Who else was ever going to look? 

But wait... if everyone already knew of the president's demands, why would it be part of a secret classified file? Taking a closer look, Jutt saw it wasn't just about the president's demands, but the secret design changes that were implemented under the guise of necessary cost-cutting. 

Jutt wasn't sure all of these scalebacks were wise. Replacing a layer of aluminum with plastic wasn't something he would have done, but he was no secret material engineer, and surely the team at Thermos Aerospace knew what they were doing. Also, maybe that's why it was such a good idea to have a Vice-President. But the changes didn't stop there. 

"Oh," he said, "my god!" 

Jutt couldn’t believe what he’d discovered about Space Force One. 

The fools! Didn’t they see it? The entire ship was run using nitrogen fuel tanks. This was a disaster. What would happen if Varl infiltrated SFO’s fuel supply? 

Jutt knew the answer. 

The president would be dead. Donzo. And the aliens who sent Varl on his mission would win. 

Jutt refused to accept this outcome. He would die for his president, even if that meant taking drastic measures. 

He was, after all, an American. And an FBI/NSA/NHTSA/IRS/FMSHRC superagent. Or had been, rather. 

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. No, his demotion to Federal Marshall had only renewed his passion for God and His Country. 

Years ago, Jutt had discovered the truth behind alien conspiracies. Ever since Roswell, the US government had been performing top secret research on alien life using both live specimens and crashed spacecraft. Not even the infamous Area 51 Raid of 2019 had halted their research. 

Jutt had tried to tell everyone. He’d tried to go public with this information for the good of the people. But no. Instead, he was discredited by his peers and demoted so he couldn’t do any harm. The official reason they gave him was that his information was “a threat to national security.” Bullshit, it was. If more people knew about aliens, more could be done to fight this threat hanging over all their heads. Their real reason was because aliens had infiltrated the government. Aliens just like that damned Varl character. In reality, the government was just trying to keep their enemies closer. 

From that day forward, Jutt vowed to hunt down every Goddamn alien in the government, even if it was the last thing he did. 

Jutt shook his head. Just one more alien to add to the list, but the only way he was going to protect the President was to get someone else to believe him. That had been his downfall last time. He had tried to go it alone, but had quickly learned one man is just too easy to silence. As much as he didn’t want to involve her, Stefphonee was his only chance. Her work with the president brought her in contact with that monster daily and as much as he may not want to admit it, Jutt wanted her to be safe too. 

He had only just skimmed the surface of what was buried in this computer, he was sure of it. He had to go deeper and get every last piece of evidence he could. Not only had aliens invaded the White House, but they had also compromised Stefphonee’s design of Space Force One. He was certain she would not let that stand. He had to find everything he could. Jutt looked at his watch. Shit! He had less than an hour if he was going to get to Stefphonee in time for all this to make any difference. 

He had to get this thumb drive into Stefphonee’s hands. Those hands he had admired so with their long slender fingers. They were his favorite feature of hers. He’d loved watching her play the piano. Her lithe fingers picking out Für Elise on the baby grand his grandmother had bought him before her death. 

“Dammit, Jutt! Focus,” he thought as he turned his eyes back to the keyboard. Now was not the time to get hung up on a romance long dead. Now was the time to save America and possibly, the world. 

26

“It’s so spacious Mr. President” Stefanny cooed behind Zhravelle. Leading her through the chrome interior of Space Force One, his grasp tightened over her metal hand, savoring her short, stubby fingers. Sure, there had been five long, slender extremities before, now replaced with three metal digits, but they were surprisingly more efficient. Stefanny processed plas-notes faster than ever, and he wanted to show off her hard work – Space Force One. 

His thoughts drifted to the mongoose attack. How could anyone really know that plas-notes used the same scent markings as the mongoose of Earth; inadvertently triggering all mongoose in a 25-mile radius to become rabid, rodents of revenge? 

The sounds would haunt him forever, the gnawing of tiny sharp teeth through plas-note-scented deerskin gloves. Gnah gnah gnah gnah! Running his hands through his hair, he swept away those thoughts. More pleasant sounds drifted through Space Force One. “It has a built-in sound system too, called SFOS,” he informed Stefanny. 

F-f-fuck. Clearly this intelligent woman with the prowess to manage building Space Force One could clearly hear music playing and not need mansplaining about a built-in sound system! 

“Oh, you’re right,” doe-eyed Stefanny said. “It’s playing our song, from when we first met.” 

Neither were quite certain if they should ask the other to dance. Zhravelle raised a suggestive eyebrow. Blushing, Stefanny looked down at her hands, awkward silence filling the space. 

Stefanny desperately wanted to escape the pressures outside of Space Force One. The plas-notes piling up, going from ten fingers to six, her life was changing a plas-mile a plas-minute. Even with the dulcet tones of Sir Mix-a-Lot, while calming her weary nerves, reality crept in. 

“Sir, the impending impeachment trials!” she cried pulling away. “We have to prepare,” she said, quickly exiting Space Force One. 

F-f-fuck. 

* * *

As Stephanie boarded Space Force One, she thought she heard someone groaning and realized it was herself; again she rued the day she chose the Ludwigian aliens for the bridge’s construction. The Ludwigians, a centipedal race of spaceshipiers, used a base-88 number system and had little imagination. As a result, all the duty stations resembled pianos. The bridge looked like a shopping mall music store after a botched keyboard shipment. 

A dozen mismatched piano and organ styles were scattered about the bridge, from a Hammond C3-Leslie combination at the sonic weapons/gunnery station to Tom Hanks’s’s floor-piano from “Big” at the choreographer’s station. It was ludicrous. A miniature LED armonica was mounted on the wall to operate the seven bathroom plas-doors, and the autopilot was an old-timey player piano, complete with a glass bowl containing a handful of quarters and a cooler for knickknacks and tarps beside it. 

ZOT! YOU FORGOT TO BRING QUARTERS. AGAIN! 

But the constant need for quarters wasn’t the worst aspect of this design fiasco. Everything worked perfectly, but it was difficult to find adequately skilled crewcreatures; which really took the flame out of her fuzzies. Not only did they have to be pilots, navigators, podiatrists, etc.; they also had to be musicians. 

And when you put the cock-sure confidence of a Space Pilot with the neurotic entitlement of a musician, you found yourself with a bridge full of narcissistic pricks—and lived in constant fear of someone finding a brown M&M aboard. 

She tried to be positive: At least they didn’t have to pay for a soundtrack. But the bridge’s cacophony was usually the aural equivalent of Jackson Pollock’s vomit and everyone wore wear earplugs, meaning they had to communicate with scribbled notes carried by interns. 

She sighed and cursed an ironic, “Long leave the King!!!!” 

* * *

Zharvelle let out a 10 second long sigh. “Wha-w-w-what w-would I d-d-do without y-you, S-S-Stephaney?” he mentioned, exiting Space Force One through the long, chrome corridor. Hand in hand they walked. It occurred to Zharvelle that he may consider upgrading his haptic gloves to deerskin. They’re so much softer than the plas-vinyl his rig was currently fitted with. 

They continued to walk for 3 minutes until they reached the armored air-van waiting for them. Once inside, Zharvelle asked Stephaney, “How sh-shall we prepare f-for the t-t-tr-tri-trial?” 

“Lebron asked you to watch and memorize the classic 80s courtroom procedural, Night Court.” 

“W-wouldn’t m-m-memorizing an entire tv s-s-s-series take an imp-p-po-ossibly long t-time? W-we only have a s-s-o much t-ti-time in a d-d-d-d-ay.” 

Her look cut through him like Cutco kitchen shears through a penny. 45 seconds passed. “All right,” he said eventually, “What else do I need to do to prepare?” 

Stephaney pulled out her iPhone. She replied, “His email mostly just has suggestions related to Night Court. Be charming like Dan Fielding; have good humor like Harry Stone; don’t be a pushover like Roz Russel. The list goes on, but I think it mostly boils down to Be Confident.” 

“Th-thank you S-S-Stephaney,” Zharvelle acknowledged. “Maybe w-w-we should g-g-get something to eeee-eat. Seafood, maybe?” he said with a grin that went from ear to ear. Stephaney recoiled in disgust. “Okay,” she said, “As long as you don’t smile like that again.” Zharvelle’s enormous grin retreated to a charming size. 

I’d better recalibrate this thing, he thought to himself. The air-van scooted along back to the White House for a meeting with Mr. James while the two inside discussed the upcoming impeachment trial for exactly 32 minutes. 

The motorcade moved swiftly down Pennsylvania avenue and turned toward the White House. The gate guard deftly opened the barricade as the vehicles approached, then stared after them as they receded in the distance.

Zharvelle and Stephanie exited the vehicles, the heavy armored door swinging shut with a loud bang behind them.

“Well, I really should get back to the Oval Office now,” Zharvelle said. Stephanie brightened, and eagerly accented to joining him. Great, he thought. Now how am I supposed to search the office?? 

They reached the Oval Office and stepped inside. Looking around, he saw that the room had a definite ovular shape.

Striding across the room, Zharvelle sat down behind the Resolute Desk. The Resolute desk is a nineteenth-century partners' desk used by several presidents of the United States in the White House Oval Office as the Oval Office desk. It was a gift from Queen Victoria to President Rutherford B. Hayes in 1880 and was built from the English oak timbers of the British Arctic exploration ship HMS Resolute.

I wish I could have Stephanie explore the Arctic about now, Zharvelle thought darkly. He stared at her for several long minutes. Why is she still here? he worried to himself.

Stephanie stood in the center the Oval Office – at the very point where the major and minor axes of the room intersected. She stared at the President, wondering why he was so silent. She couldn't imagine the pressures of leadership that weighed on his shoulders. The concerns which must keep him up at all hours of the night. She wanted to say something – anything – which would help. Her mind raced, the options flooding her brain, even as the minutes ticked by and she began to sweat profusely from the nerves.

“We’ve got to find something that can give us an edge,” Steffaney said, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Is there something in your files in the Oval Office that can help?” 

“Of course there are,” Zhravelle guessed. Most of President Chuck’s memories of the Oval Office were hazy, but surely he did some work in there at some point. 

Steffaney breezed pass the security at the White House rear entrance, with Zhravelle in tow. 

“Hold on, I’ll be back in just a second,” Steffaney said, as she entered a side room. 

Ah yes, Zhravelle noticed that humans often had to use specialized rooms to rest. Naturally, his alien stamina meant that he only had to rest once every forty cycles—less often if his rejuvenation tank had been serviced recently. President Chuck’s memories contained several instances where he would sit or stand in these rooms; Zhravelle supposed that these periods of inactivity restored a human’s energy store. He wasn’t quite sure why they had to do that in special rooms, though. 

Steffaney exied the restroom where Zhravelle was in the exact same position that she had left him in. 

“Don’t you ever have to go?” she asked. 

Zhravelle chuckled, “Of course, I’m always going! I really only stop going once every forty…uh…hours.” 

Steffaney’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Ehhh…let’s just get to the Oval Office. And walk a little further apart from each other; we don’t want to seem suspicious.” 

“After you,” Zhravelle said. 

Steffaney furrowed her brow in discomfort. 

“Would you mind stepping out for a bit?” Zhravelle said at last. 

Stephanie looked at him, puzzled by his demeanor and unsure how to respond. 

“I just need some time to think. Nothing to worry about.” He forced a smile, which did little to soothe her anxiety. She nodded slowly, a troubled look in her eyes, then turned and left the room, deeply concerned for the leader she had sworn to serve. 

Zhravelle waited for a few moments after the door closed, doing his best to seem like a composed-but-secretly-troubled head-of-state. Then, once he was convinced she was safely out of earshot, he raced over to the nearby wall, ripping down the first painting he saw and desperately searching behind it, tossing the displaced portrait to the ground in the process. Finding only wallpaper and dust behind it, he moved to the next, repeating the process and frantically muttering to himself. 

“Come on, come on, there has to be something here!” 

With the portraits removed, and no secrets to be found behind them, he began pulling the books off the nearby shelf, tossing them haphazardly about. When the shelf was empty as well, he threw up his hands in frustration, angrily kicking the briefcase by his feet and stubbing his toe against its surprisingly heavy surface. 

“The most powerful person on the planet and he doesn't have a single doomsday device! I hate this place!” 

Had Zhravelle actually been the duly-elected President, he'd most likely have recognized the offending luggage as the “nuclear football”, providing him full control over several thousand such devices. But this fact escaped the desperate Cardraxian, who was forced to face the danger with his wits alone. 

“Alright, then,” he thought to himself. “So what's going to happen to me?” 

Then he paused. Zhravelle took a deep breath and remembered. All his life he’d heard about Loonian Time Bombs, but nothing could have prepared him for the actual experience. 

Standing alone in the Oval Office, he remembered. Again. 

The day the Loonian Empress dumped him, she’d inadvertently revealed that she intended to overthrow the Galactic High Council! He knew he had to stop her from leaving her mostly transparent plastisteel apartment! 

And then it happened. With an insouciant grin and flick of her elegant, long-fingered hand, she threw down…a Time Bomb. Everything slowed to a crawl. He felt his eyes start to widen in horror as the Empress, smirking, dashed through the room and retrieved her evil plans from her spice cabinet, and then blew him a kiss as she ran out the door, leaving him alone, trapped in amber. 

He had a vision. In his mind’s eye (not one of his actual eyes that lived in his skull), he sees himself, a tiny figure, tattered and torn, moving across a barren landscape, heading towards a huge mountain crowned in clouds. This, he knew, was where Grask, the Loonian deity, hung out. 

A giant voice rings out: “Approach!” Grask thunders. 

He sees himself, again, trudging up the mountain, carrying on, ever upward despite the odds. He faces the clouds, terrified but determined to receive the truth. A long moment passes. 

“Be sure,” Grask intones, “to drink more Galdum.” 

Finally, crushingly, the truth came to him. This Time Bomb had contained the most deadly weapon known in the galaxy: 

A crummy commercial! 

And with that, he stopped remembering, shook free of the vision, was transported (mentally, he hadn’t actually moved from where he’d been standing this whole time) back to the Oval Office and the crisis facing him. Where was Stefffanie? 

27

Jutt chewed ponderfully on the USB drive, turning it over, then back over again until his teeth found the right spot to sink harmlessly into, lulling Jutt into a ponderous state. 

“Nitrogen”, Jutt thought outloud ponderously. Atomic number 7 (for 7th commonest element on periodic table). “Atomic symbol N (for Daniels, the scientist who discovered the molecule). Greek for “No Life” (it was poisonous).” 

Aliens, as you know, have Nitrogen. It’s everywhere. Why smuggle Nitrogen? 

Jutt’s idea formed in a flash of light. Nitrogen was more than fertilizer. His fingers entered strokes of keys that allowed him to bypass another layer of security that the government got from the lowest bidder. Keys skillfully entered his commands into the unwilling server, coaxing it into submission until the desired words “IRS: ACCESS GRANTED” reflected off Jutt’s sweating brow. He was in-- deeper! 

Space Force One’s IRS filings! Every expense properly filed, as if they wanted him to easily find the exact information he dreaded he’d find, which he did: Nitrogen line-item’d as “Fuel”, not “Energy”. 

He felt Jutt’s face blush completely pale. SFO wasn’t powered by Nitrogen. Nitrogen was used as fuel itself! To fuel the movement of the spaceship in space! 

If Field Marshall Jutt knew anything about aliens, as you know he does, or else he wouldn’t be Field Marshall. 

Downed UFO (unidentified flying objects) flashed between his eyes, his brain regurgitating the disparate memories so they could congeal into a cud, now ready to chew. 

