Sunday, May 30, 2021

 My Heart (or Anyway One of Those Organs the Blood Rushes to) for the Highlands

 

STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION

S7 E14 "Sub Rosa" 

 

Beverly has a slight attack of the vapors

This is my favorite really stinky ST:TNG episode. It was Season 7, it was written by Brannon Braga and Jeri Taylor, and it was oh-so-obviously conceived as "Dr. Crusher Runs from the Forbidding Mansion in a Nightgown and There's One Light On in the Tower".

 We open on Beverly delivering the eulogy for her Nana on Space Scotland (the planet has a name, but believe me, it's Space Scotland). At this point I am going to have to mention Jean-Luc, who is fussing around in his dress uniform so uncomfortably it's almost rude. He looks like he forgot to visit the little Captain's room after that last Earl Grey.

Anyway, Beverly finishes speaking, and all her Nana's friends circle around to pay their respects. One of them leaves a flower on top of the coffin. Beverly looks up to see this long-haired Heathcliff-lookin' dude as he glances sadly back, and oh me, oh my, I do declare, cue that Jerry Goldsmith music!

After we come back from the intro, Beverly asks Troi if she noticed hunk boi, then gets her to go along up to Nana's house. The colony's governor, who officiated at the funeral, takes the opportunity to wheedle Picard into checking out their terraforming equipment, which hasn't been serviced in like a hundred years. For some reason, the governor is an alien, and this is so inexplicable it's actually brought up in-script. He tells Picard he vacationed in Scotland as a boy and fell in love, but it's just weird. There's no reason at all for it, unless they had a rubber forehead quota to fill that week, or they wanted to make sure we remembered this was innn spaaaaaaccccccccce.

Back at Nana's house, Troi remarks that Nana had amazing green eyes -- this is what's known as Chekhov's Eyes, kids -- and Beverly says all the women in her family had green eyes except for her and her mom. Then they discuss this candle that's been a family heirloom for generations, and I'm assuming they mean the metal frame, because if it's 800 years old they'd have to get refills, and I'm really hoping Goop's out of business in the 24th century. Deanna tells her if she's done with the exposition dump she's gonna book, so Beverly takes Nana's journal upstairs to read.

Then Groundskeeper Willie (shut up, it's basically him!) walks in the front door and blows out the candle, and Bev comes back down and tells him to get out. He tells her to get rid of the candle and get out of the house, and she's like, "whatever, weirdo," and he's all but screaming, "yer DOOMED!!"

Back on the Enterprise-D, Geordi and Data tell the Governor the colony's weather system is off a bit for some reason. Bev tells Jean-Luc about Nana's 30-something lover she's been reading about, and since Nana was 100 when she kicked it, Picard is like, "good on Nana!" Also his name is "Ronin", which I'm pretty sure is not Scots.

To compress a bit of this mess: Bev has a very erotic dream (or was it?); Deanna is a bit jealous (d'ohh, stupid ol' hairy Imzadi!), but tells Bev people work through grief in different ways, especially if they read their gramma's sex diaries right before they go to bed; Bev reconciles with "Willie" at Nana's grave, and he tells her the house is haunted, and not to light the candle, it's where the ghost lives; the grave is suddenly covered with flowers and there's a giant thunderstorm because fuck you, Geordie and Data, is why; she finally meets Ronin, and he starts mind-controlling her, the easy way, with orgasms.

Okay, Bev's acting kind of weird and Troi is a little worried, and there's fog on the bridge because, apparently, ghosteses. Willie is found in Engineering trying to turn off the power connection between the ship and the colony, but he's killed by green lightning. Ronin convinces Beverly to light the candle.

Back on the ship, Bev locks her door, lights the candle, and squirms around like a hornypants teenager for what seems like a minute and a half. Then Ronin shows up, turns into a green mist and merges with her, and she seems to like it A LOT.

Then she resigns from Starfleet and beams down to live on the planet, to Jean-Luc's shock. I couldn't help but think it would have been really funny if Wesley was still on board. "Mommy's going to live with her demon lover, hon, be good!"

Geordie and Data determine there's a spot on the planet where the same energy that's messing up the weather is coming from, and surprise, it's Nana's grave! Jean-Luc beams down and finally meets Ronin. He asks him all sorts of suspicious questions. Ronin thinks Picard is just trying to cock block him, and to be honest, dude has a point. Picard is going to ask permission from the governor to exhume Nana's body. Ronin is like, "NO!!", and green-lightnings him. Ronin's like, hurry we have to stop them, but Bev's all, "No, he's dying, 'ma doctor, plus he's probly Wesley's dad!"

Data and Geordie are exhuming Nana, and for once they do something really smart. Instead of digging, they just beam her coffin to the surface -- noice! Then Nana's eyes pop open, and they're glowing green! She doesn't even look dead, it's just an old lady who green-lightnings them both.

Ronin gets there, followed by Bev (she already saved Picard). Bev tells him to stop, he lightnings Geordie again and says he'll kill him. (At some point, he stops controlling Nana's body and she just ragdolls back into the coffin, it's pretty funny.) Anyway, long story short, Beverly phasers the candle, then Ronin. Bye, Ronin! Now she can presumably finally take care of Geordie. (Data will be fine, they can just ding the dents out of him later.)

In the end, we don't even find out what Ronin really was. An alien on earth in the 1600s? A real g-g-ghost? ("something something anaphasic", hell with you, Braga.) Bev is philosophic, saying that at least he really loved all those women in her family tree, and they him. Pretty sure that's not how consent works, Bev, but okay.

Thank you, hope you enjoyed this report on the reason my crush on Gates McFadden got WAY worse after this episode! 😂





 

Monday, August 17, 2020

Ultima Fog Hoop

  
     "ONLY 1% OF PEOPLE WILL GET THIS RIGHT WITHOUT GOOGLING!!"

     Ferdie sighed. God, why had he ever made the mistake of friending any of his family members on Facebook? These quiz things were always so damn easy.

     Ah, well, he smiled, at least it isn't anything political. And I can always lord my 10 out of 10 over the rest of 'em, cry-laugh emoji. He clicked the link. Huh. "foghoop.com" -- figured it would be BuzzFeed or something.

     He was immediately stuck on the very first question. "Scottish for uncle or friend"? How the hell was he supposed to know that? He'd never heard or read any of the four choices offered, either. After spending entirely too much time deliberating whether to just open a new tab and cheat, he clicked a random box and the next question appeared.

     It was some kind of complex mathematical equation. Physics, maybe? Fuck. Where had his mom even found this thing? One of the answers wasn't even a formula, it just said, "Greetings, Starfighter!" in the box.

     Hardee-freaking-har, quiz, he thought. Bemused and a bit grumpy, he clicked it.

      All of the questions were like that, either random and very specialized trivia or complex problems which probably required degrees in several sciences. He couldn't even hazard an educated guess at most of them.

     Glumly resorting to "eeny-meeny-miney-moe", he clicked his final choice, and a box labelled "Calculating Score..." popped up, with one of those rotating blue circles in it that supposedly assured you the website was actually doing something computery.

     This went on for several minutes.

     "Oh, come on," Ferdie breathed. After all that, the damn site was borked? Annoyed, he moused up to close the tab and forget the whole thing.

     The rotating blue circle suddenly turned blood-red. A beam of light shot out of the monitor, bathing him in head-to-toe crimson.

     Ferdie screamed and vanished in a scintillating mist of pixels and scan lines.

* * *

     The away team stared up at the great, glowing arch of the Guardian of Forever. At its timeworn apex, someone or something had carved the enigmatic inscription: "ULTIMA FOG HOOP"

     "Analysis, Mr. Spock?" murmured Kirk.

     Spock frowned at his tricorder screen. "The lettering is definitely the Latin alphabet, Captain, but the phrase itself would seem to make no sense. Tricorder readings indicate the mist coalescing off the inside of the arch is simple water condensation." He turned dials and pushed buttons, the tricorder booping and beeping. "Terran historical archives list "FOGHOOP" as a brand of artificial fog maker, evidently used in your primitive 20th century motion entertainments to add 'atmosphere' to a scene." The first officer arched an eyebrow. "I rather doubt they were responsible for this."

      "Bones?"

     "Well, don't look at me, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a bloody SFX coordinator!" grumped McCoy.

     "Och," breathed Scotty, rolling his eyes. "Why dinnae we just ask th' beastie?"

     "Excellent suggestion, Mr. Scott," grinned Kirk, turning to face the ancient machine. "Guardian," he intoned.

     "'SUP?" came the basso profundo voice of the Guardian.

     The landing party exchanged quick, quizzical glances.

     "Can you explain the inscription on your arch for us?" continued Kirk.

     "NAH."

     "Is anyone else getting kind of freaked the fuck out right now?" whispered McCoy.

     The mists inside the portal suddenly thickened and parted, and a rather statuesque young green woman wearing rather a minimum of clothing stepped out of them.

     "It's mah niece," said a shocked Scotty. "Fer th' love o' God, Ferdie, cover y'self, lass!" he yelled.

     "I am for you, Jim Kirk," Ferdie purred, slinking slowly towards him.

     "That... doesn't even make any sense," he protested.

     "Ye keep yer hands off her, ye great soddin' wankstain!" roared Scott, charging him.

     "Scotty, NO!" Bones hollered.

     "Guardian!" yelled Spock. "Is this your doing?"

     "TOTES MAGOTES," affirmed the Guardian.

     Spock suddenly sat down on a handy broken column. He seemed to have a very bad headache.

     Kirk and Scott were meanwhile rolling all around the dirt in front of the Guardian, wrestling very ineffectually. The air around Ferdie shimmered slightly, and suddenly she was a robed alien with a great big veiny bald head. She put her thumbs in her ears and waggled her hands at them, sticking out her tongue for good measure.

    "Oh my God," gasped McCoy. "Jim, we've been tricked!" he yelled. "This isn't the Guardian's planet, IT'S TALOS IV!!"

     "MORE LIKE TOOTS MAGOOTS, AMIRITE?" laughed the Guardian. Kirk paused in shock, allowing Scotty to land a rather lame two-handed punch to his sternum, which nonetheless sent him spinning helplessly into the portal.

     The last thing he saw before the mists closed around him was Captain Christopher Pike, the light on the front of his travel chair blinking "NO" again and again and again and again and...

* * *

>south
Maze
This is part of a maze of twisty little passages, all alike.
Your sword is glowing with a faint blue glow.

>southeast
Cyclops Room
This room has an exit on the northwest, and a staircase leading up.
A cyclops, who looks exactly like the ogre from the Shrek movies, except for the one eye, blocks the staircase. From his state of health, and the bloodstains on the walls and the donkey skeleton in the corner, you gather that he is not very friendly, though he likes people.
Your sword has begun to glow very brightly.

>say "ulysses"
The cyclops' trumpety-looking little ear things twitch slightly. He has begun to drool noticeably.