Space Force One was built off alien designs— from crashed ships, not ones flying away! 

Jutt spoke quietly to himself with a staged whisper, “They took alien ships to learn their technology, but never took the lessons those ships would teach them! Everyone on that ship is in mortal danger”!!! 

Jutt had to act fast or everyone in mortal danger on that ship would die! 

28

Zhravelle had his feet on his desk and was reading a book: “You Are a Lizard Person!! (And So is Everyone, Probably).” He was amazed at the prescience of this comedian-turned-conspiracy-theorist. Stefanie barged in. If the President was caught reading a book about lizard people it might compromise his identity. Zhravelle tried to prevent suspicion by chucking the book across the room before his chief of staff could see it, but that just made him look more suspicious. 

Stefanie gave a look that could only be described as aggravated, okay maybe “befuddled” but “aggravated” works better. “Sir,” she uttered, aggravated, “The House is preparing for your impeachment.” 

Zhravelle tried to guess from context what “impeachment” meant but instead just asked, “Why?” 

“Your State of the Union was so terrible that some constitutional experts are considering it a High Crime. The House will impeach soon and, if nothing changes, the Senate will vote you out of office by the end of the month.” 

Zhravelle slammed his fist down on his desk 一 hard. I mean, kinda hard. If he was hitting a person it wouldn’t break bone or anything, but it would leave a bruise that wouldn’t go away for like, two weeks. 

“You’re clearly broken up about this,” Stefanie said, “So I’ll just leave you alone and give you our battle plan later.” 

Once she was out of sight, Zhravelle cradled his head in his arms. He was still only 70% sure as to what “impeachment” meant but he was angry anyway. He tried to kick his chair. If he had succeeded it would have flown across the room in a dramatic fashion, but instead he jammed his toe on his desk so he looked silly. Hopping on one leg, injured foot in his hands, he tumbled to the door. 

One eye blinked, then the other. 

Zhravelle blinked again. 

His life was growing stranger and stranger by the day and it was getting to a point where he didn't know what to make of it. 

Words formed on his lips, eeking out into the air as nothing more than a whisper. 

"Hellfire and cuttlefish..." 

A distant memory of times past, a phrase that used to give him strength. 

"HELLFIRE AND CUTTLEFISH!" 

It echoed in his mind, bouncing around the walls of his cavernous metallic skull. 

Whose words were this? What power could be derived from such a phrase in such a time? 

Zhravelle's gaze fell to the floor, befuddled. 

Was this the ghosts of his past coming to haunt him? This is the last thing he needed. Not with his neck on the line like it was. 

One eye darted to the left as the other squinted inward to the memory that was fading farther and farther back into the recesses of his mind. 

Maybe he could ask someone...Stefanie? 

No. 

Varl? Maybe. 

He blew a nitrogen-based spit bubble as he thought. 

"Hellfire…" 

The word escaped again as the bubble popped, raining flecks of saliva on his lips and onto the ground. 

"Cuttlefish?" 

Suddenly a light flipped on behind his dull eyes. 

"Hellfire and cuttlefish!" He shouted triumphantly to no one in particular. 

It was that blasted television commercial from a few years back, he realized all at once. 

It would play on late night public access and he would wake up the slogan being said nearly every night after he fell asleep in his recliner. 

"Diver Dan's Canned Cuttlefish!" He cheered. 

Zhravelle sang the jingle to himself. 

"Diver Dan! It's in a can! Curse the seas, try this dish! Hellfire and cuttlefish!" 

"Well, now that that's taken care of…" 

29

Stefanie’s mid-height pumps gave a firm clunk, clunk, clunk as she strode beside Varl along the connector between the East and West Wing. At some point the antique carpets had been removed for cleaning and simply never reappeared. The windows on both sides left her feeling exposed, protected only by shrubbery. As if they, the occupants, were living in a fish tank and the plants were just there to make them believe everything was okay. And maybe it was: Jutt wasn’t around. 

Stefanie juggled the slippery stack of plas-notes. The SecTres demanded a plan for the gold-corning crisis. The Chair for Justice threatened to send the Senate’s Swiss guards to repossess the GatorGate Tapes. And HumanWatch had successfully declared the Rose Garden a Sentient Species Lab for aphids. And that was just the last half hour, impeachment be damned. 

Varl stepped back and let Stefanie go first, wrist and body cocked oddly. She gave him a kind smile, the sort reserved for earnest three legged dogs and slow children attempting quantum mechanics. Varl intimidated everyone else, but he reminded Stefanie of Fred Gwynne, the Frankenstein’s monster like father on The Munsters, a show that had a surprising revival 150 years after it first aired. 

With an insistent shake of the head, she insisted he lead and she follow. Something seemed to be overflowing from Varl’s right shoe, something that darkened the polished wood floor yet glowed at the edges. 

“Varl…” 

He turned, a motion that was more a scooping of air with his head. 

The Second Lady came out of the Calligraphy Office. She was a battle ax of a woman, taller and broader than any White House doorway. “Oh, thank muh heaven. You have my folios, my dear girl?” 

Stefanie headed for her, holding out the plas-note sheets. 

Steffani brashly released the rugged, transparent plas-notes from her six stumpy fingers. 

America's second lady glared at them for what felt like a long moment, "why, I doooo believe these notes are important. Thanks, Timpani!" 

"No problem, Charlotte. Perhaps later the Caligraphy Office can transcribe them later and match their importance with historical, decorative flourishes." 

"Yeah! All that in the Lord's sweet time! For now, we're in a big ol' lick o' trouble... Jutt is a big ol' Loonian-sympthizer who's fit to be tied! Let's skedaddle to the President and Space Force One!" 

Her voice was sweet, betraying her size and battle-axe-like characteristics. She had a faint smell of freshly-baked cookies. 

She stooped to link arms with Timpani and ran back down the hall-- undoing the trek that Steffani and Varl had just made. Varl and Charlotte were both gigantic, and Timpani, whose arm was now in the vice-like linkage of the Second Lady, had to run to keep up. 

As they turned a corner in the labyrinthine architecture of democracy, they ran square into a familiar figure: Federal Marshall Jutt Strake. 

"I'm onto you… all three of you," he said, holding up a sinister device. His face contorted into a malevolent display of malice and glared at Varl's shoe. 

"But… Jutt… Space Force One! I have important information!" Stimpani cried. 

"I have two pieces of important information," Jutt boasted. "One is that I still have feelings for you, Stephanie, and would like to make passionate love in a great big pool filled with pasta." 

"There's no time," correctly-spelled Stephanie began. 

"The second is this!" Jutt said, pressing a button on his device causing the liquid pouring from Varl's shoe to begin bubbling and glowing. 

“I will protect Varl at all costs!” he exclaimed with asperity. The glowing liquid spread out on the floor around the hulking power forward. 

Stehfownie yanked Charlotte away from the rapidly growing pool, but in the midst of it Varl was already transfixed. “Protect!? What are you doing to Varl!?” 

“Tis a simple Intergalactic Protohydroxinating Resonance Amplification shield Stephanie, nothing to cream your buckskins over.” While Jutt spoke, the liquid coalesced in a circle around Varl, and then began slowly rising in a gooey sheet all around him. “With this activated, at least one of us will be safe from impending doom.” 

“Doom?” Though a towering battle ax of a woman, the Second Lady quailed. “I dooo declare, that word sends shivahs through muh bahdy when yah say it like that Mr. Strake.” 

“You may all think I'm a Loonerian sympathizer,” said Jutt, waving a dismissive hand at the plas-notes Steffannie held “but it goes deeper than you know. I once was an alien tracker, pursuing conspiracies into the darkest reaches of the world. But after my unjustified demotion, in anger and indignation I sold out to Looneria. The classic case of conspiracy hunter turned conspirator! Even as we speak, they plot against the President. But...” 

Jutt briefly trailed off as he ran an appreciative eye up and down the figure of Mr. Varl, now encapsulated in an egg-shaped translucent film. “...I regret it all. I regret that my complicity has brought into harm's way this fabulous creature, possibly the most alluring being in the universe.” He produced a thumbdrive from his pocket and continued, without asperity, “Blake Griffin today, Kevin Sorbo yesterday, and tomorrow? Who knows, Marilyn Monroe, Megan Fox....” he trailed off again while gazing deeply into the eyes of the 6'9” redhead. 

30

As all of that was happening, Ronald Birchhower set the teakettle he had just finished filling on the worn gas stove and turned the burner on high. He mopped his brow with the red handkerchief he kept in the back pocket of his overalls and bent down with a slight groan to open the refrigerator. He removed the pitcher of iced tea he had been dreaming about for the last thirty minutes of his gardening and set it on the counter where it quickly started to condensate. He reached for the sugar jar but stopped midway. “She wouldn’t want me to use the sugar,” he murmured gently, his words absorbing into the soft, old wood of the kitchen. The house was silent save for the sound of a pitcher of cold iced tea being emptied into a mason jar. 

Ron awoke with a start in his rocking chair on the front porch. There was a shrill noise coming from the kitchen. Befuddled, he pushed his glasses back up his nose trying to figure out what was happening. “Ah, the kettle,” he chuckled to himself. It had been a long afternoon gardening in the sun. Gardening used to be Gladys’s favorite hobby. Now, Ron found himself taking on the mantle. He slowly made his way into the kitchen to place the teabags in the kettle. He moved the kettle to the wooden cutting board he always put it on. 

But something was wrong. Even as the teapot was removed from the heat, the whistling didn’t stop. In fact, it kept getting louder. Ron looked around in hopeless confusion. Raw panic began to well from within. 

That’s right. It was the ferocious horde of venomous, flesh eating mongooses that had been terrorizing the countryside. Ron died in agony. 

And then, events resumed. 

* * *

Zhravelle stood in a bathroom somewhere in the White House near the Oval Office. The frantic search for the time bomb left him with a light glaze of sweat on his forehead. 

He splashed cold metallic water from the sink faucet on his face and stared into his (President Charles’) eyes in the mirror. He didn’t recognize himself. Impeachment was all he could see, and it hung heavily over his head like an Ogdonian Sky-Anchor now that he was 100% sure what it meant. How could he have so badly overestimated his oratory abilities? 

The sting of the humiliation brought painful memories of Empress Nylkoorb and her betrayal rushing from the back of his mind to the forefront of his head. He never had any chance of making it work with the Empress, but he flung himself into love like a Hydroxigen-6 solar flare into space. Just like the flare, his love burned too bright. It blinded him. Blinded him to her plot. He shielded his heart in Loonian inflatable armor, and would never love like that again. 

There was a knock at the bathroom door. “Mr. President,” Stefanie called out. “We need to leave now to get back to Space Force One.” 

Her voice sounded as delicate as the gloves she always wore. Zhravelle involuntarily pounded the sink. “Stop that!” he yelled at himself (in his mind, not out-loud). There was a damn Loonian Time Bomb on the loose and he was getting distracted by visions of stolen glances at Stefanie’s tender gloved hands like a damn fool. 

He dabbed his face with a hand towel and then flung open the door to reveal the waiting Varl and Stefanie. 

“Empress… uh, I mean Stefanie,” Zhravelle nodded embarrassingly. Stefanie had a look on her face that seemed like confusion. 

* * *

Aboard the starship Loonar Shade, the handmaids enter Empress Nylkoorb’s chambers and groan at the sight within. “Every Grask-damned day,” one mutters. The Empress is zonked out on the floor, and the air reeks of nuggies. One of the handmaidens begins to comm for the magus Marglax when, mercifully, the Empress wakes with an ungraceful snort. The handmaidens breathe a sigh of relief, grateful they have avoided the need for a reanimation spell. They doubt the Empress’ body can handle another one. Nylkoorb unsteadily rises from the floor as the handmaidens utter the incantation that cleanses the intoxicants from her system, returning her to a more coherent state of mind. 

As the Empress regains her sobriety, Head Maiden JŒ-14 begins her report. 

“Empress, the Time Bomb—“ 

She is cut off by a sudden knock at the chamber door. Annoyed by the interruption, the Empress stomps to the door and wildly flings it open. 

Ch’aaddendael is mid-knock when the door suddenly opens. His tentacle forcefully beans the Empress in the stomach causing her to double over, gasping for air. A handmaiden immediately vaporizes the Larvilkian slave, his dying scream echoing through the halls of the starship. 

“Milady, the Time Bomb has been prepared for deployment,” JŒ-14 resumes, “and we have entered Earth’s atmosphere.” 

“Great,” wheezes Eidas, “inform Fogin that we will be joining the attack momentarily.” 

31

Federal Marshal Jutt Strake was having one hell of a day. It had been chock-full of astounding developments and, to top off the absurdity, Strake was currently face-to-snout with a sea lion. Reduced to an exhausted, defeated, and broken shell of a man, all Strake could manage was a slack-jawed stare. The animal returned his look, cheerfully barked, then exploded. Strake’s eyes widened, horrified realization striking him shortly before the creature’s entrails did. 

The next series of events seemed to happen in slow motion, because they did. Damn Loonians and their Time Bombs - small devices which when thrown would cause time to slow by a factor of sixty for those in the target area, allowing the unaffected Loonians outside the time-blast zone to slip through most any security cordon and vanquish their prey. The Time Bomb also emitted a refreshing scent of pine, further relaxing their victims to the point where they almost enjoyed their death, which certainly made their meat more tender. 

But Federal Marshall Jutt Strake hated the scent of pine, and knew that he had only precious seconds (Loonian minutes actually) to warn the President. He sprinted (a relative saunter) toward Space Force One and the slowly waving, utterly clueless, recently impeached Leader of the Free World. 

Next to the President, Stephanie Fleece stopped waving, the smile quickly (slowly) leaving her face as she turned to see her beloved Jutt racing (moseying) toward her. She realized that the next few seconds (minutes) would seal the fate of the entire planet.. 

“M-m--m-m-m-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-s-s-s-s-t-t-t-t-t-t-e-e-e-e-e-e-r-r-r-r-r-r P-p-p-p-p-r-r-r-r-r-r-e-e-e-e-e-e-s-s-s-s-s-i-i-i-i-i-d-d-d-d-d-d-e-e--e-e-e-n-n-n-n-n-n-t-t-t-t-t-t!” Strake yelled, but was drowned out by the slow whir of Space Force One’s thrusters, which of course usually whirred quickly; but, Time Bomb. Out of the corner of his eye Strake spotted a swift blur, as a Loonian assassin ambled (a relative sprint) toward the spacecraft’s security orifice. Slowly (rapidly) drawing his handblaster, he took aim at the Loonian and fired, missing him by a mile but squarely hitting the Secretary of Advertising between the eyes, breaking his glasses and also killing him instantly (eventually). 

“J-j-j-j-j-j-u-u-u-u-u-u-t-t-t-t-t! N-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n--n-n-n-n-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!” Stephanie yelled, and it seemed to take forever because it was a conventional long “No-o-o-o” to begin with. She now saw the Loonian Assassin bearing down on the President, its trademark inflatable armor shining bright red in the sun. Furious, terrified, ready to die, she also couldn’t help admiring the elegance of the Loonian tech. Helluva rig, she thought to herself. 

And in the next moment (minute), as Stephanie reflexively stepped in front of her still-grinning president, shielding him, perhaps dying for him, she felt a pair of cold damp fins envelop them both, and inhaled the telltale odor of Galdum. Unaffected by the Time Bomb’s effects and having sloughed his human shell, Varl now stood to his full height, naked, slimy, dripping iridescent green, grabbing them both and whisking them (really whisking) back through the security orifice to safety. And as Space Force One launched out of danger, she turned to Varl and with a wry smile noted, “You’re out of uniform, soldier.” 

“Damn!” Varl said. “Your right!” 

Stephine smiled and gave affirmative nod. “Things ok?” she said. 

The President took in a breath and it seemed like he had asthma. He stammered and shook his. “N-n-o,” he stammered. 

Dammit, Stephine thought. He has Time Bomb sickness. Time Bomb sickness was a side effect of the Time Bomb. Almost like a getting the bends. 

The president gave a shudder and stood up. 

“Damn it!” Strake yelled. “Get up you son of a bitch!” 

The President stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles. “Nothing to it,” The president said with his signature smirk. “Just getting to old for this.” 

“Sir,” Stephine laughed. “You only fifty-five.” 

“Fifty-five going on eighty,” Strake said. He smiled and nodded at The President who was lighting a cigarette with his cyber-lighter. 

“Just like the old days.” 

Varl tried to sneak away but was thwapped on the back of his goopy neck by Strake’s lightning fast chop. “Not so fast,” Strake said. “You fishy bastard. Why did you have the Time Bomb?” 

Varl snarled and gnashed his teeth. Green blood oozed from his petulant valve. “You will know nothing!” 

A loud bang sounded, almost like a gunshot. It deafened the gang’s ears. Varl laid dead, green blood oozing from his petulant valve. 

“That son of a bitch,” Strake said. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist. “I will kill them all.” 

The President patted Strake on the shoulder. “No need,” he said holding a control button. 

“Is that?” Stephine shouted. 

“Yep.” The President nodded. “This will lead us all the way to their home world.” 

Strake nodded approvingly. So did Stephine. 

“That seems like a long shot,” Strake said. “But dammit, we need one.” 

Suddenly, a lingering scent of pine emerged. Jutt knew what this meant. It meant business. 

32

Space Force One streaked silently through the stars. The Loonian attack at the launch was already fading into memory. 

Pacing in her cabin, Stefinee absently reached into her pocket and pulled out her keys. At the end dangled the worn Mothra keychain; her 'lucky' keychain. As she turned over the plastic city-flattening kaiju in her fingers, Stefinee reflected on the events of the past hours. I barely made it out of there, she thought. Lucky. Putting the keys back into her pocket and sitting on a plush purple couch, she mused, Maybe she really is a lucky keychain. A door chime sounded. "Come in," Stefinee called. 

The door hissed open, and Jutt entered the room. In his hands was a steaming platter. "Thought you might need a little something to calm your nerves," he smiled. "Two eggs, two bacon, two flapjacks." 

Despite the stress of their narrow escape, Stefinee felt her spirits lift. "A two-two-two," she said delightedly. "I used to have those with my dad all the time." Eagerly, she reached for the platter. 

"I remember you told-" Jutt began, but he soon fell into a shocked silence. Rather than using the provided fork and knife, Stefinee scooped the eggs and bacon up and layered them between the flapjacks, then began voraciously devouring the improvised sandwich. Jutt's eye twitched as a flying piece of egg stuck to his forehead. Before he could fully appreciate what was happening, the platter was completely clean. Stefinee let out a reverberating belch. 

"Oh, Jutt," she said tenderly. "Thank you. That… brought back a lot of happy memories." 

"Don't mention it," quavered Jutt. "I, uh… I'm going to go check on the President." He backed up, triggering the door sensor. 

Confused, Stefinee began, "But you just got-" 

"Back soon!" Jutt vanished into the hallway. 

Strake sat there, jaw agape. He could not believe what had just happened. Did he dream it? Was it real, or did it just *seem* real? 

Not knowing what to do next, he dragged his sorry tail feathers out of the chair and went to the bathroom, intending to splash water on his face to forget what he had just seen. He *still* couldn't believe it! That thing that just happened to him threatened to be the one thing that might finally convince him to retire from the Federal Marshal force and pine away on that little farm he bought for himself last year, the one with just a couple of acres, some nice little trees, some huge trees, a lake-type body of water, and a little shack. Did he ever dream of that shack! Even now, now that he saw the thing that he should not have seen in the first place, his eyes went to his mind to think about the shack. Maybe he could put a wrap-around deck on it, and make it a super-shack! And maybe, just maybe, he could afford to finally put in that indoor plumbing he'd been thinking about. 

Having finally reached the bathroom, Strake made it to the sink. He looked in the mirror to see what he looked like. On the outside, he looked fine. He looked like he always did, with that huge mole right there and cleft chin and dastardly stubble. He looked at himself at said to no one, "Ach! I canna believe wha' jus' happened to me!" He splashed the cool water in his face, and screamed like his face was on fire. He forgot he had several lacerations to his face, and he accidentally went for the after-shave instead of water! 

Jutt grumbled to himself as he considered the situation. “The Marshals never prepared me for anything like this,” he said spitefully. 

Years Earlier… 

A Marshals Service trainer stood at a white board in front of a class of recruits. A number of symbols and lines were drawn on the surface in multiple colors, like a football play. “So that’s how you handle a threat upon a federal judge.” 

The class furiously scribbled notes. 

“Okay, now this is important.” The trainer turned his chair around backwards and straddled it. 

The class gasped and leaned forward. Clearly, he was about to get real. 

“At some point in your careers, you will encounter alien beings. It’s not an ‘if’, it’s when. I’m going to carefully take you step by step through how you should handle a situation in which Toonians use a Time Bomb in an attempt to assassinate the president who is actually a Cardraxian disguised as a human as he tries to board Space Force One with his beautiful Chief of Staff.” 

The trainer noticed someone in the back. “Excuse me. Strake, was it?” 

Jutt lowered his book. “Huh?” 

“Please pay attention.” 

“I’m not going to waste my time with some ridiculous scenario that will never happen,” Jutt said with a scoff. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m taking this time to hone my practical fugitive-hunting skills.” 

Jutt returned to his book and resumed his search for that most crafty of targets: Waldo. 

Years later… 

“They never even tried!” Jutt barked. 

* * *

*RED ALERT! RED ALERT!* 

The computerized voice of Shelley Long jolted Jutt from his reverie. He ran out to the corridor where crewmembers were swarming to the escape pods. “What’s going on?” Jutt shouted, but he couldn’t be heard over the din. He began shoving his way against the flow of the crowd toward the bridge. 

When he arrived, he winced at the Ives-ian cacophony Stefanie and Varl were making, frantically playing competing etudes at two ops stations, while the President stood slack-jawed, gaping at the huge viewscreen in front of them. It took a moment for Jutt to recognize the ship on the screen, but when he did his blood ran cold. It was a Loonian Warthog. He scanned the ship’s starboard tusk and his heart splashed into his stomach when his fears were confirmed. This Warthog was equipped with… a Bonkinator attachment. 

“This just keeps getting better.” Jutt muttered sardonically. 

“Varl,” shouted Stefanie, “Get the President to an escape pod. I can handle things here.” Varl burbled and squished in protest, but Stefanie held up a gloved hand. “There’s no time! Go!” Reluctantly, Varl scooped up the near-catatonic President and left the bridge. 

“Computer,” Stefanie said, “Engage tripartite separation sequence.” 

“Are you crazy?” Jett queried forcefully, bolting to her side, “This ship’s never separated into more than two parts!” 

“Don’t you think I know that?” She shot back at him, her piercing eyes flashing, “It’s our only option, Jutt.” 

Sudden movement on the view screen caught their attention. The giant mallet attached to the Warthog was rising above Space Force One. 

*ENEMY BONKINATOR ENGAGED!* 

Shelley Long’s warning came too late, as the mallet came down on the exact center of Space Force One with a reverberating BONK. 

The force of the explosion lifted Steffany off her feet. As she was hurled through the air time seemed to slow to an almost standstill- a weird combination of the Time Bomb and the hyper-reality that comes from feeling like death is moments away. Her brain was processing the minute details around her, trying to catalogue every second of her last on Earth as though the overabundance of specifics would be adequate substitution for the memories of a long life not lived. 

She couldn’t hear people screaming because the explosion left a ringing in her ears. The flames reflected off of the Loonians' armor, making the devastation seem twice as immense. She saw her gloved hand silhouetted against the bright orange glow of the fire. Her life’s work, literally up in flames. 

How cruel is fate that time slowing down would lead to them not having enough time together. Was there something to explore? Zhravelle. Jutt. 

Papa! Steffany felt ashamed that he was wronged but she never cleared his name. What she would do differently if given more time. 

And in a moment just before her body hit the ground a thought came unbidden. I never spelled my name the way I really wanted to! 

On the other side of the blast Zhravelle pulled himself into a sitting position. He was furious at Eidas. First she ripped out his heart and now outright trying to kill him! Zhravelle’s mind was furiously working, trying to figure out her next step and what his countermove will heed to be. His eyes scanned the wreckage around him and saw Varl army-crawling his direction. Varl’s skin was charred in some places but slime was already excreting to heal the damage. 

“Best find another body, Varl,” Zhravelle said grimly. “We have a planet to save.” 

Melblee mewled with grief; she’d had the most awful day. Her father, working at a factory for recycled human excrement, had died when the plant mysteriously exploded; her brother fell down a bottomless pit while battling a giant snake; and the rest of the day she’d stubbed her toe, bumped her forehead, banged her knees, and literally stumbled into everything in her path (including car washes, dog kennels, trash bins, trash pandas, and a ghost). 

Still sobbing, she slid the fabric for some slender pants under her machine’s needle, hardly aware of her work. 

Jutt Strake took a deep breath, savoring the moment. He stood on an elevated stage under a clear sky, behind a clear podium that showed off every inch of his handsome and exquisitely-tailored frame, and prepared to publicly address the waiting world regarding recent events. He felt good, especially in his pants. His seamstress was under strict orders to make them seamless, with a special inner lining that replaced underwear. He hated underwear—pulling it up and down was a wholly unnecessary step in the dressing process, especially since no one ever saw them. A voice in his earpod snapped him back to reality: 

“Speech beginning in five...four...three...two…” 

It never began. A playful breeze suddenly puffed his notes up and behind him. Reflexively, he turned and grabbed blindly, just missing as they flapped towards the ground. As he bent quickly to recover them, the breeze gently glided in and stroked where it hitherto it had been refused access. Horrified, he spun back around, but it was too late. He had just inadvertently mooned the entire world. 

The next hour’s headlines screamed his inglorious disgrace with such witticisms as, “JUTT’S BUTT JUTS!”, and “STRAKE STREAKS!”, and “BUTT WAIT, THERE’S MORE!” accompanied by full-color photos. 

She stood barefoot with a couple cloths pins in her mouth, her scrawny arms reached up above her head, struggling to get the sheets hung up to dry as they whipped around her face. She was tired of this weekly struggle, the fight with the dry wind that never stops blowing across these grasslands. 

“Damn wind”, she muttered past the final pin as she finally got it on the line, “always fighting me”. 

She stopped, looking at the remaining sheets in the basket that need to be hung. Worn down and nearly transparent in spots, Margaret could not justify throwing out his stuff, not after all these years. In her mind he was still her little boy, rambunctious and bull headed, he still had enough heart to love his mother. Little Bobby was her favorite, and now only, child. If you pushed, she would admit she babied him a bit, not wanting to let her little man grow up. 

She dreams of holding him close again, to smell his hair and hear his laugh. She knows he will be back from Washington soon, he promised her. He looked so dapper in his boots and hat, telling everyone he was going to matter someday. 

She reached over to pickup her little boy’s sheets, tears streaming down her face. “Damn wind needs to stop,” she lied to herself, going about her routine. 

The nurse looked up as the new girl walking down the hall and called out “I told you! That damn Zandar woman is nuts, swears her son is some bigshot in DC. Always at her table, muttering to herself, pretending to fold the laundry. She never has any visitors, so when it gets busy, just roll her into her room and leave here. She ain’t going anywhere, so no one will care.” 

33

The door flung open as the doorknob thrust into a doorknob-shaped divot in the wall. A tired and depressed Zharvelle walked in, dragging a plastic yellow bag behind him. After a few steps into the room, he set the bag down on the floor, before he kicked the door closed behind him. The slam sound was loud, but Zharvelle had a feeling that the area isn't one to be snippy about loud noises. Not today, of all days. 

He sighed in frustration, as the events of the past ran through his mind at full speed. The bungling that cost him the seat of power at the White House, his near death at Space Force One, and the eventual feeling of uselessness. He just was the wrong person in the right place, and it didn't seem to make a difference. In the end, he failed. Now, he was back at square damn one, and it was arguable that he was worse off than that. 

Zharvelle dropped down to his knees, and leaned down on the coffee table for balance. He dragged the bag he brought in over to him, and reached in deep. He pulled out a can, one of several that was the only thing in the bag, and popped it open. He looked at the can itself, a plain can with white label and black lettering spelling out 'Galdum'. "Cheap stuff, but it’ll do the job", he thought as he glared at it. He gulped it down, then tossed the now empty can away. He could feel the soothing liquid in his stomach, and it made him feel a bit better, and forget his past mistakes for a while. 

When it didn't anymore, he went back and pulled out another can. 

As Zharvelle opened the Galdum can, the black lettering melted into a blur, and then reformed into a neon red-lettered message: 

“Binge drinking Galdum? Enjoy it with an episode of ‘The White Worm Chronicles’ tonight!” 

“Damn,” muttered Zhravelle. He’d let his monthly Netmouth subscription lapse, so whenever he opened a package he had to sit through annoying advertisements for television programs. He understood that the mass production of commodities needed to have a source of revenue, but the stupid TV show ads always interrupted him just as he was enjoying his goods and services. 

Still, Zhravelle remembered that he had the latest three episodes of WWC in his queue, and this seemed to be a good time to catch up. The show had gone downhill since the Uber-Mongoose arc in Season 8 had ended, but he still felt invested in the Oolanga/Mimi relationship, even if it had only been consummated in fanfiction. He picked up the remote and turned on the television. The glass rectangle descended from the ceiling, but before Zhravelle could switch to the On Demand channel, he saw the graphic scrolling along the bottom of the screen: 

ASSASSINS TARGET PRESIDENT….THAT’S PRETTY MESSED UP…. 

“Crap,” groaned Zhravelle. “Escapism escapes me yet again.” 

All over the airwaves, America’s favorite talking heads were struggling to make sense of the day’s news. 

“The military is on high alert after an apparent attempt on President Charles’ life. Details are vague at the moment, but the Service Service recently released an official statement saying “Damn! Did you guys see that!? That was crazy! We were like ‘Whoa... why’s everything so slow!?’ And this big red thing was all like ‘WOOSH’ and then the Chief of Staff was like ‘Nooooooooo!’ And then they were all like ‘POOF!’” 

“More coherent sources assured us that the President was able to safely flee the scene in Space Force One. Tragically, we are learning that the attack resulted in the death of the Secretary of Advertising, a cardboard cut-out of Chester Cheetah. Secretary Cheetah is survived by a wife and several children, raising many baffling questions.” 

“Of course the assault wasn’t the only trial that the President faced today. Earlier during an unprecedented moment in American history, the House of Representatives voted in favor of ‘Double Secret Impeachment’ of the President. A bi-partisan committee of lawmakers released a statement citing what they called ‘several strikingly inappropriate actions for a human being from this planet to take.’ The President responded saying ‘This is all just a hilarious misunderstanding, like in one of your Earth’s comedic programs!’” 

“In other news, the Supreme Court issued a split decision striking down a controversial ban against private ownership of Kill-Bots. On behalf of the minority, Chief Justice Gavel dissented, writing ‘This is why we can’t have nice things.’” 

Zhravelle sighed and turned off the TV. 