>say "odysseus"
The cyclops has produced a knife and fork from somewhere. He advances hungrily.

>say "foghoop?"
The cyclops stops in his tracks and grins broadly, revealing a set of choppers that would probably look right at home in Arlington National Cemetery. "Ferdie!" he yells happily. "Good t'see yeh, laddie! How's yer Mum doin'?" He picks you up in his enormous arms to give you a great big bear hug.
Unfortunately, this powderizes every single bone in your body.

   ****  You have died  ****

>fuck
You can't even do that.

>look
Cyclops Room
This room has an exit on the northwest, and a staircase leading up.
A very weepy cyclops is sitting in the corner mumbling to himself and gently caressing a donkey skull.

>up
You can't go that way.

>northwest
You can't go that way.

>quit
You wish.

* * *

     Superman breathed a sigh of relief, and set the Phantom Zone projector down on the roof of the Daily Planet building. "Well, it was touch-and-go for awhile, but we did it. Good work, everyone!"

     Everyone cheered and clapped, except for Jimmy Olsen, who was lying in the shadow of the Planet's globe with his limbs all bent in odd directions.

     "Chew mah banger, yeh great blue walloper!" he screamed.

     Lois gasped and turned a bit red. Perry's cigar fell out of his mouth. Superman looked hurt and a bit confused. "There's no need for that kind of language, Jimmy. Also, why are you speaking like that? I thought you had Danish ancestry?"

     "Yeh severed mah spine with yer fookin' heat vision!"

     "It was the only way to trick my evil Kryptonian niece, Foh-Gu, back into the Zone, Jim. If she saw I was capable of doing that to my best pal, she wouldn't hesitate to think I'd kill her if she didn't go."

     "Bollocks!"

     "Besides, Jimmy," added Lois brightly, "you'll be right as rain once Superman flies you to his Fortress and puts you into the autodoc he brought back from the 30th Century!"

     "Bite me bawsack, hoor! It hurt like a muther!"

     "Now, see here, Olsen..."

     "Stick that cigar up yer arse, White, I quit!"

     "Jimmy, you don't mean that!" cried Lois, her eyes full of hurt tears. "Where's Clark, I bet he can talk some sense into you!"

     "That's Clark Kent, right there!" yelled Jimmy, pointing as best he could at Superman. "It's a fookin' pair o' glasses, ya blind shites!"

     "He's, uh, obviously delusional from the pain!" Superman chuckled nervously. "I'd better be getting him to the Fortress ASAP!" He quickly scooped up Jimmy and flew north.

     Somewhere over Greenland, his grip on Jimmy faltered alarmingly. "Ohhhh," he gasped, "so w-weak... must b-be... Kryptonite..." He winked evilly.

     "No! Please, pal, I'm beggin' yeh!" Jimmy cried. "I'll tell 'em anything..."

     "It's like you said, 'pal', they're not the sharpest tools in the shed. I'll just tell them you're on vacation in the bottle city of Kandor, that ought to hold them for a month or so..."

     It seemed like the fall took a very, very long time. Then the entire universe crinkled into a ball and crushed him.

* * *

     "Edit #5,271,009? God damn!"

     Ferdie pulled the sheet of paper out of her ancient IBM Selectric, wadded it up and threw it at the trash bin. It didn't even hit the rim, but it did scare her cat out from under the desk.

     Some writer she was!  She'd spent months, hell, almost a whole year revising her cruddy erotic fanfic, and she hadn't even gotten any of the characters boning yet! Why did she have to be such an unbelievable perfectionist?

     She sighed and rubbed her temples. She had another headache. Seemed like she got a lot of headaches lately.  Probably best to take some Advil and do something relaxing for a change.

     After downing her pills with some juice, she flooped onto the bed and picked up her Sunday edition of the Foghoop York Times (Wait, what? Ah, I really am loopy today, she thought), already folded open to the crossword puzzle. She uncapped her Pilot Precise (pencils were for losers) and decided to work on those little connecting words that were always such a damn pain. The funky ones from some other language or, heaven forfend, archaic.

     Let's seeeeee, she thought. 49 Across, three letters, starts with "E", definition - why, of course, Scot. word, definition: uncle or... friend...

     Why did that sound so familiar?

     ...and something in her mind suddenly went "click", and a bright light shone all around him...

* * *

     "Ferdinand! Ye're awake, laddie!"
     The face of his kindly old Uncle Angus hovered above him, tears streaming down his craggy cheeks.

     He sat up in bed with surprisingly little effort. "How long was I out, Uncle?"

     "Och, it's been three weeks, Ferdie! We were beginnin' tah fear ye'd never wake up!" Angus sniffed and blew his nose loudly in a pocket kerchief.

     "There, there, old son, I'm fine now, rest easy!"

     The old man sniffed again. "It's just tha', when yer ship landed in me field here, ye were so still, and nuthin' could wake ye'..."

     "I had her set on autopilot in case of emergency," explained Ferdinand, grinning. "And where else would I have it take me than to my favorite uncle's farm?"

     "But what happened, lad?"

     Ferdie's face clouded in anger. "It was those thrice-damned Denuvians! They knew I was brokering the peace talks between them and Shibboleth 7, and they wanted me out of the way. They ambushed me in orbit, hit me with some kind of brain ray. Obviously they thought they were leaving me for dead." He smiled a cold smile. "They're about to get a bit of a surprise."

     He paused, pondering. "The ray must have put me into a coma-like state. It erased much of my surface memories, but not all of them. My subconscious mind went pretty wild, I must say. But it also fed me clues, Uncle Angus. Clues I used to work my way back to full consciousness."