Zhravelle suddenly realized he was beat. He was in the toilet and circling the drain. Reaching for his last can of Galdum, he was disappointed to discover it had accidentally tipped over and the precious green juice had all spilled out. 

“Varl, old sweet, think you could do me a favor?“ he said as he extended the empty can towards his slimy companion.“I know it won’t have time to properly ferment, but it will be better than nothing.” 

Varl reluctantly lifted the large skin flap which covered his lower abdomen revealing four engorged sacks, the shape of elongated water balloons. Taking the tin can, he placed it gently under one of the increasingly erect nipples which protruded from the largest. At first gently, but with increasing ferocity, the faithful friend began squeezing the organ, working down toward the opening of the can. As the unpasteurized Galdum began squirting, Zhravelle couldn’t help but feel the sides of his mouth beginning to salivate. 

The thick, emerald liquid was far more bitter than the canned stuff he drank back on Cardra, but since his store tank had been left back at the White House, it would just have to do. At least until he could get back home. 

“More, please?” Zhravelle asked as he offered the can back. Varl made some scratchy sound with two spider-like mouthpieces and shook his head sadly. As explanation, he grabbed the pendular bag that now lay deflated in his lap and gave it a squeeze. Only the weak sound of air and small, milky green bubbles escaped from the expired teat. 

Zhravelle felt the pit of his stomach drop again. Without the nutrient-rich fluid, things weren’t going to get any easier. “So now I have that to worry about.” 

Zhravelle slumped against the wall and sighed. "Well, old friend, we've been in worse before, and we'll be in worse again." He raised the tin can towards Varl in a half-hearted toast. "To you, brother, and to Ogden Prime." He chugged the amber fluid, simultaneously sweet and caustic, then handed the can to Varl. Varl looked at it quizzically and rolled his eyes, but accepted it without drinking. 

Unfermented galdum is not as potent as the properly prepared stuff, but the effects on the Cardraxian physiology are still notable. Within seconds, Zhravelle's eyes dilated. Sweet sweat poured down his brow. His hearts beat a polyrhythm that seemed unhealthily fast. 

To him, the world had gone kaleidoscopic. Colors appeared that had never been seen before, each one a possibility. When he looked at Varl, his friend's head was a sun around which orbited a dozen futures. In that whirling mess there was a pathway to getting more galdum and defeating the Loonian empress. If only he could understand it. 

Zhravelle stood up and quickly started pacing the room. His words came out like a vomit of gibberish that refused to congeal into coherency. “Galdum. We can galdum. Get. Fermented.” He started drawing in the air with his elongated fingers, dancing from thought to thought. 

He turned and squinted. He almost saw it. There was one key to all of this, one element that connected to everything. Stephanie. She’s the missing link. But why? He paused. There’s something about her. Why would an earthling...be like that? He shook his head. No. It couldn’t be. I can’t. 

“Varl. I need,” he stammered, “need you to protect Stephanie. It’s urgent. It’s our last chance.” 

Varl cocked a pedipalp and let out a questioning screech. 

“Trust me on this, one more time, old friend.” 

34

Zhravelle, still despairing about the lack of Galdum, decided to take a walk to get his mind off his predicament. He started issuing random orders to his subordinates to help pull him out of his sullen mood. 

“You there!” he bellowed at someone wearing insignia indicative of a fleet admiral. “Make sure the skirts on all the beds are 7 microns above the floor!” 

He turned his gaze toward an engineer, at least if all the wires and boards filled with circuitry the woman was juggling were any indication. Zhravelle screeched, “I need you to make sure all my correspondence has the requisite number of exclamation points!” She dropped everything she was carrying and moved directly away from him. 

After several more sensible commands, Zhravelle had a sudden realization he was about to crush something small and furry. Ten seconds afterward, he looked down to see a dog with a brown coat and holding a squeaky toy in its mouth. The dog wagged its tail and bit gently on the toy, which let out a cheerful squeak. He noticed its collar, upon which hung a metal heart with the word “Molly” inscribed on it. 

Zhravelle spotted a yeoman precariously balancing dozens of platters, plates, decanters and glasses in his hands. He demanded, “Get me an orb of depleted uranium so I can play with this creature!” 

The yeoman shifted everything to one hand, the topmost layer of dishes leaning precariously, and pulled a lemon-yellow sphere out of a convenient pocket and hefted it toward Zhravelle. Throwing the ball as hard as he could, Zhravelle managed a good ten foot distance, after which he expectantly waited for the animal to chase it. He glanced down upon realizing the creature would not engage with the toy and grumbled when he saw it had disappeared. 

* * *

The Secretary of State of America sat at her desk, sipping Diet Fresca. Her assistant walked into her office. “You have a phone call.” 

“Send them in,” she replied. 

When the light on her phone began blinking, she picked up. 

“Hello?” 

“This is the United Kingdom.” 

“The entire United Kingdom?” 

“Yes.” The woman’s voice on the other end of the line was very important and stuffy, with a distinctly British accent. “British intelligence has informed us that there has been an attempt on the life of your president. Do you need assistance?” 

“An attempt on the president’s life? Ha ha,” she laughed. “I assure you there have been no attempted assassinations or kidnappings today.” 

“Really?” the caller said, her eyebrow most assuredly arched. 

“Yes. Everything is fine here.” 

There was a pause of a few moments before the English person spoke again. 

“Are you sure? British Intelligence rarely makes a mistake.” 

“First time for everything!” the Secretary cheerfully replied. 

“Well, harrumph, harrumph,” the voice harrumphed. “Of course, we believe you. But be assured, that should you need our assistance, Mother England is always willing to come to the rescue of her former colonies.” 

“Thank you for concern, your Majesty. Have a nice day!” 

The American Secretary hung up the phone and sighed a sigh of relief. That was close. The English may have bought her story, but would the Belgians? 

* * *

Yeoman Murphy sighed as he loped down the carpeted corridors of the White House. Join the Navy, they'd said. See the strategically relevant parts of the world, they'd said. When he'd been transferred to the Space Force, he'd seen it as a rare opportunity - how many people could say they were assigned to the highest station in the Armed Forces, even if it was just in a literal sense? Now, here he was, playing glorified dogcatcher for the President. 

"Here, Molly," he called out, feeling foolish as he walked past briefing rooms full of dour-faced generals, trying to look around for the dog as well as he could without meeting anyone's icy stares. "Here, girl!" He tried doing that thing where you whistle four or five times, unsure where he'd learned it, but confident of its status as one of the most effective dog-searching techniques. "Fweet fweet fweet fweet! C'mere, gir-- not you, terribly sorry, Madam Prime Minister," he said to a scandalized-looking dignitary with a visitor pass. His face flushing, he strode through a nearby doorway to save face as much as he could - which wasn't much, given that he'd just shut himself in a broom closet. The President isn't going to be happy, he thought. 

* * *

Meanwhile… 

Stefani had escaped the chaos in the White House by ducking into an unoccupied room, and was reviewing the events of the past few days in her head. This gave her a massive headache. 

She heard a voice from behind her. “You seem to be under some stress young lady, can I be of assistance?” 

Stefani spun around to see who it was. The man was tall, thin, and bearded. Stefani’s eyes bulged with recognition. 

“Abraham Lincoln?!?!” What are you doing here?” 

Mr. Lincoln chuckled. “I could ask you the same thing. These are my quarters, after all.” 

Stefani looked around from where she was sitting. She read the sign to her left. President Lincoln’s armchair. Do not touch! 

She rubbed her gloves bashfully. “Sorry about that.. I was just looking for a place to find some peace and quiet.” 

The Great Emancipator sat in the chair next to her with a slight smile on his face. “In that case, you picked a perfect spot. That very chair is where I would retire when the war weighed heaviest on my shoulders. I believe you’ll find it very relaxing.” 

Stefani noticed that her headache had disappeared. “Wow, you weren’t lying!” 

“They do call me Honest Abe, you know.” He put his hands on Stefani’s gloved fingers. “So you should know that I’m telling the truth when I say that you can do this, Stefani. If I can save the Union, then you can save the world.” 

Stefani was going to ask how he knew her name, but just then he leaned in and licked her face. 

Stephani woke up to a dog’s vigorous licking. 

“No! Bad dog! Shoo!” Stephani shouted, swatting the dog away. The dog happily trotted out of the room, tail wagging. 

So I guess it was all a dream.. She looked around the room for any signs of Abraham Lincoln, but the only thing she noticed was the dookie the dog had left in the center of the room. 

Damn dog! 

Stephani thought about cleaning it up, but decided to let someone else do it. She strode out of Lincoln’s room with determination. She had a world to save. 

* * *

Unbeknownst to the people involved in these events, there was a very ancient and powerful race watching and deciding if it was yet time for them to intervene. One member of this race, who served as their primary spy on Earth was reporting in to her masters. 

“I am worried that these events may spell the end of the human race,” said Molly, the labradoodle owned by Sephanie’s neighbor Enrique. 

“As am I, Molly, but the time is not right” said a voice emanating from Molly’s favorite squeaky toy. 

“But sir,” replied Molly, “I fear greatly that neighbor Stephanie may die. She has given me many pats on the head and once even shared a piece of bacon with me when master Enrique wasn’t looking. Surely these noble deeds merit out intervention on her behalf at least.” 

“While those are noble deeds indeed,” said the squeaky toy, “we cannot intervene. If the humans found that dogs, who they have long viewed as their most loyal companions, were in fact members of a race that had conquered the stars before life had begun on Earth, they would panic and perhaps abandon us all. Then there would be no more pats on the head, no more bacon, and even worse, no more walks.” 

“Now more walks!” whined Molly. “That would be a tragic fate indeed. I can only hope that Stephanie, and humanity itself will survive these trials.” 

“As do we all, Molly. As do we all,” said the squeaky toy. 

Her conversation completed, Molly moved on to the next item on her agenda, barking at Master Enrique until he realized that it was time to take her outside to poop. She hoped that he wouldn’t ignore her again and force her to do her business on the living room carpet. 

* * *

Zhavrelle snapped back to reality. He still had a slight tingling sensation in his head. He really had to stop going into these fugue states of his. A friend from Trigael IV remarked to him once that he ought to check the dilithium monoxide filter in his room. He always meant to get around to it, but it did chirp every 30 seconds, so it had to be functioning. No, it had to be the galdum. 

He jetted up and tried to orient himself and figure out where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. 

Suddenly, Breaking News flashed across the wall-screen. Something important is happening with the president, the chyron flashed. 

“My God, that’s it!” he exclaimed. “Something important is happening with the president.” 

And with that, he left. 

* * *

Stefanie’s determination to save the world hadn’t wavered, but there was a nagging doubt in the back of her mind. Yes, saving the world was important, but… leaving untended dog crap on the carpet of the Lincoln Bedroom..? 

She exited the Lincoln Towncar - the one you were obliged to use when you slept in the Lincoln Bedroom. The same towncar Lincoln himself had travelled in, according to the plas-screen InfoVid that played on her Seat-Back. It was hard to be sure, but she thought it might have made more sense to put the plas-screen in front of the passenger. She’d look into it later. 

She opened the ToDo-List app on her phone and started adding it to the list, just below: Get carpet cleaned. She stopped typing and remembered what she was doing. She became aware of the fact that she’d come to a complete stop in the middle of a busy Ped-Way. 

“Time to get moving,” she said, and received no argument from the people around her. In fact, they were quite encouraging. And loud. 

She stopped again, before she’d even started. It occurred to her that the Whitehouse has its own cleaning staff. She sent a short message: Dog crap in the Lincoln Bedroom. Take care of it. 

She checked Get carpet cleaned off her ToDo-List and looked at the item above it. Deliver Jutt note. 

The driver of the Lincoln leaned his head out of the window, “Is this the right place, ma’am? It’s just that you haven’t moved since you got out.” 

“Yes,” She returned to the car and handed the note to the driver. “Here,” she said, “Go stick this under the door. The number’s on the front.” 

She sometimes forgot that she was a key member of the Presidential staff. 

* * *

Zhravelle was sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office and sipping a glass of cherry flavored Galdum. He was sifting through various bills that needed to be signed. None of them were very interesting to him. As he was doing so a video call came through on the monitor on the other side of the room. He could tell from the alien text of the sender that it was probably from a member of the High Council. He sighed and pressed a button on his desk to receive the call. A fleshly looking middle aged man with gray hair parted to the side appeared. “Greetings I, Titus Uno Certified Public Accountant, Forensic Certified Public Accountant, and Certified Global Management Accountant am here to talk to you about giving my people the state of Rhode Island.” “Oh great” Zhravelle thought. “It’s another Thrashian, these guys are the worst.” Zhravelle cleared his throat and replied in the Thrashian customary greeting, “Dammit Boy, Why Rhode Island? Zhravelle asked? The thick fleshed Thrashian replied in a flat tone, I, Titus Uno Certified Public Accountant, Forensic Certified Public Accountant, and Certified Global Management Accountant believe that you should give us the state of Rhode Island because it is the smallest state and will not be missed. The island of Puerto Rico will soon become a state therefore the United States of America will still have the even human number of fifty states. Zhravelle contemplated this for a second. He sighed and said “Fine, with the power of the President of the United States I hereby give the state of Rhode Island to the planet Thrash.” The fleshy Thrashian bowed and the monitor blipped off. “That turned out easier than I expected” Zhravelle said to his empty office. Somewhere far away, Rhode Island disappeared forever. 

35

Meanwhile… Thousands of Miles Away… 

Scylla Montivfre sat at a booth in the Ordovician Diner, the edges of a strip of duct tape pestering the space of skin between the back of her right thigh, and her ample buttocks filling the cushioned seat. 

“Scylla Montivfre, I presume.” Said an inscrutable man who rapped the side of the table with an ivory cane. Scylla noted the trademark elephantine carving handle. 

“Then you must be-” Scylla started, but the man gently pressed the end of the cane to her lips. 

“Not here.” He said in a hushed whisper. “So what’s this new candidate you found?” 

“Ah, yes.” Scylla blushed and scrambled with the contents of her folder, shoving paper into the man’s gloved hands. “He’s called Zhravelle.” The man observed the document behind his multi-layered sunglasses. He sat for what seemed like a moment in contemplation. After another moment, he walked behind the counter and beckoned for Scylla to follow. 

“Follow me.” He said. Scylla followed him into the walkin refrigerator in the kitchen. He lifted a case of frozen Chilean Egg Rolls to reveal a control panel, and pressed a couple buttons on. After a moment, the room seemed to suddenly begin to descend into the earth. “You do know what we do here, doncha Scylla?” The man asked. 

“Uhh… Not really…” Scylla blushed again. 

“That’s alright.” The man chuckled. The room stopped, and he opened the door into a wide underground chamber, the ruins of an old starship, the likes of which Scylla had never seen lying decrepit in the exact center of the chamber. “You’ve found quite the score there Ms. Montivfre. The higher ups will fill you in soon anyway.” 

Scylla wiped the dust away from the nameplate on the hull of the starship. “Stupid Butt”, it read. 

* * *

MEANWHILE, ALONG THE DUSKY AIRSTRIP 

It was dusk. Low plumes of sand from the storming in the nearby Oobrakin Desert hung across the airstrip, painting it dusky and purple in the low light. Jutt Strake stands outside near one of the warehouses like a statue with binoculars held up to his eyes. 

These warehouses contained a berth of tools and equipment necessary to maintain the infinite quantities of aircraft, hovercraft, airbuses, and skybridge tram systems to be found in the President Charles Quadrinational Airport (awaiting an imminent name change in light of Charles’ disgraceful impeachment.) Over 500,000 flights transpired in this port every day, and without the vital equipment contained within the metal storage units, the tourist economies of 17 different nations could collapse. 