     "What type a' clues, lad?"

     Ferdinand smiled. "Why, clues about you, Uncle. I think I can honestly say that without you, I might never have made it back."

     "I might never have realized that it was drawl just an eme."

August 17,2020
(Thanks and apologies
to Reginald Bretnor,
 ViacomCBS, Infocom,
DC Comics, Alfred Bester,
crossword puzzle makers,
and just generally all sentient life.
Also, ow, stop hitting me.)

 

    

     

Sunday, November 1, 2015

Spook Show


     "That's not him," whispered Jane. "I mean, it couldn't possibly be him."

     We were standing on the tilted deck of an 18th century privateer -- British, I think, but I'm not any kind of expert in naval history. The timbers creaked as the ship rose and fell gently in the calm seas. You couldn't actually see the sea; thick plumes of very convincing fog had blown up from somewhere, hiding the hypothetical ocean quite nicely. But we could feel waves bumping the hull, we could hear the faint cry of sea birds far off in the distance, we could smell salt and damp and the faint, metallic tang of ozone hinting at a coming storm. The sky was a crisp shade of October blue darkening towards indigo, and the first timid stars of the evening were beginning to wink on.

     Belson is nothing if not detail-oriented.

     The "him" in question was tied or tangled in the rigging of the main mast, or the mizzen mast, or some damn mast or other. (Again, not an expert.) He was dressed in period costume, or anyway Hollywood's version of same: head scarf and tarred ponytail, kohl around the eyes, poufy laced shirt, pantaloons, leather boots with buckles, the whole bit. His bound form hung limply in a pose almost suggesting crucifixion. The two thick, blood-red candles affixed somehow to his upturned palms, burnt almost down to their wicks and dripping tallow between his fingers, certainly hinted at some kind of sacrificial goings-on. Damn, that had to smart.

     And it did look like him.

     "Maybe it's Keith Richards," I whispered back.

     She stifled a laugh so quickly it made her snort. It was adorable.

     Hell, for all I knew it was Keith Richards. Or a clone, or some kind of doppelganger, or maybe even the actual actor. I never pressed Belson for any specifics regarding his little Halloween extravaganzas.

     I was too afraid he might tell me.

     Whoever or whatever he was, the man just hung there, twisting slightly in the breeze, apparently unconscious and in obvious distress, an occasional low moan escaping his lips. And, although he was quite a few feet above the dozen or so of us gathered in an embarrassingly tight group on deck, we seemed to be able to make out the tiniest details of his predicament with perfect clarity.

     "So, when does the show start?" smiled Jane, sounding grateful for my breaking the tension but still whispering. Whispering was practically mandatory at these things. Belson didn't insist on it, you just felt as if you should. "What is the show?"

     "Dunno. I've been to all of them, and he's never repeated himself. Building a full-size pirate ship in his back yard is certainly a new twist, I'll tell you that much."

     "I know! How is that even possible?"

     "Magic!" I twinkled. All right, I admit I might have been flirting, just a little bit. Jane was cute. We'd been kind of half-seriously circling around each other practically from the day she'd moved into the house next door last spring. She was recently divorced, and I was... no longer attached. And there comes a moment when being alone starts to feel like just too much damn work.

     She punched me in the side, but playfully.

     "Oh, all right, ya Halloweenie!" I grinned. "It beats the heck out of me, actually. All I can tell you is, the dude's rich as Croesus, he owns stock in just about any tech company you'd care to name, he cheerfully admits to being mad as several hatters, and he genuinely seems to enjoy doing these things. Don't ask me why he doesn't just open half a dozen theme parks and bankrupt Disney. And before you say it, no, I have no idea why he chooses to live here in suburban Mayberry. He says he likes the neighborhood."

     "And exactly how did you meet him?"

     "At Costco," I deadpanned, arching an eyebrow at the implied insult.

     Before she could punch me again, there was a loud rattle behind us, maybe from below decks, maybe closer. It sounded like someone rolling dice, or possibly bones.

     "Shhh," I whispered, as we all turned around carefully. "I think the curtain's going up."

      The cover of the main hatch leading down into the bowels of the ship was lowering. And something snaked quickly back under it and out of sight before it dropped with a muffled thump. Something bone-white and faintly luminous and much, much too thin to have been a human hand. Mrs. Dobbins from down the block let out a small shriek. I was grateful it hadn't been me. But all of us had at least gasped a bit. I was suddenly aware I was holding Jane's hand, and I honestly didn't recall who had grabbed whom. I don't know how he times moments like that so perfectly. Belson's an artist.

     I think Jane was the first to notice the objects now scattered around the aft deck; she let out a short breath and pointed, anyway. They were small and flat and jet-black. They looked like stones or bits of pottery. Letters or runes or some kind of symbols were printed or painted on them in a much lighter color.

     They seemed to be moving, ever so slightly. Shifting around on the boards just subtly enough that you couldn't easily dismiss it as the motion of the ship. Yes, I had by then completely flensed from my mind walking up a long ramp from a leaf-strewn but perfectly manicured lawn not even five minutes ago. We were on a ship.

     And some stupid son of a bitch was walking over to pick the closest of the things up.


* * *

     Belson had only two rules for his audiences: Adults Only and Don't Touch.

     Adults Only didn't imply any prurient content, merely that his shows were usually far too intense for the kiddies. (Although those wood nymphs in the Haunted Forest the year before last would probably have rated a PG-17 at the very least.) And indeed, the youngest person here looked to be in her mid-twenties. The front yard was for the trick-or-treaters: scary, yes, but in a lighter, almost wholesome way.

     Don't Touch, if anyone gave it more than passing thought, was only common sense. Too much delicate equipment (one assumed) to accidentally damage, too much risk of injury, too much chance of screwing something up and ruining the show for everybody.

     Most of the people in our little group were from the neighborhood. Some were close friends, some I knew in passing, and a couple were completely new faces. There were always a few; word gets around. Not as much as you might imagine, though: the local news outlets always seemed to be surprisingly uninterested in the annual spooktacular thrown by our local reclusive billionaire.

     I didn't recognize this guy. He was short, maybe in his mid-thirties, a bit on the pudgy side. He had one of those meticulously trimmed half-inch-wide beards I found instantly annoying and pretentious, and was dressed in just a t-shirt and jeans, despite the coolness of the evening. He at least seemed to realize what he was doing was probably not the smartest idea; his movements were slow, almost trepidatious, until he actually had the object in his hand. Then he spun around to face the rest of us, and I swear he looked like a kid who had just gotten a particularly awesome prize in his Cracker Jack.

     "I've seen these markings before!" he breathed, but I don't think he was talking to us, or was even aware he was speaking out loud. "They--"

     He suddenly screamed and dropped the thing like it had bit him. Maybe it had.

     The symbols on the stone -- all the stones, in fact -- were now glowing a bright and sickly green. Columns of thick, black smoke began to rise straight up from the things. Literally straight up, as if the billowing stuff were constrained to invisible cylinders, even though the slight breeze had by now become an actual wind. The effect was more than a little unnerving; our group had backed up several paces, leaving the annoyingly bearded guy isolated in the midst of whatever was happening.

     Then the laws of physics decided to start working again, and the rapidly rising wind blew away the smoke, revealing... a bunch of upright human skeletons.

     I know, I know. It sounds anticlimactic, almost laughable. The big payoff was Scooby-Doo ghost pirates? Jane breathed a sigh of obvious relief, and the twenty-something girl actually giggled. Beard Guy was holding his hand and wincing, but he looked more offended than frightened.

     The veterans among us were not put at ease. We knew how expertly Belson could play an audience. And in the next few seemingly unending seconds, as the details of the scene before us grew clearer, the murmers faded into silence and our little knot of observers grew a bit tighter.

     These weren't some kind of plastic animatronic ghoulies or 3D tricks of the light. These were bones, incredibly ancient and worn, encrusted with coral and polished smooth by centuries, maybe even millennia of sand and sea washing over them, held together by some invisible and terrible inertia. They stood there in absolute silence, but their limbs shifted slowly, slightly, smoothly, like restless soldiers waiting for orders. The sockets of their skulls were dark and completely empty and radiated, if not an actual intelligence, at least a sense of unknowable purpose. Their eyeless regard fell on us with a real and malevolent weight.

     I didn't think they were supposed to be pirates at all. They were something far older. Some of them held blades, but they weren't cutlasses or rapiers; they looked bronze, pitted and worn but still solid and deadly. Not a scrap of rotted cloth hung from their frames -- no eye patches, no tricorner hats, not a skeletal parrot on a single bony shoulder. These guys were something unknown and unknowable. And our brief and unfounded respite in tension was most definitely over.

* * *

     When something else finally happened, it happened fast.

     The skeletal thing which had emerged from the dropped stone shot out an arm and grabbed Beard Guy by the throat. Impossibly, it lifted him as easily as a man would lift a book or a glass of water. Almost casually, it threw him over the starboard railing. He didn't even have time to scream. The rest of us did, of course, so loudly that you almost couldn't hear the splash a second later.

     The splash.

     Before I had time to fully process that interesting little tidbit, Jane pulled me so close I could feel she was actually shaking.

     "Ben?" she almost quavered. "Please tell me that that was part of the show!"

     To my credit, I only hesitated for a second. "Of course it was, silly. I warned you this was going to be intense, didn't I? Don't worry, we're perfectly safe." I thought I'd kept the jitters out of my own voice. In any event, Jane gave me a quick smile and hug. And another punch in the side, so I knew she was really okay.

     But I was remembering the very first of these shows, a haunted house-themed tour of the mansion itself. Some guy had decided to sneak off from the group and do a little exploring on his own. I assume that was his motivation, because he never showed up again for me to ask him, not even at the party afterwards. And Belson had moved the shows to the back yard the very next year.

     If that was scripted, it was a very subtle bit of scripting. But it was exactly the type of detail Belson would include. I'd be willing to bet even the people who hadn't noticed the guy sneaking off left the show with a faint sense of unease.

     I just wasn't completely sure. Belson was a pretty great guy, as self-professed deranged tech moguls go. But I... knew things about him that were not and would never be matters of public record, or even wild tabloid speculation. And a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, as the man said.

     And all this introspection happened within just a few seconds of real time, because we were well and truly into Act II. The rest of the skeleton things were beginning to move.

     Towards us.

* * *
     The wind had by then whipped up to what felt like a near-gale, flapping the sails above us noisily and alarmingly. Storm clouds were scudding across the sky towards us from what looked like every point of the compass, which was obviously impossible but, hey, what the hell, you know? The deck rocked back and forth, but somehow remained just steady enough for us to keep our footing, and the waves--

     Holy Shit.

     I registered the seeming existence of an actual ocean to all sides of us almost peripherally. Like everyone else, I was keeping my eyes locked on the advancing skeletons.