What Jutt’s concern at these warehouses, though, wasn’t ship repair. He was awaiting something far more significant than air travel. 

Jutt’s hand fumbled to his back pocket, where he whipped out the note that had been deposited under his door earlier this afternoon. It was written on a crisp piece of translucent paper and written in a slender, long-fingered hand: 

“Dear Strake: 

I’ll be arriving tonight at 3:72 P.M. at Charles Q, airstrip 7. It’s you that I want to see. 

Come alone. Bring the thumb drive. 

XOXO 

Stef-A-Ne” 

Jutt presses his nose to the crease of the semiopaque paper and breathes deeply. It reeks of something half-sweet, half-fermented, like a full cup of whipped cream left laying out in the sun too long. It smells just like…gadlum? 

A shiver rolls down Jutt, starting at the top of his skull and ending somewhere below where he feels a stirring that he desperately would like to ignore. He stuffs the thought away and the note back into his pocket with the drive. 

It smells just like Varl. 

* * *

Stephanie took a moment to contemplate how her life had gone up until this exact point in time. Where had she gone wrong? Could things have gone differently if she had made a different choice, way back when, when she had snatched her first internship? 

“Could I have made a different decision?,” she thought to herself, the thoughts reverberating through her mind. “But that manager should not have asked me to fetch him a coffee, that wasn't why I was there.” 

This was true. 

“I can still hear him now. 'Stefanie, fetch me a coffee, dear.' I was not his dear! No, the choice I made then was the right one, even though it led me here, now. Especially because of that! I am glad all the choices have led me to become the woman I am today!” 

But this epiphany only led her further down the path of contemplation. This introspective and sharp young woman would not be satisfied with just dipping her metaphorical toes in the shallow end of her thought pool. 

“But do others appreciate me for who I am, have become, am now becoming?,” she thought inside. “Am I what I need to be for the world? Am I what... who... Zhravelle needs?” 

This was the million-dollar question. Or would be, had dollars not become statistically insignificant in the grand scheme of things. 

“I hope so. He has let me know with more than words. Were his assurances sincere? Maybe. In the end, I don't care. The opinion of others does not shape me.” 

And as her mind found absolute clarity of being, she returned to the present from before her contemplations, ready to use all she was to aid the world, and the man she admired, in overcoming even more obstacles. 

* * *

There was a bright flash as Steffanie turned suddenly into a burly bodyguard under Strake's calloused hands. Then another flash as the alien pet scuttled through a number of forms before settling as Varl the bodyguard. 

Strake was stunned, then started to laugh. So did Varl. 

"It figures - I was blinded all along, a fool chasing a phantom.." 

Strake laughed again as Varl slammed into him and bowled him over. 

"You give attention friend" came out of the cobbled-together translator that Varl had used to imitate Stephanny. 

Varl had used. 

"You're intelligent! You're more a secretary and a bodyguard than a pet!" Jutt marveled,.hefting up the creature - person, really. Varl, his friend, the bodyguard began licking Strake across the face amid his laughter. 

He grew quiet after a bit. “You like me - really for who I am. That’s something in this universe.” 

“Like you like me, JuttStrake” came the partly tinny reply, caught at points pausing for what could only be described as emotion. The lolling tongue slurped with emphasis. 

A stray thought crossed Strake’s mind causing him to blush. 

“Varl, I think I’ve been sweet on you from the start.” 

Another long pause as the towering bodyguard-Varl sat down next to and leaned into Strake. 

Strake cleared his throat nervously as he put his arms around Varl and whispered 

“Hey, uh… do you think you could… turn into Knuckles… the Echidna…?” 

“Anything for you JuttStrake” came the translation. 

“Call me ‘Sonic’” . 

To go into the more delicate details about what was about to happen between the human and the queeblark would be to stare into the face of madness itself, driving all of those who would be accidental witnesses or those that are right now trying to actively imagine it, insane. Not due to the extreme graphic and quite tasteless nature of the, uh, moment (which it most assuredly is. Think of it as being in the splash zone of a Gallagher show, but without a tarp, and instead of burst watermelons it was other liquids) but because the logistics of getting it on with a shapeshifter can be daunting and break those with weak wills or brittle bones (specifically hips). 

Universal Law Code 372.69 bans shapeshifters, from mating with non-shifters. What it breaks down to is that 'solids' (non-shifters) and 'liquids' (shapeshifters) should never mix as they are different states of being. The only exception to this code are the ice-based aliens of Akull, as they can be solids, liquids,and if the sex is hot enough, gases. Space Travel Tip: if your Akull lover disappears mid-sex, don't breathe too deep or you may kill them and yourself. 

Now Varl wasn't too keen on reading or following the Universal Law Code and Jutt was a loose cannon that played by his own rules, even if those rules broke the law. His job was to enforce the law, not follow it. Right now Jutt and Varl were going to break Code 372.69 so hard that the next star system over is going to be complaining about the sounds of watemelons being smashed repeatedly. 

Stop trying to imagine it and give into the madness. Think about this instead: a kitten and puppy become best friends and work together to find lost children. Better? 

36

Strake and Varl sat together in the ship’s lounge. Strake sat hunched over at the table they shared, holding a quart of orange juice. Varl sat across the table with a bowl of sparkenfarfle. 

“Puppies, Varl?” Strake was concerned. 

Varl thought for a moment, and his garbled response came through the translator. 

“Unsure how to better describe. All will happen pretty quickly. Queeblark gestation period is anywhere from 19 hours to 218 weeks. Depends on how – erm – potent parents are.” 

Strake thought for a moment. He’d thought about being a father someday, sure. But this was not what he had in mind. Was he prepared to support some number of Quee-pups until… when? He had a momentary vision of tossing the pigskin around with mini-Varls at his family property in northern Virginia, but quickly pushed the thought from his mind when he noticed Varl looking at him expectantly. 

Strake finally spoke. “Varl, I think you know how I feel about you. But the world is in turmoil right now! I can’t get tied down raising a bunch of pups.” 

Suddenly, they both heard the distant sound of the ship’s mating adapter engaging, which only meant one thing: another vessel was docking. 

“What the hell? We aren’t expecting anyone.” Strake was concerned – they had a job to do, and things were getting complicated enough with the puppy news. The nervously felt the thumb drive that was still in his pocket. 

Varl thought for a moment. “Sounds like CAAWS ship. This not good news, Jutt Strake. We must prepare to defend ourselves.” 

Strake looked on as Varl began to shimmer and change form. Strake expected him to turn into some hulking, threatening monster, but instead he took the form of a thick-fleshed, sweaty bald man. 

“What the hell, Varl? That’s not going to help us.” 

Varl wiped his brow and replied, “Something wrong, Jutt Strake. Shifting not working!” 

With a spasm that seemed as mere microseconds (but which was 97 seconds), Varl’s long fingers split open and began splattering the floor of the spacecraft with small, hairy, square-like objects that somehow resembled Strake. 

Strake gasped ‘WHAAAA?’. 

Varl moaned ‘My Squares! My beautiful Squares! Fruit of my Loom!’ Queeblark physiognomy was such that, following successful romance, a ‘Fruit’ of ‘Squares’ (as the offspring of all Beebleck-ian creatures are known) begins growing in a Queeblark’s ‘Loom’, as all Beebleck-ians refer to their wombs. Reproduction time is typically Earth-minutes and typically results in the production of 24 or fewer Squares. Never has a Queeblark Fruited more than 63 Squares. 

The 64th and last Square dropped to the floor with an audible plop. 

‘What the hell is happening Varl?’ Jutt barked. 

‘Our forbidden romance has made me very productive. These are my offspring. 64 is quite impressive for Queeblarks you know’. 

‘I’m so ashamed. I have brought dishonor to my Marshal badge’. With that Field Marshal Jutt Strake ripped the badge from his lapel and threw it at the airlock. 

All of a sudden the airlock whooshed open, and with a clang High Lord of the CAAWS Fogin slammed into the ceiling, caroming off the plas-steel carapace of the hull and onto the dasbestos deck plating. 

‘Strake! Apparently my assassin’s time bomb has catapulted me into the future! I must get the thumb drive from you! Your past – and my future - depends on it!’, Fogin screeched. 

‘Again, what the hell is…… OHHHH MYYYY GOOOOOOOD!’ Strake exclaimed. 

It was at this point that the Squares bum-rushed Fogin, snarlingly ripping into his inflatable armor suit with teeth like paring knives. 

‘Grask this hurts!’, Fogin bleated. 

Nothing remained of the High Lord beyond what was contained in a purring pile of slightly larger Squares. 

* * *

Meanwhile, Loonian scientist Smlub was working on an advanced version of the Time Bomb, one that would increase the target area and slow time by an additional factor of 0.001. Since the Nitrogen Wars Smlub’s most reliable source of precious isotopal nitrogen was the molecular dung heaps of the common LeatherWing. He knew that the Ministry of War told him that every femtosecond makes a difference in combat, so if he could improve the design the way he hoped, it would be a 1x10^12 improvement, which might earn him a metal, his favorite is Thallium. Smlub suited up to head to the LeatherWing municipality, their infrastructure was fairly advanced for beasts, but they never got the hang of sanitation. If he could smell the fetid air he would feel himself gagging. 

The laboratory dung cart was a standard model, so transportation wouldn’t be too difficult, as long as he didn’t get too greedy. Also his constant laser kept him safe from the horrid LeatherWing’s venomous bite. 

Smlub didn’t get too greedy, so transporting the molecular dung back to the laboratory in the laboratory cart wasn’t too difficult. Once he was back in the lab he now had the task of sorting the dung nuggets by size and density in order to keep a proper balance in the centrifuge. He was running a bit low on dung solvent, so he decided that now would be the best time to make up a fresh batch. Once the mixture had been spun and the isotopal nitrogen extracted, Smlub decided that he deserved a well earned rest. He reclined on his laboratory chaise lounge and sipped on a fresh aliquot cocktail. 

The new Time Bomb was a complete success, and Smlub went down in history as a war criminal, complacent in his deeds. 

* * *

In a lonely and dark woodland, a lost cow reflected on the past. While a thousand miles away, Stefanie Fleece, slowly made her agonizing way forward. Inching ever so slightly toward the Lincoln Towncar, the exact same vehicle which had brought her to work that morning, a morning that now felt as if it belonged to decades past and a different Stefanie Fleece. She didn’t understand why events had progressed in the manner they had. Why faith, had meted out the sequence of events in the wholly nightmarish way it took. But two things Stefanie Fleece knew for certain, a) if she could change one thing, it would be hiring that lawyer and b) she never would have let Varl get so close to her. It had all been so easy for him, or her, or whatever gender, the being identified with. Maybe identity was a foreign concept to Varl’s kind. What wasn’t a foreign concept to him was the way he had savagely attacked her. Like a predatory wolf he had chased her down and thrown his full body weight upon her, sinking his oozing fangs into her Achilles heel. The pain had exploded up her left leg as she fell forward onto the asphalt, only feet from her car. It was all so sudden, all so unexpected. They were supposed to be allies for Christ’s sake! 

Varl was standing behind her, playing with her now. Toying with her like a cat toyed with its next meal. She knew Varl was allowing her to feel like she had a glimmer of hope. Stefanie halted her progress and with the last of her strength rolled onto her back and propped herself up on her elbows, facing her tormentor. Varl smiled, “Ah Stefanie, do you find me peaceful yet?” 

37

What is love? Several intelligent people had tried to define it, but apparently they were not very intelligent. Jutt Strakes knew that nobody could have described what he felt in his bone marrow for Varl. The shape-shifting creature had shifted its way right into his heart, which was pounding like he had just gotten a shot of adrenaline right into it. 

It was as exciting as a hundred time bombs going off in the same room. He felt like he was at the top of a rollercoaster. And he was proud of the Squares that they had created together. No, Jutt knew that nobody, not even the smartest people, could describe the love he now felt for Varl. 

But he had a problem! Jutt was not a man prone to reflection, but he knew in this moment that he loved Varl—and Steffany! Steffany wore nice eye makeup and gloves. When he thought about that, it made his pounding heart skip a beat. 

How could he ever choose? Especially when these feelings were so new? He looked at the Queeblark, who was preening its fingers in the mirror. He also thought about Steffany, but he didn’t know where she was. Then he had an idea. There was an old saying that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush, and he could just feel Varl’s slimy essence coating his fingers luxuriously. Putting thought into action he walked boldly towards the shapeshifter. 

“Varl, you can be anything, right? Can you be…Steffany…again?” He asked in an excitedly curious tone. 

“Friend Jutt, you know I can,” Varl purred as he sidled close to the disgraced Marshall. Jutt smiled engagingly. He felt so smart because he could have both Varl and Steffany! He would never have to choose again. 

After Jake Strutt and Varl shared a postcoital CigStik, Varl turned back into their queeblark form. 

“It’s still weird seeing you like this,” Jutt said. 

“Is this better?” Varl asked and shape-shifted into Stephanie, complete with her signature deerskin gloves. 

“I want you to be yourself. I’ll get used to it.” 

Varl transformed back into their natural state and got out of bed. “You’re sweet. How about round two tonight?” 

“Deal,” Jutt said. 

After Varl left, Jutt threw on a robe. The marathon lovemaking session left him famished. He went to the kitchen to warm up a can of Cardraxian Plas-Slop. As he searched for a pan, he heard the front door open. He turned around to see Stephanie. 

“Varl, I meant it when I said you don’t have to transform for me,” Jutt said. 

“Varl?” 

“Yes, Varl, I love you for you.” 

“I’m Stephanie, not Varl.” 

“Oh, shit,” Jarl said, realizing this was the real Stephanie. 

“You slept with Varl? It was delusional to hope a relationship with you could work. Even worse, queeblarks are animals and Varl is a wanted outlaw.” 

“Queeblarks pretend to be stupid to put adversaries off guard. Varl is an intelligent, vibrant individual. I’m in love with both of you, that’s why I’ve asked Varl to turn into you on occasion.” 

“Varl roleplayed as me? That’s revolting.” 

“Not while we’re intimate. I have more, ahem, quirky proclivities.” Over the weekend, they had gone through the cast of Sonic and the ghosts from the classic 1980’s film, Ghostbusters. 

“You’re a disgrace to the Marshalls!” She snatched the badge from his robe and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. 

In the hallway, a quiescent Loonian mind mine embedded in the opposite wall exploded with a muted whoomp. Stephanie staggered back against the door. She was not close enough to the blast to suffer the intended effect--total personality erasure--but it did remove her memory of the previous six minutes and forty-six seconds. Slowly she sank to the floor, her head clouded in confusion and the explosion’s linden-scented aroma. 

Why am I here? she thought. I was just...just… All she knew was that Jutt had done something terrible, unforgivable, but...what? 

At that moment the man himself opened the door and peered out. “Stephanie? Are you okay? I...What the hell’s that smell? I swear, those neighbors of mine…” 

She shook her head, standing and staggering towards the stairs. “I’m alright. I just think we need to spend some time apart. Some time to think about things. It’s not you; it’s me.” 

“Er, what?” he said. “About the…” 

But Stephanie was already out of earshot, leaving Jutt to shake his head and return to his apartment. 

Zhravelle spotted her as she exited through the heavy front doors. “Ah, there you are! I was looking everywhere for you. Come on, we don’t have much time...What happened?” 

Stephanie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose before responding. “I...ended it with Jutt. I don’t know what I ever saw in him to be honest.” She took a moment to collect herself, then looked up and smiled incandescently at her boss. “What’s cooking?” 