     They passed us by as if they didn't see us, as if we didn't exist for them at all. We shrank our knot even further, though, giving them as wide a berth as possible as they headed for the lines and up the rigging, a couple apparently set on climbing to the wheel house. As we turned cautiously to keep them visible, a loud and hopeless wail, almost a scream, rent the increasingly churning skies.

     I'm pretty sure we had all nearly forgotten Mister Possible Personality Pirate. His situation had not improved.

     He was on fire. The flames were that same sickly green color the stones had begun to glow what felt like hours ago, and they engulfed him completely. But they didn't seem to be consuming him, just causing him horrible pain. The candles had long  since melted away; in each hand he now cupped a green, sputtering sphere of ball lightning. Or maybe they were supposed to be will-o'-the-wisps. In any event, they were shooting out tendrils of that green fire which climbed the lines and spars like living lightning from the main sail all the way to the crow's nest. If this was supposed to be St. Elmo's Fire there was nothing even remotely saintly about it. As I gazed up, I saw the storm clouds spiraling in a sort of upside-down whirlpool directly above the mast, sucking tiny balls of that awful light up into itself.

     And as we all stared into that wrongness, right on cue, there came a familiar creaking noise from behind us.

     Two of the skeleton things, unnoticed by all of us, had remained stationed at either side of the wooden cover to the main hold. They had opened it wide, and something was slowly climbing the stairs.

* * *

     I guess the best word to describe the thing would be lich. Some kind of undead king or priest of a land lost to time and tide, the paper-thin remnants of its skin barely still covering the ancient bones and skull underneath. It was dressed in what once might have been fine silk robes, now ragged and rotten. What was left barely hid a form that seemed at once terribly frail and terribly powerful. On its head it wore a rusted and ruined crown, its jewels and filigree long since vanished and gone. Unlike the skeleton things, it had eyes, which blazed with that same green fire; thankfully, they didn't seem to perceive us any better than the eyeless sockets of its servants.

     It stood there unmoving for a timeless moment, then slowly raised its pale and wasted arms skyward.

     All hell immediately began to break loose, I hoped not literally.

     There was a blaze of that green light behind and above us, and we all turned and gazed upwards as if compelled. The entire mast was glowing almost blindingly, and if the pirate was still in the center of that inferno I couldn't make him out. The light seemed to be breaking off the mast in jagged shards, rising up into the center of the cyclone. Now it looked uncomfortably like a monstrous green eye.

     And a raspy and glottal voice, a voice that sounded like it hadn't spoken a word in aeons, barked a harsh and incomprehensible string of syllables. At the same instant, it seemed that my mind was hearing:

     "Great One. We bid thee accept this offering from your faithful. We bid thee take us home."

     Jane gasped. I tried to match my line of sight to hers. It wasn't all that hard, we were practically hugging each other by then.

     The skeleton in the crow's nest seemed to be dissolving. Bits and pieces of bone and dust were flaking off of the thing and flying into the eye of the storm. I quickly looked around for the others I could make out in the still-dazzling green glow. They all were crumbling into less than dust and being carried aloft.

     Predictably and to a person, we all turned around again. The lich-king, or whatever it was, was also blowing away on the winds. Its remains fairly shot into the sky like a grisly green comet.

     Two things then happened simultaneously: the eye blinked, and the ship lurched. Amazingly, we all once again managed to keep our footing. Most of us, anyway. Jane stumbled a bit, and for one awful second it looked like she was falling towards the railing. Somewhere very far off, my rational mind knew she was safe. But my rational mind hadn't been driving just lately.

     And in that one awful second, I saw:

     a car pushed sideways against a tree trunk, so close that it didn't seem physically possible, so close that you knew no one was getting out that door ever again...

     ...and I heard:

     a voice both cultured and very, very sad, and the voice was saying, "I'm so very sorry. I couldn't get to her in time. Rest now."...

     ...and I felt:

     cool, clean sheets in an unfamiliar bed, and the sure knowledge the only thing wrong with me was shock, but that would change in time, in time...

     and I reached out and grabbed Jane, and pulled her to me tightly, so very tightly.

* * *

     The eye storm was dissipating supernaturally quickly, as was the ghastly green glow. Soon all to be seen above us was a clear October sky sprinkled with stars. Neither waves nor mist were visible over the railings, just dying grass and dead leaves. The deck had become motionless, and the ship no longer felt like a ship, just some very odd construction someone with too much money and too much free time had had built on a whim. Show's over, folks.

     I realized I was still hugging Jane like she'd break if I let go.

     "Um," I exclaimed brilliantly, disengaging embarrassedly and probably a bit too quickly.

     She looked at me a bit oddly, then smiled. "Thank you," she whispered. She seemed to realize she might have meant more than one thing by that, and blushed slightly.

     "Welcome," I smiled, knowing full well I meant more than one thing, and trying not to blush too brightly myself.

     A section of the starboard railing slid away, and the big ramp we'd used to board (wheelchair-accessible, of course, Belson thinks of everything) rose to meet it. No one spoke as we descended; no one ever does, at least for the first few minutes after a show. There was no Beard Guy corpse lying broken amidst the leaves, but I hadn't really thought that there would be. I turned my head for one last look. The pirate was nowhere to be seen, either.

     Maybe he was taking a smoke break.

* * *
     As we crossed into the side yard, the spell seemed to break and everyone began babbling excitedly at once.

     "Oh. My. God." breathed Jane. But she was grinning ear-to-ear.

     "Told ya," I grinned back.

     She stopped me on the stone path right before we turned into the front yard, and kissed me quickly but firmly on the lips. It felt several kinds of nice.