“There’s no time to explain. Come on. Get in the presidential limo. I’ll tell you on the way.” 

“Where?” 

“Arlington National Cemetery.” 

38

Interlude; Five Years Later 

Zhravelle sighed into a glass of Galdum Lite and stared at the photograph with a single tear rolling down his cheek. "Where did things go so wrong?" he asked himself, the photograph, the glass, and the tear. The love of his life and his best friend were both gone, gone, gone. How was he supposed to know that when Varl's species changed back to males they released a pheromone that was irresistible to spunky female humans with poli-sci degrees? And now they were far, far away. 

"Shit. Fuck." And other colorful language he had picked up on Earth. 

Zhravelle's Signal Orb flashed red, blue, green, blue, yellow, chartreuse, and Zhravelle knew what that meant. He sighed, got up, put down his Galdum Lite, lamented the enormous gut he had developed since he'd been abandoned by his loved ones, and shuffled over to the Time Penetrator. Sometime in the last five years, Zhravelle had realized that the only reason he had survived his ordeal as president was due to temporal tampering. 

He would be the tamperer. Or die trying. 

Zhravelle inserted the item he had carefully saved for just this occasion and pressed the button on the Time Penetrator. The item disappeared in one shake of a lamb's tail. Five years ago, he would "coincidentally" find the item at just the right moment and he'd make it through alive. 

Zhravelle sipped his Galdum Lite, which was revolting but he drank it because of his gut. "Is this a perfect time loop? Or is time mutable? Did I just make a new splinter reality universe? Or was this how I survived? What if I just changed everything? Maybe this time I won't lose my dear Stephany? Maybe." 

Zhravelle stared into the photograph and cried. "Maybe." 

* * *

The room hummed, lit only by blinking status lights. Stephanie crept forward, Zhravelle close behind. 

“Teena?” called Stephanie. “We need your help!” She glanced back at Zhravelle. Without the nutrient-rich Galdum, he was unsteady in Earth’s heavy gravity and dry air. 

“Stefanie?” A figure loomed out of the shadows. “I told you never to come here!” 

“It’s Stephanie now.” She held out an arm to restrain Zhravelle, then turned to him. “This is 8teena; she’s a hacker who freelances for the NSA. She can get us the Galdum recipe.” 

“You came here for a recipe?!” 8teena scoffed, looking Stephanie up and down. “Buy a cookbook.” 

“It’s an alien recipe,” Stephanie scoffed back. “Can you help or not?” 

Zhravelle stepped forward; 8teena gasped. 

“The alien who impersonated the president! You’re a wanted fugitive!” She paused. “Well, I have always wanted to betray the human race. What d’you need?” 

Stephanie held out Zhravelle’s last can of Galdum. “We need to make more of this. The fate of the universe is at stake.” 

“No problem,” chuckled 8teena. She took the can, cracked it open, and poured some into a machine. As the device whirred, she held out the can; Zhravelle snatched it back and gulped until it was empty. He sighed. 

“That was the last of it. Now it’s up to you.” 

“Don’t worry. My AI can analyze anything.” The computers began chattering louder. “Just wait.” 

Zhravelle, pacing around the room, idly picked up a basketball and started dribbling. Stephanie frowned. “You play basketball, Zhrav?” 

“What?” He frowned back. “Is that what this is? No, just felt like the right thing to do.” 

“I haven’t seen dribbling like that since… my granddaddy,” mused Stephanie. “He coached the Chicago Bulls for 12 years. And you... looked just like him, just then. Strange.” 

They waited. 

As they waited, Zhravelle’s gaze fell upon Stephanie’s lithe form; just then, she raised her head and their eyes met for 37.2 seconds. Stephanie blushed and glanced away while Zhravelle inwardly reeled. He felt as though he had been hit by a bolt of what earthlings called lightning. 

“Belph!!” Zhravelle thought, “She is more luminous than the third moon of Ranul! Could she be my true mate? Have I finally found her after attempting so many Paltracian coquettes? There is only one way to be sure.” 

“Stephanie, may I ask you something personal?” 

“Of course.” 

“I need to touch your hand.” 

Stephanie gasped “I never…” 

“I know, but it is of the utmost importance.” 

Stephanie slowly, almost shyly, drew off her deerskin glove. Her remaining fingers looked even longer and more slender next to the wide, cybernetic fingers made of plasti-steel. 

“What hap—” Zhravelle began. 

Stephanie stopped him. “I lost them in a mongoose accident. Please! I don’t want to talk about it... not here, not now.” She trembled with remembered trauma. 

“Of course.” Zhravelle gathered Stephanie in his arms, calming her. He gently laid her hand against his skin, concentrating on invoking his sixth sense of brzzzhkk. 

Suddenly, all physical barriers between the two disappeared. The essence of their inner beings swirled around, weaving together, filling the room with color and light. Zhravelle felt the mating bond take hold as their inner beings merged in a blinding flash of golden light, then separated as their physical forms returned. 

“What was that?” Stephanie asked, quivering. 

“That was the mating bond. We are bound now.” 

“Bound?” Stephanie raised an eyebrow and got a sexy smile on her face. Zhravelle lowered his face to hers and … 

“Am I interrupting something?” 8teena said drily, as she returned with the recipe. 

“Huh?” Stephanie asked, still quivering. 

“I said, am I interrupting something?” 8teena replied, a bit more insistently, though no less drily. 

“I… I don’t know.” Stephanie was rarely at a loss for words, but hearing Zhravelle’s words had that effect on her. 

“Stefanie and I are mated now. I think I have sensed the bond was completed.” Zhravelle answered for her. “By the way, due to the binding it is Stefanie, now.” Stephanie could tell from the way he said her name, the “ph” was now an “f” and she didn’t like it. There were too many things going on right now, and yet another spelling change wasn’t something she needed. She slipped the deerskin gloves back over her long (but not as long as they once were) plasti-steel fingers. 

8teena laughed. “Well, you don’t see that every day. Anyway, I have your recipe.” Stephanie (as she still thought of herself) and Zhravelle turned to the hacker, almost in unison, eager expressions on their faces. “But if the fate of the universe depends on it… what’s in it for me?” Freelancing for the NSA had its benefits, but it also taught her not to pass up a good opportunity. 

Zhravelle returned to dribbling the basketball as Stephanie started to protest, but he cut her off. “Wanna play for it?” Teena sighed and handed the recipe over to Stephanie. “Consider it a wedding gift, you crazy kids.” Neither noticed a copy of the recepie in Teena’s pocket. 

“Thanks!” Stephanie said. She was still confused by the “mating bond” but her time in DC taught her not to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Now let’s get on with this!” she said, grabbing for Zhavrelle’s elbow, though her mind could not shake the familiarity of the way he dribbled that ball… 

* * *

It was at that very moment that a star. A star that was far away. A star that was not close but far. Far Away. The star was, I mean. 

Anyway the star. 

A star exploded at the furthest reaches of space. The heat from the star glowed bright and fast. The center of the star was cold but the fragments pushed out, out, out further from its origin. 

They say that the smallest act can have the biggest consequences. That one pebble in the pond can create the greatest of tidal waves. That one flap of a butterfly’s wings can cause other butterflies to be jealous that they are not flapping their wings and they start flapping their wings. 

Consequences. The star exploded and the debris reached out further and further through space. Past other stars. Past planets. Past … other things. It reached out until it seemed to touch the very corners of space. If there were an observer to see it then it would have been a perfect picture of life itself. The very essence of things both violent, beautiful and massive. With consequence. This piece would hit another piece of debris. And that piece would hit another piece until it reached so much further than it ever could on its own. 

At least that how my Dad would tell it. It might have been a joke or a lesson. I can’t remember. Somehow, I feel that I have gotten off track though… where was i… 

Ah, yes. 

* * *

Stiffknee's knees were anything but stiff when she saw Zhravelle on the court – in fact, they were downright weak at the sight. Zhravelle may have been a false President, but he was a true natural at bouncing the ball around and throwing it into the hoop. Thoughts of conspiracies and invasions left Stiffknee's mind as she lost herself in the sight of him, Zhravelle. 

She was so lost in the sight of him, Zhravelle, that she scarcely noticed when the sexy extraterrestrial picked up an abandoned baby Loonian that was there (a barbaric lot, the Loonians frequently abandoned their little ones) and chucked it to her. She reflexively caught the round little thing, which bleated peevishly. 

"One on one?" 

"Against you?!" 

"Don't worry. Loonian young are instinctively drawn to roost in hoops – all you have to do is keep up. Also it only likes my hoop so you're fine." 

Then they went at it. Stiffknee found herself a match for Zhravelle with the Loonian's aid... and Zhravelle was a match for her. She dribbled the Loonian down the court – galumpa-galumpa-galumpa – and swished it into the hoop. She imagined that the up-and-down dribbling was Zhravelle and the going into the hoop was also Zhravelle, but with her instead of a basketball court. It was really sexy like Zhravelle. 

Then Zhravelle had the ball, I mean Loonian, and dribbled it through the paint and into the post, which are different things, I think? But Zhravelle missed his shot as the Loonian bounced angrily off the hoop. The buzzer buzzed and Stiffknee won. 

Stiffknee was almost sheepish at her victory. "Best out of three?" 

"Heh," Zhravelle chuckled. "You already got the best out of ME." 

They kissed as everyone laughed at the clever pun. Then there was a trial. 

39

When Judgebot Ogden Gnash-5000, star of the highly-rated show “Touched by a Robot Judge,” rolled into the courtroom, the crowd began murmuring. 

“Order in the court!” the Judge said as he beat his gavel. A high-pitched whine filled the room, as the Judge continued pounding the gavel ever harder, smoke pouring out of his ears. After some whirs and beeps, the Judge cheerily announced, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today –“ prompting more whirs and beeps. 

The Judge’s voice-modulator switched to somber. “This court calls the case of Empress Eidas Nysidda Nylkoorb of Looneria versus Zhravelle Charvelle, shmuck. T-Bone Muncy, the Eternally Damned, will give plaintiff’s opening statement.” 

The room’s temperature dropped and onlookers shuddered as a painting of a gaunt, dead-eyed man was placed at the podium. Most knew his story – Renowned attorney, dropped dead in 1864, soul trapped in his official portrait. 

Muncy’s inhuman voice came from everywhere and nowhere, “Listen closely, mortals; judge wisely lest your souls join me in eternal two-dimensional damnation – “ 

Defense counsel LeBron James leaped out of his seat and shouted, “Objection, your Honor! He’s threatening the jury! He’s out of order, you’re out of order, this whole damn – “ 

BZZZZZZTTT!!! A piercing buzzer sounded, painfully bright lights strobed, and an announcement blared, “Legal cliché detected. Free throw awarded to other side.” 

LeBron snorted, “All I did was speak the truth! I guess Muncy can’t handle the – “ 

The Judge’s facial responsometers shifted to a frown as the alarm went off again. “Given that Mr. James clearly received his law degree from a cereal box, for the sake of time, I’m deactivating the Cliché-meter.” 

LeBron sheepishly said, “Judge, you put the ‘prudence’ in juris-prudence!” 

A klaxon blared. “Horrible pun detected. Strong ‘Settle Down’ Issued.” 

“Gentlemen, get on with it!” the Judge admonished. 

The ensuing hush was broken once again by the kind of creepy voice of T-Bone Muncy, the Eternally Damned, as his portrait hovered up from behind the prosecutor’s table to address the court. “As I was saying… Now, I may be just be a simple country lawyer whose eternally damned soul is trapped in this here portrait, but I know a case of Space Perfidy when I see it.” 

T-Bone paused for dramatic effect, not to catch his breath, because portraits don’t have to breathe. 

“And this, ladies and gentlemen and robots and aliens of the court, is the clearest case of Space Perfidy I have ever seen. Zhravelle Charvelle,” and here the portrait sort of cocked to the side so its upper corner pointed vaguely in the defendant’s direction, “left his partner Empress Eidas Nysidda Nylkoorb of Looneria,” and here the portrait sort of cocked in the other direction, “high and dry and bereft of that sweet, sweet Nitrogen! All she requests in recompense is for Zhravelle Charvelle to be made dead. Is that so much to ask for?” 

And with that, T-Bone Muncy’s portrait floated back to the prosecutor’s table. 

Just then, LeBron James leapt across the defense table like a guy who could jump really high and believes he can fly. 

“Folks, I only have one thing to say to you, and that is, ‘I don't read books much,’” LeBron said, quoting himself. “No further statements, your honor.” And then LeBron jumped back over the table like a cartoon rabbit playing basketball. 

There was a pause while Judgebot Ogden Gnash-5000 beeped and whirred, processing the words of both counsels. “Mr. Muncy, Mr. James, I now call the first witness to the stand. This court demands to see Ms. Stefanie Fleece!” BANG went the robo-gavel. 

LeBron strode to the witness box. “Can you please state your name for the Court?” 

The witness responded. “Stephanie Fleece.” She hoped this would work - LeBron had said that he had prepared by watching classic courtroom drama television shows and movies, such as LA Law, Law and Order, Boston Legal, Body of Evidence, Legally Blonde, and The Trial of the Incredible Hulk. He had experience. 

“And how,” LeBron confidently asked, “do you spell your first name?” 

Nervously, Stephanie responded. “With a p-h.” 

“Let the record show,” said LeBron, raising his voice for the camera-packed courtroom, “that the docket clearly refers to a ‘Stefanie Fleece’, spelled with an ‘f’, not a ‘p-h.’ This entire trial is a sham, predicated on T-Bone Muncy, the Eternally Damned, calling the wrong witness!” 

“You’re out of line!” said The Honorable Judgebot as he banged his gavel with his trademark air of authority. 

LeBron turned towards the Judgebot. “No, your Honor, you are the one out of line! Your entire extragalactic judicial system is based on a lie. You claim you seek the truth? You claim to want the truth? Well, you can’t handle the truth!” 

The court immediately broke out in disorder. Impromptu fistfights broke out and members of the press rushed to one of the few positronic communicator booths to report on the breaking development in the case. 

Judgebot banged his gavel to no avail. “Order, order!” before finally heaving a sigh, acknowledging that this matter would need to be dealt with some other way. 

“Counselors - in my quarters.” And with that, the Judgebot, basketball and nascent legal mind LeBron James, and the portrait of the long-dead legal scholar T-Bone Muncy, the Eternally Damned, vanished in the whirl of the court’s teleportation beam. 

* * *

Stefanie was confused. She was staring at someone who looked almost just like her. 

"Hey, you're pretty sexy," said the stranger. 

Stefanie stared and said "Uhhhhh." 

"But you're not a good conversationalist." 

Stefanie stared some more. 

The stranger hit Stefanie over the head with Zhravelle's co-MVP trophy. This was going to be easier than she thought. She went through Stefanie's pockets. 

Zhravelle walked in. He looked at her. He was confused. "Stefanie and... Stefanie?" 

"Yes, uh, well, actually, no." 

"Which one is it?" 

"Well, if you can believe it, we're identical twins and our parents named us both Stefanie." 

"That's confusing. Also I can't believe that you never mentioned it. I didn't even know you had a sister." 

"Yes, it is incredibly confusing. That is why I, your beloved Stefanie, had my name changed to Stephanie." 

"I'm confused." 

"It broke Stefanie's heart and she tried to stop and take my paperwork. I clearly had to hit her in the head." 

"I'm really confused." 

"About what?" 

"Should I call you Stephanie or Stefanie?" 

"Stephanie." 

"OK, Stephanie it is." said Zhravelle, and made out with Stephanie over the passed out body of Stefanie. 