     "Ben, thank you for the best Halloween I've had since I was seven!" she grinned.

     "Oh, it isn't over just yet," I reminded her. "Belson throws a hell of an after-party. There's suitably adult treats for everybody, and the inside of the house is just gorgeous. He even keeps an assortment of costumes, if you're of a mind."

     "I think I'm good," she said. "Maybe I'll be Catwoman next time."

     I stopped short, for dramatic and hopefully comedic effect. "Am I crazy, or did you just ask me out?"

     "Yes to both," she grinned evilly, and punched me in the side again. She ran shrieking playfully around the side of the house.

     "Oww! Come back here, you wench! Oh, me poor left kidney!" I suddenly knew with certainty that Jane and I would be seeing each other often after tonight. And that was fine, just fine.

     I turned the corner to find her staring in wonderment. Belson's house is small for a mansion, but it's still very impressive, especially on Halloween. Bats flew between the trees, somehow never gliding low enough to give anyone a real fright, but adding considerable atmosphere. There were roughly a bazillion Jack O' Lanterns strewn around the paths, the steps and the big front porch, the old-fashioned toothy kind--none of those fancy-schmancy carving-kit Marilyn Monroes or President Obamas, Belson is a traditionalist. The house itself was haunted-mansion spooky in an oddly friendly sort of way--a cobweb here or there in exactly the right place, a broomstick rack for any local witches who might happen to swing by, the occasional spectre (the sheeted kind) briefly floating by in an upstairs window.

     "I have about a million questions I want to ask him!" she breathed.

     "Of which he will answer exactly none. But he'll not answer them in an unfailingly polite manner, if that helps."

     We continued up the path to the front porch. I noticed people were already lining up for the second showing. I briefly wondered if Beard Guy would be in the line, then dismissed the thought as unimportant. Besides, Belson would never slip up in such an obvious way.

     I did not look towards the road, and a particular tree that might still have scars on its trunk. I felt a familiar pang of loss thinking of it, but it seemed somehow diminished, somehow a bit more bearable. Because there comes a moment when being alone starts to feel like just too much damn work.

     When we reached the porch, Jane squealed in pure delight and I just stared. Belson was dressed as a live-action twin of Merlin from The Sword in the Stone, right down to the long white beard. (And if you had had the temerity to pull on said beard, I somehow knew that it would not come off.) He was stirring an enormous iron cauldron, which bubbled with--oh, let's say dry ice vapor, just for the hell of it. He was reaching into it and pulling out Snickers bars and Butterfingers for each shy and entranced trick-or-treater. Full-size, of course. I was weirdly certain whatever he came up with would be each particular child's most favorite candy in all the world.

     Hiding in plain sight this year, are we? I mused to myself.

     Just exactly then he glanced sidelong at me and winked, the barest hint of a smile on his improbably bewhiskered face.

     He pulled himself away from the kids long enough for me to introduce Jane, then went right back to bolstering some happy third-grader's sense of wonder. I sighed a bit as we entered the house. A little knowledge...

     And a voice both cultured and very, very impish said in my head:

     "Learning. 'A little learning is a dangerous thing' is the actual quote. Henry David Thoreau, I believe."



     I really hate it when he does that.

October 31, 2015

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

On Being a Second-Generation Geek

Source: dc.wikia.com
On a crisp winter afternoon in 1942, an 11-year-old girl plopped a dime onto the counter of a drug store in rural Tennessee and bought the first issue of Wonder Woman's very own comic book. (Or maybe not. Maybe her father, who was known to read the occasional pulp magazine, got it for her. The specific details don't really matter. But in my imagination, she buys it herself with a shiny new Mercury dime and a big grin on her face.) In my mind, I see her rushing home and plopping down on her bed to avidly read the brand new adventures of Diana Prince and Steve Trevor and Etta Candy, then go on to devour all the back-up features like Wildcat (first appearance!) and Little Boy Blue and the Blue Boys. And I feel her dismay when, not too long afterwards, her mother throws it out while cleaning, along with some early issues of Action Comics and Airboy and who knows what other treasures.

But she kept on buying her "trash", graduating eventually to the SF pulps like Astounding and Worlds of If, and Ballantine paperbacks and Ace Double Novels and Doubleday's Science Fiction Book Club. Her love of science fiction and fantasy thrived and grew for her whole life.

Her name was Betty, and she was my Mom.


Source: wired.com

I grew up surrounded by books and magazines. There were bookshelves in the living room and my parents' bedroom and in the short connecting space between the kitchen and dining area, all stuffed full of Ace and Ballantine and Bantam and Dell and Pocket paperback originals, and the aforementioned SFBC "sort-of" hardcovers, the sweetest deal ever for SF/Fantasy readers on a budget (4 books for a buck, and you only had to buy four more in the next year -- unless you forgot to mail in the card that told them you didn't want this month's selection sent automatically, which we were constantly doing). Even our closet and pantry shelves were full of stacks of old issues of Analog and Galaxy and Fantastic and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. By age three I was already thoroughly imprinted with Chesley Bonestell cover art and old book smell.

(...and I forgot the shelf in the bathroom hallway.)

Even before I learned to read, I would sit on the floor in front of one of those shelves for hours on end, completely mesmerized by the likes of Frank Frazetta and Kelly Freas on the dust jackets. Robots! Spaceships! Martian princesses! BEMs! I wanted to figure out this "squiggly marks on paper" stuff fast, so I could learn the stories behind all these cool pictures!

I honestly don't remember what my first genre short story was about. I'm sure it had to have been something in one of the many omnibus collections Mama owned. I would read them with our big old Random House unabridged dictionary at the ready, in case I ran into a word I didn't know.