Most people would have stopped to think about how Stephanie had clearly told him at least 26 stories about how she was an only child, but to be honest, Zhravelle wasn't a good listener. 

40

“Then it’s settled!” beeped the Judgebot. “The fate of this trial will be determined by COMBAT!” 

The door swung open and the judge’s chambers were filled with a magnificent light. Into the room floated a tall figure. It was an alien creature so strange and wondrous that an author trying to describe its appearance would have no choice but to throw up her hands in defeat. 

“I am The Gamemaster,” declared the creature. “Your dispute shall now be settled under my jurisdiction. You are to defeat your opponent in the honorable game of Exccryaaank!” 

Everyone in the room winced in discomfort. He had pronounced the word in the ancient Afmopian dialect. It sounded like a walrus chewing a license plate. 

“I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the rules,” said LeBron. 

“Perhaps you know it better as your Earth ‘basketball’?” 

LeBron’s jaw dropped. 

“You, your client, and one Warner Bros. cartoon character will be pitted against the prosecutor’s team in a traditional 3x3 game.” 

“Wait a minute,” LeBron interrupted. “Aliens playing basketball? Cartoon characters? This is just—” 

“Oh yes!” replied The Gamemaster proudly. “We got the idea from your documentary, Space Jam. For many years now we have been intercepting transmissions from your planet, learning all we can about you from your Earth programs.” 

The room winced again. He had pronounced it “progrums.” 

“So everything you know about humans you learned from our television and movies, which you think are documentaries?” 

“Yes! In fact, we got that idea from Galaxy Quest.” 

“I call Foghorn Leghorn!” Muncy snarled. 

Damn, thought LeBron. That will be hard to recover from. 

“Very well,” said The Gamemaster. “That means only one thing…BRING IT IN, GUYS!!!” 

At that moment, every alien from every planet, moon, asteroid, and spaceport came in with everything for a HUGE basketball game. 

* * *

Empress Nylkoorb burst into the workshop of Painmaker Belb, her finest designer of weaponry. At her side was Foghorn Leghorn. Nylkoorb's resentment of the rooster was fast approaching 'smother in sleep.' She had already instructed the handmaidens to hide all of her lasers. 

Belb elected not to question Foghorn's presence. He instead made some obescient motions and accompanying squelches. 

"Look boy, before we get started," Foghorn attempted to sidle up to Belb and speak discreetly, "I gotta tell you, boy, this lady -I say, this lady- she's a sweet gal but I don't think she has all her marbles." 

"With what challenge may my many works be of value, Most Tyrannical One?" Belb asked, trying to ignore Foghorn. 

"Now see here, son, that's no way to talk to a lady!" Foghorn objected, smacking Belb with a thick book. 

"Exccryaaank," Nylkoorb replied. "What do you have for me?" 

"Though I say it myself, Your Autocratic Oppressiveness, I have created the greatest Exccryaaank gear in all the cosmos!" 

"Wait a minute-" Foghorn said. 

"Show me." Nylkoorb disregarded Foghorn. 

"Of course, any halfway-decent Hurtprentice can forge a respectable Dribbleblade or Low-Post Spike, but behold my masterwork!" Belb opened a large metal trunk. 

"C-can it be?!" 

"YES! This is an Artisanally Hand-Crafted Multi-Phasic Pseudodimensional Slamdunkerizer!" Belb lifted a weapon from the case which resembled a bazooka with several smartphones glued to it. 

"That's it!" Foghorn smacked Belb with the book again. "This here's the Guidelines For Exccryaaak-Based Dispute Settlements! You gotta -I say, you gotta play by Earth rules! Are you catching what I'm pitching here? No weapons!" 

"No weapons?" Nylkoorb asked, shocked. 

"N-not even a single Bank Shotgun?" Belb asked. 

"Not even a Layup Razor!" 

Dejected, Belb returned his beautiful Artisanally Hand-Crafted Multi-Phasic Pseudodimensional Slamdunkerizer to its case. "Earth sucks," he whined. 

* * *

Many lightyears from Belb’s workshop, the large, white worm-like alien slithered from his lair. He opened a single red eye blearily and focused it on the viewscreen. There he could see… something? Hoops? A man… no, a robot in robes? And an orange ball? 

A chittering behind him caused him to turn in that direction. A smaller worm, not quite as white, held a bucket in her mouth. In the bucket sat a small mongoose. The mongoose chittered and looked about. 

The large worm slithered over to the smaller one and affectionately ran his feelers over hers. The two worms touched feelers for a bit, then stopped. 

“You’ve brought the special mongoose, I see,” he said, giving a warmish grin with his lithe mouth, his healthy, opaque nose clear in profile against the light of the screen. “Come now, pull up a cooler full of knick-knacks, and we can watch the game together.” 

The smaller worm, not yet blessed with the gift of speech, squelched affirmatively and hurried out of the room, returning about 57 seconds later with a rather large cooler filled to the brim with various odds and ends, and of course, knick-knacks. 

The larger worm adjusted the settings for the screen, which briefly showed an image of the ocean. The smaller worm squelched excitedly, and the larger worm nodded sagely. 

“Yes, the sea, the sea it is,” he said, finally returning to the appropriate channel and watching as the picture came into focus. Just then, as he watched a human woman approach the robot judge, two of his feelers twitched, and his eyes scanned backward. 

“Oh dear,” he chided in a voice that resembled, slightly, a laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t wreck the can on your way in, did you?” 

The smaller worm squelched happily. 

* * *

“Your Honor, if I may”, Stephanie asked the judge, “let me take a moment to remind the court what the stakes in this case really are.” 

“I’ll allow it.” Judge Ogden replied. 

Stephanie could not believe that worked! She’d only been a lawyer for less than a day and already sounded like a pro. If only her father had been here to see it. Perhaps the robot judge’s programming could be exploited in other ways? 

“Members of the jury, the stakes of this case are too important to be overlooked.” she began. 

If she was going to convince them in time, she’d have to bring in the heavy guns. Turning toward the jury, she decided it was now or never. Or maybe, it was too late. 

“Time crimes must be commensurate with their sentence! If a crime takes place at 1/60th the speed of our Earth time, so also must the penalty!” said Stephanie causing both the jury and the audience to murmur. 

“Ms Fleece, must I remind you that the formerly immutable laws of space and time are not on trial here.” said the robot Judge disdainfully. 

“I respectfully disagree, your Honor. When we say ‘40 to life’, whose life are we describing? Frankly you’re being xenophobic and earth-o-centric.” Stephanie pressed. 

“Caution councilor, this line of reasoning is out of order and if you don’t get back to the question at hand I’ll hold you in contempt.” the judge cautioned. 

“OUT OF ORDER!? YOU’RE OUT OF ORDER! THIS WHOLE COURT IS OUT OF ORDER!” Stephanie fumed. If a robot judge with 2.64 gigaflops of truth-judging ability couldn’t understand the importance of this point, they were doomed. Unless… 

Pistons hissing, Judgebot Gnash extended to full height, red light leaking from the flowing gaps of its robe. “This is your last warning! --D-d! Danger Will Robinson!” The bailiff ducked repeatedly to avoid the flailing gavel; so long as it didn’t strike the block, there was hope for mistrial! 

Scraping of hardwood and the faint wail of the eternally damned filled the space as Muncy’s portrait twitched in the chair. “Objection! Your honor, this woman is making a mockery of our justice system!” 

Lebron and Stephanie made eye contact and exchanged a nod. He rose to his feet. “In my client’s defense, I cite Washington Generals v. Harlem Globetrotters.” Passing a basketball to her, he started to whistle the first few bars of Sweet Georgia Brown. 

The Judgebot began to play the song in sync. 

Stephanie dribbled the ball between her shapely legs. She passed the ball back to Lebron, who juggled it behind his back. With a *spang!* it struck the Prosecution table, spun over Muncy’s portrait, and back into Stephanie’s hands. The prosecutor hissed, “I declare! That is a foul more damning than my pact with the Dark Lord!” 

The basketball spun on the tip of Stephanie’s finger. The glowing eyes and twitching mouthparts of the jury lent unfathomable expressions, but they were transfixed by her performance. She concentrated on the spectacle, and the familiar song faded into the background as the world slowed down. 

A sharp horn blast snapped her back to reality, and the orange sphere tumbled from her grasp, rolling away. Lebron was incredulous, gesturing at the twin zeroes on the wall. Smirking, Muncy’s portrait chuckled. 

Freshly rebooted, Judgebot intoned, “Shot clock violation,” and banged the gavel. The bailiff declared, “Hear ye, hear ye, halftime is upon us, brought to you by new Diet Galdum.” 

* * *

“It’s...over.” Zhteviknee thought, distraught. “We’re finished. There’s no way we can make up for that disastrous performance.” 

She glanced at herself in the mirror, tugging the glove off her hand. She glanced at her palm, tracing the lines as she thought back to all the decisions she’s made over the past months and years. 

“It all happened, and I couldn’t stop it. Could I have done anything differently? ” 

Her life decisions begin to flash before her eyes. Her relationship, which had imploded due to poor communication. That one unfulfilling job she stayed in for too long. The betrayal she had never gotten over. 

“Was I dwelling on one of these decisions too long? Was I distracted? Could I have helped more if I were as focused as I should have been?” 

One moment stuck out in her mind. Her chance at...she could only call it “Divinity.” A chance to put her earthly weaknesses behind her. It was clearly too late to accept the offer. Perhaps things would have gone differently if she had accepted it when it was offered. She could have used what she was offered and changed the inevitable outcome. Looneria had won. 

“I guess...I guess I should be getting back. The second half will be starting soon, and I need to give as much support as I can, or we’re definitely finished.” 

She glanced at her hand again and splashed her face with some water before slipping her glove back on. She adjusted her hair, nodded, and left the bathroom, heading back to the courtroom. 

* * *

But all that aside, the recent advent of a fully robotic judiciary had brought about a most unfortunate development - the rise of judge hacking, also known within the hacking community as “mistrialing”. 

There was an online community devoted to sharing known security weaknesses of the latest robotic judge models. The hackers were always one step ahead of the court’s cyber security experts. 

Due to the illegal nature of their hobby, these hackers communicated with one another solely through the Dark Web 2.1, which was just like the regular Dark Web except with fewer sites devoted to reenacting obscure scenes from terrible books. 

The most famous incident was linked to the legendary hacker, known in Dark Web 2.1 circles only as "M0N60053" (pronounced mongoose) The incident took place during the divorce hearing between Trevor and Raquel Ochmonek, the couple’s main point of contention was who would retain custody of the decayed remains of an alien who had died after being caught in an antique bear trap in the couple’s garage in 1991. 

During Raquel’s emotionally wrenching testimony regarding her attachment to the mangled alien remains, the early Judgetron 5000 unit which presided over the case stood up and began to sing ABBA’s 1976 hit “Dancing Queen”, on a loop, until its power was eventually disconnected by frantic court IT experts. 

The trial was halted and in the ensuing confusion, the tattered alien remains were mislabeled and lost forever in one of many cavernous warehouses owned by the Los Angeles Superior Court - ironically denying both parties ownership of the property they both treasured above all else. As a result of their shared grief at the loss, the Ochmoneks reconciled and remained married. 

“M0N60053” would eventually claim credit for the prank, but his location and identity were never discovered. 

41

“Enough of this procedural nonsense,” the Empress snarled. “Drukarn, bring forth the Shadow Moon from beyond the Veil and end this rabble at once. I want my nitrogen and I want it now!” The long-suffering voice of reason in the Empress’ ear sighed and shook his head. The weary chamberlain was one of the few who could directly speak contrary to the Empress’ desires, though it had brought him close to death more times than he cared to recall. 

“Your majesty,”, he began”, “we can’t simply sidestep the Gamemaster’s decree. We have to let this pickup game play out, at least until the last ten minutes of the fourth quarter, in which case, we can start making our way out to the parking lot to beat traffic.” The Empress sneered at the poor decision to not spring a little extra for valet parking. Her searing gaze settled upon Stephanie as she drank a refreshing Galdum and casually chatted with Jack Nicholson behind the bench, who always had front row season tickets for some reason. 

“This gloved human, the troublemaker. What is her name, Drukarn?”, she asked. 

“Stefanie Fleece, your majesty, though the spelling of her name is hard to nail dow-” the Empress raised a hand to silence Drukarn’s attempted clarification. 

“I care not for her semantics, you fool. She must have a weakness. Bring me that pathetic creature the guards picked up in the hall seeking an audience. What did it call itself? An Oh-kie?”, she drew out as she pondered the foreign word. Drukarn nodded to a nearby guard who disappeared from the skybox and returned with a disheveled, portly man wearing a sausage grease stained pearl buttoned shirt, bolo tie, pants straining not to tear apart, and a familiar pair of filthy cowboy boots. 

“Bob Zandar, Okie proud, at yer service, ma’am”, he said humbly. “I hear you got yerself a clap-havin’ Jezebel problem?”, he chuckled. The obscure reference from the critically acclaimed Dave Chappelle sketch comedy show from twenty years prior fell on deaf ears. The guard struck Zandar from behind, for having the audacity to address the Empress directly, and began to raise his Pain-Staff for another blow when the Empress raised her finger to stop the beating. She smiled, putting the Okie at ease. 

“You poor, unkempt thing. Do you know this woman? What is her weakness?,” she asked. Bob pulled out all the charm his upbringing in the Sooner state could muster as he beamed proudly. 

“Well, yer majesty,” he began, “for all her super powered legs, ol’ Steffers can’t abide saccharin. Gives her charlie horses so bad, she passes out. Figured it out at an office cookout when she shotgunned a Tab instead of a Coke by mistake. Luckily for us, with the delicious taste of Diet Galdum, she didn’t seem to notice that I taped a regular Galdum label over the Diet Ga-” he paused as Stefanie collapsed on the court floor, screaming in agony as both of her calves began contorting muscles in ways not meant for the human body to endure. “Welp, I suppose my werk here is done. No reward needed. I best be hittin’ the ol’ dusty trail...” Bob began to turn, but bumped directly into the guard. Now it was Drukarn’s turn to smile. 

“Indeed your work here is done,” he chimed. He then turned to the eager guard and nodded. “Dispose of it.” As Bob Zandar’s pained cries for help couldn’t be heard over the wails of shrieking pain Stefanie projected into the whole building as people rushed to assist her, he couldn’t help but marvel at the irony of being denied by her once again as blow after blow of the Pain-Staff bludgeoned him into a pulp… 

* * *

Stephanie’s body finally gave out. But as her knees buckled and her vision dimmed, she suddenly found herself standing in a void of pure white. 

“Be welcome, my child.” said a voice behind her. Stephanie swiftly turned to face the stranger. Upon seeing their immaculate visage and luscious white hair she immediately realized in whose presence she was. She gazed into God’s deep emerald eyes and then down at her supple tanned cleavage which was tightly hugged by a long flowing white robe. 

“Oh. My. Self! It’s like totally awesome to finally meet you, gurl!” exclaimed God. 

Stephanie sighed. “If only it were under better circumstances. I’m at my wits end, my life is over. I’m a pathetic weakling and I’ve failed everyone. You. My father. Zhravelle. America. The World.” 

“Don’t be a Silly Sally, Steph. You’re a total boss bitch. A strong, beautiful, independent, intelligent, brave, talented and charismatic woman. And I should know, I made you in my image after all,” said God as she silently chuckled to herself. 

Stephanie’s chest surged with pride. “You know what, you’re right, I’m ready to get back into the fight and finish this!” 

* * *

Stephanie awoke in a white double bed to her radio alarm clock blaring the song Iz pekla do raja by Jan Plestenjak. She thought back to the weeks, months and years she had spent here. God had taught her all there was to know about life, love, the universe and pleasure. And now she was finally ready to leave and save the world. She gently kissed God’s cheek so as not to wake her and whispered “I’ll be back soon, my love…” before departing through Heaven’s secret back door and re-entering her awaiting earthly body, frozen in time. Just as she had left it. 

* * *

The PeepScreen next to the door suddenly lit up, interrupting them. 

“Jiffy Orb!” 

“Who?” Zhravelle didn’t recognize the face but even on the black and white monitor the trademark bright orange pillbox hat of a Jiffy Orb messenger was unmistakable. 

“Jiffy Orb! Communications Orbs hand-delivered in under a minute!” 

Zhravelle swigged the last of his can of Galdum, tossed the can aside and opened the door. He propped himself up against the splintered door frame. “Will this take long?” 

“Certainly not, sir! In fact, if I’m not on to my next delivery forty-five seconds from now, my employment contract will be terminated!” The messenger’s cheerful grin faded, but just for an instant. “I’m The0!” He tipped his hat, smiling again. “And I have an urgent message from–” 

“Well, that’s wonderful, Theo, but as you can see we’re kind of in the middle of” – Zhravelle motioned to the wreckage strewn about the room as he cracked open another can of the thick, protein-dense fluid and took a long pull – “something.” 

“The0.” The messenger said as a wave of dull incomprehension washed across Zhravelle’s rugged face. “The-zero. Not Theo.” The messenger glanced down at his watch. “Anyway, I have a message for you from the Royal Council of Looneria. Well, the former Royal Council I mean, before the whole place, you know, popped. If you could just sign–” 

“Zrav!” a woman’s voice shouted from somewhere further back in the apartment. “Your dog is so fat! How come she is so FAT?” 

“She’s not fat!” Zhravelle shouted back over his shoulder, before catching himself. Stephanie had him doing it now. He sighed. “And don’t call it a she. We’ve talked about this.” 

“Whatever,” the voice called back. “She is fat.” 

“Please, sir. If you don’t sign for this orb in the next 15 seconds…” Beads of sweat had begun to form under the band of the iconic Jiffy Orb hat. 

“Sure, Sport. Let me look at that thing.” Zhravelle grabbed the shiny amber orb from the messenger’s hand and fumbled around with it. Even sober – and he was not sober – he was no good at finding the hidden switch that activated the message contained inside. It made his head hurt. 

“Look!” the messenger interrupted. “In the interest of time, why don’t I just tell you what the damned ball says. When Looneria went up, ownership of the full TransGalactic assets belonging to the Royal Family transferred to the last living heir of the Royal Family, the last Loon of Looneria.” The device around The0’s wrist flashed a bright crimson and began to beep loudly. “As the sole living heir of the Royal Family, you, Zhravelle, Lost Loon of Looneria, have just inherited–“ 

“Living Loons?” Zhravelle blinked. “What?” But his query elicited no reply. Where the messenger had just stood, a delicate rain of fine gray ash floated silently to the floor. 

* * *

The buzzer rang out loud, but LeBron had already left the ground, ball in hand. Zhravelle -- no, all of humanity -- depended on the basketball making its way into the hoop. There was just one obstacle between LeBron and salvation: Foghorn Leghorn. 

The chanticleer leapt toward James, but had clearly misjudged his angle of attack. His feathery arms swung wide while his beak made contact with the Nike/LeBron branded size 15 sole of his opponent. LeBron used the contact to hoist himself easily over the rim and finish the game, 100 to 99. 

Back in the courtroom, watching the game live via LoonieCast, the reaction was earsplitting. Loonians and their allies were booing while the defense team were cheering themselves hoarse. Judgebot Ogden-Nash banged his gavel repeatedly. Each bang was accompanied by an over-amplified robotic "ORDER!" Nobody in the courtroom took heed. 

Amidst this chaos, some number of attending Loonians pulled out blaster pistols and opened fire on Zhravelle. A stray laser blast ricocheted off of a wall and then into the screaming Judgebot's head. Sparks sprayed out onto the court documents which all ignited quickly. 

Fire spread quickly and smoke filled the air. The Loonians' accuracy only worsened, their errant shots streaking through the smoke like an overzealous laser show at a club. Stefanie dropped to the floor to avoid blaster shots and keep her lungs free of the smoke. 

As Stefanie crawled toward the exit, she felt a pair of meaty hands reach under her armpits and effortlessly pick her up. Her carrier quickly exited the courtroom of smoke and lasers, then placed her on her feet. 

With her vision returning, Stefanie smiled as she recognized Varl as her savior, with Zhravelle just a few steps behind. 

"Zhravelle!" she exclaimed. But he had no time for pleasantries. 

“Quickly, to my ship!” shouted Zharvelle. 

“Which one?!” asked Stephanie. The massive spaceport bustled with a veritable armada of sky cabs, air cabs, air busses, sky buses, space trolleys, atmosphere RVs, space moving vans, and atmo motorcycles. They’d never be able to find Zharvelle’s ship in time. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” quipped Varl as he ran past her in a dead sprint. 

Then she saw it. The most magnificent spaceship she had ever seen. It was part Delorian, part Millennium Falcon, and all Zharvelle. 

Classic, she thought as she took off after Varl. Painting the entire ship in the Ghostbuster’s logo was a particularly inspired touch. 

Dodging lasers that inexplicably fired at slower than light speed, the three fugitives boarded the Zharvelle’s ship. Zharvelle put on his pilot’s vest. Varl donned her copilot’s bandolier, draping it over her surprisingly ample belly. She thrust the traditional moisture farmer’s tunic toward Stephanie. When Stephanie looked at it in confusion, Varl grunted, “Put it on. It’ll help you as you continue your transformation from a nobody stuck on some backwater planet into a powerful space wizard who helps save the galaxy and finally resolves their daddy issues.” 

“What?” 

“Look, it’ll make a lot more sense in the sequels.” 

“Sequels?” 

“Just put it on so I can give you this laser sword and we can get out of here.” 

“Laser…? Oh, never mind,” Stephanie sighed, putting on the tunic and taking the belt and weird metal cylinder Varl held out. 

Suddenly, they heard a loud explosion at the back of the ship. 

“Oh no!” cried Varl. “The engines!” 

“Engines?” shouted Zharvelle from the pilot’s seat. “Where we’re going we don’t need engines.” 

With a single slender finger Zharvelle flipped on the Flux Capacitor, deftly avoiding a large red button marked “Danger.” 

There was a pregnant pause as the Flux Capacitor sputtered to life, then finally switched on completely. The entire cabin let out a huge sigh of relief as the entire screen filled with the expected silhouette of plaid lines. Zharvelle turned around and gave the rest of them a devil-may-care grin, trademarked on three planets. 

“There, you see? All fine!” 

Nanoseconds later, an incredibly loud siren that sounded like someone had put the Ghostbusters’ main theme song through an auto-tune began to blare. 

“What’s that?” Stefanie cried. 

Varl stared at Zharvelle in disgust, her arms deftly maneuvering into a pretzel-cross position with its four arms; sadly there was no beer cheese to complete the image. “Danger.” 

Zharvelle looked hurt. “We mostly got away!” 

The alarm continued to blare. 

“...mostly.” 

Stefanie glanced between both of them; her eyes were a ping-pong match of confusion. “What’s going on?” 

A viewscreen popped onto the spaceship’s main array. The Empress cackled, her filigree press-on-nails twinkling as the recorder panned across her ample bosom. She smiled at the ship’s three occupants. 

“Zharvy. Did you really think I’d let you get away?” 

Zharvelle belched loudly. 

Varl sneered at the Empress’s visage. 

“We’re not interested in whatever you’re cooking up. You already gave Zharvelle indigestion; please don’t invoke diarrhea.” 

The Empress of Looneria dimpled. “Oh my sweet pet, you must be mistaken if you think that I’m letting you or your partner get away from me so easily.” 

The alarms on the ship changed their tune to that of the Terran 1960’s “Wild Wild West” theme; their change signified the worsening situation. The empress touched one of the gems on her wrist. 

“I would have only sold you a blender for 19.99,” she purred. The weapons tracker began to beep. “But wait… there’s more.” 

The control room pulsed red. ISBN Alert. Again. And Varl was tired. 

* * *

While Zhravelle and Stefanie (the real Stefanie) yelled at each other in a panic, Varl heaved a sigh. He looked forward to entering the birthing chamber, after all this nonsense, after the last tendrils of reality came back together, all he wanted was to pass these puplets like a cluster of kidney stones and reflect on the events of the past four years. Or had it been four days? How long was the typical presidential term on this planet, anwyay? 

Detonating the Time Bomb had been a spectacularly bad idea, but the dust, it seemed, was finally settling. Varl hadn’t counted on collapsing the multiverse, but it was a risk with a bomb so large. The effect had been nearly catastrophic, a vortex that scraped space time around the event and jumbled causality in ways that had surprised even him. Too many Stefanies, in Varl’s opinion. Way too many. He'd had to banish most of them himself, but they went quietly and without complaint. 

In order to collapse the dimensions and return the world back to normal, Varl had had to absorb most of the psychic debris himself, ingesting as much of the anomaly as he could, in an act that he knew would result in pregnancy. 

Pity Jutt Strake had been at ground zero. Varl wasn't sure what that effect that would have on the brood, but as long as they didn't come out looking like sea lions, he'd be okay. But would they all be normal puplets? For Varl, this was uncharted territory. 

Speaking of which, Varl hadn’t even mentioned the pregnancy to Zhravelle. Was there time? Was there a point? Was there even a moment to blurt out the good news? 

“The missiles are thirty light-seconds away from impact!” Somehow Stephanie could still sound sexy even when panicked. 

“Tell me something I don’t know!” Zharvelle barked back, his alien hands turning dials and flipping switches in the blink of an eye. 

“I’m pregnant!” Zarl offered. 

For a second everything in the control room came to a halt. 

“Are you serious?” Zharvelle asked. Stephanie’s jaw hung open. 

Suddenly somber, Zarl said, “There are two things I always take serious:. Galdum and babies.” 

Stephanie was now grinning ear to ear. Zharvelle shook his head slowly. “Why you dirty son of a--” 

He was cut off by the piercing alarm. 

“Three light-seconds away! Now’s the time to earn that Nobel prize, chief!” Stephanie said. 

He took a deep breath. 

He took one last look at Looneria and pressed the glowing red button labeled “DANGER.” 

Zhravelle lifted his long, slender, alien-finger from the button. 

“D-did it work?” he gurgled. “Did our TransSpace Teleportal machine move Looneria out of the way of those ISBNs (InterStellar Ballistic Nukes)?!” 

Stephanie’s eyes traversed the holographic viewscreen. 

“Yes,” she sighed. 

“Why don’t I trust that tone?” asked Varl, wryly. 

She couldn’t meet Zhravelle’s gaze for two minutes. Then she said, “The space computer calculates that we successfully moved the planet Looneria approximately 42 parsecs due East.” 

Zharvelle scanned his memory. Fortunately he had memorized his star charts back in the Academy (Thank the suns for Professor Xermort’s stern lectures!). He quickly calculated the distance and then his mouth popped open in horror. 

“That would put her squarely in the middle of…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. 

It was the snarky Zarl who broke the silence. 

“Well, it’s like the old saying goes: Out of the space pan; into the Death Dimension!” 

They couldn’t help but laugh. 

42

“You stay right here. I’ll fix the next round.” She planted a kiss on Zhravelle’s mid-forehead. “But after only one more drink! I’m not sure if the chlorine is good for your Nobel Peace Prize.” 

Zhravelle looked down at the medallion. “It guess it may be turning slightly green. Here.” He pulled it over his head and handed it to Stephanie. 

“I’ll put it next to your NBA Finals MVP trophy,” she said. 

“Co-MVP!” Zhravelle corrected. “LeBron did score sixty points in game three! Stephanie rolled her eyes and laughed, then kissed him again before standing and stepping out of the hot tub. 

“I’m a lucky Cardraxian,” Zhravelle thought to himself as he watched her walk across the patio. “And maybe it’s just me, but I think she’s even sexier since she changed the spelling of her name.” As Stephanie walked through the door frame into the kitchen, the autodryer kicked in, blasting warm torrents of super-compressed air all over her body. 

Stephanie nearly jumped out of her bikini. “Dammit! I am still not used to that thing!” 

“Sure does keep the tile dry though!” Zhravelle joked. He turned to his hot tub-side Hubble telescope. Lowering an eye to the viewscope, he peered out into the part of space where Looneria used to be. It was really fortunate that the Nobel people hadn’t considered transporting an entire populated planet into the Death Dimension to be a disqualifying event. Too bad the American voters hadn’t seen it that way. Oh well, he was sure that the Being of Pure Light they’d elected to replace him would do a great job, once it found a permanent corporeal form and developed basic language capabilities. 

A squeal of delight from indoors snapped him away from the telescope. “Zhravelle! Varl finally had her puplets!” 

She reappeared in the door frame holding a football-sized lump, which she nearly dropped when the autodryer yet again caught her by surprise. 

“Dammit!” she shrieked. 

Zhravelle floated over to the other side of the hot tube to get a better look at the puplet. 

“That’s so strange,” he said. “From the neck down, it looks just like Varl. But is that…” 

Stephanie finished his thought. “I think it is. I think that’s Jutt’s head!” 

“That means that he…” 

“And Varl. Yeah. Gross!” 

“You were right to leave him, Stephanie.” 

“You’re damn right I was!! But I’m sorry, I went inside to get you a drink, didn’t I?” 

“I’ll come with you. This heat is making me lightheaded.” He was a touch lightheaded, but it wasn’t because of the hot tub. 

Zhravelle followed Stephanie inside, bracing himself for the autodryer and stifling a laugh when it once again caught Stephanie off guard. 

Stephanie set the puplet down in Varl’s birthing chamber next to its five brothers and sisters, all of whom bore the unmistakable face of the disgraced Federal Marshall. 

“Now, I believe it was a double Galdum you wanted?” Stephanie asked, opening up the fridge. 

“Yes, that sounds great, but first, there’s something I needed to ask you.” 

“Uh huh? What’s that?” she replied as she rooted around for a can. 

Zhravelle took a deep breath, but just then the countertop Signal Orb lit up bright amber. 

“You are needed,” the metallic voice intoned. 

“Later,” Zhravelle replied. He waved one hand to dim the org, while the other one fidgeted with the small jewelry box that contained his grandmother’s ring. Finally, the time was right. 

THE END

Jack Ells hard at work in the fifteenth century estate he won in a poker game.

Notes

1. ‡Prior to the Carbon Wars of 32764, the Council had run a tight empire, carefully managing the systems that provided stable information. If you were on, say, Tuffnel 4 and wanted to catch a concert on Hubbins 23, you just dialed the easy-to-remember number of 1-234-5678-AQü?! whereupon a pleasantly cold voice would say: 

At the tone, Galactic Central Time will be: 32764 Loondeci 12th, 12:04PM 

Followed by a pitch that pierced your eardrums and frightened your pets. 

The Wars went on for 9 or (some say) 10 years. Coincidentally, dates on central computers were stored such that 32767 was the highest value possible. The “Y32K problem” fix was interrupted by the war and when the first day of 32768 rolled around, it was stamped on records as the 31st of Loondeci, -1, with official clock and calendar counting backwards thereafter. 

The Wars didn’t end until -4, and the Council decided fixing the problem would cause more trouble than just doing the math. Varl, not knowing math at all, ended up being either 5 minutes early or 2 days late for everything. 

And this is how Varl came to “volunteer” to accompany Zhravelle.