Source: en.wikipedia.org
I do remember the first "grown-up" novel I read all the way through. It was The Door Into Summer by Robert A. Heinlein. It had a very personable cat in it, which was a plus -- I liked cats. (I would realize much later that Pete was a more fully-drawn character than the book's narrator, in fact.) It's pretty dated now (heck, it was dated when I first read it -- it begins in 1970, and I was pretty sure we wouldn't be getting cryogenic sleep and helper robots in just two or three years), and it's minor Heinlein. But it's a fun read, and the way the (spoilers, I guess) time travel plot worked out to every tiny detail with no paradoxes croggled my seven-or-eight-year-old brain.

I was hooked. I wanted more.

(I imagine Mama smiling about this, not at all wickedly. Well, maybe just a tad...)


Source: dc.wikia.com
My total immersion in the sea of SF and fantasy available to a kid growing up in the rural South in the '60s and '70s wasn't limited to the printed page, of course. There were the comics: Superman and Batman and Green Lantern and Wonder Woman and The Flash and The Spectre and Doom Patrol and House of Secrets and Justice League of America and too many more to mention. (If this list seems too DC Comics heavy, it's simply because that's all we had available, apart from the occasional Gold Key. There were no such things as comics shops or direct marketing; it was what was on the spin racks at the local drug store or supermarket, or nothing. I didn't know what a "Marvel" or a "Stan Lee" was until I was almost college age.)

On the plus side, funnybooks were still 12 cents a pop when I started reading, so my $1 allowance went a long way! And if I happened to be sick and couldn't make it to the store on Thursday, Mama would usually pick me up half a dozen or so before coming home from work. The pictured issue of Adventure is from one of those times, and I remember it fondly -- Superboy, Mon-El, Shadow Lass and Duo Damsel have to flee the sorcerer Mordru by travelling back in time to 20th Century Smallville. Written by a 16-year-old Jim Shooter!


Source: en.memory-alpha.org
And then there was TV. We had an old black-and-white Zenith (the channel knob fell off eventually, and we had to change stations with a pair of pliers) and no cable till the mid-70s, so we were limited to the local NBC, CBS, ABC and PBS affiliates. But we watched everything even remotely genre-related, including the crappy stuff.

There were syndicated reruns of The Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits, of course (and later, Night Gallery). There were the sometimes cool, sometimes schlocky Irwin Allen series like Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea and Land of the Giants and The Time Tunnel. There were The Addams Family and The Munsters. There were Secret Agent and The Prisoner (Mama and I suspected that Patrick McGoohan was supposed to be the same character in both series). There was Batman, which she hated (although she did like Eartha Kitt as Catwoman -- I preferred Julie Newmar). And there were the really silly genre comedies like It's About Time and Captain Nice and My Living Doll (Julie Newmar as a robot in a bikini, which was high-concept enough for me even as a pre-pubescent!). (Also My Favorite Martian, which doesn't count as silly because Ray Walston was cool.) And too many Saturday morning cartoons to list (I was a big fan of The Herculoids and Jonny Quest in particular).

And Star Trek.

Yes, children, I got to watch Star Trek while it was airing first-run on network television. And Mama was in heaven over it. A serious SF series that wasn't an anthology show, with scripts written by actual genre authors like Theodore Sturgeon and Harlan Ellison and Robert Bloch and David Gerrold (at least in the first two seasons)! We kind of went a bit overboard in our love for the show. We had dogs named Spock and Sulu and a cat named Kirk. We bought two Leonard Nimoy albums. I had a Star Trek lunch box and the AMT model kits for the Enterprise and the Klingon Battle Cruiser. And, even though we weren't "fan" fans (the convention scene at the time was limited to a few large cities, and we wouldn't have had the money or the means to go, regardless), we participated in both write-in campaigns to save the show from cancellation. We were both devastated when it finally went off the air, even though it was obvious to a nine-year-old the quality of the writing had gone way down.

There were other shows on, like Lost in Space (which actually started out as a fairly serious drama before it turned into the campy but still entertaining "Doctor Smith and Will and The Robot" show) and, later, the original Battlestar Galactica (fun and cheesy and a pretty brazen rip-off of a certain megahit movie). But it just wasn't the same without Trek.


Having a mom who liked SF also meant I got to see a lot of movies other kids didn't, because they were rated "M" or "R". ("M" was "mature audiences", but that rating confused people so they changed it to "GP", which confused people even more, so they finally changed it to "PG".) I saw Dr. No and Goldfinger first-run on a wide screen. I saw Barbarella when I was eight. Because science fiction. (I think Mama might have begun to regret that particular decision about a minute into the opening credits. I certainly didn't.)

 

There were less prurient features I got to watch at the local theater, too, of course: the original Planet of the Apes films and The Andromeda Strain and 2001: A Space Odyssey and countless others. And in 1977...

 

I don't think there's any way to get across to a modern audience how Star Wars completely took over popular culture that year. (And I'm sorry, but screw that "Episode IV: A New Hope" crap, it's Star Wars.) Even in my own small town, people were lined up around two blocks to see it, some for the fifth or tenth time. (We saw it twice, I think.) Darth Vader appeared on The Midnight Special with Wolfman Jack! For once, the mundanes weren't making fun of "that sci-fi stuff", they were eating it up, and it was crazy and wonderful.

And it wasn't even particularly great "sci-fi stuff". It was 1930s space opera, pure and simple. But the genius thing George Lucas did was to take a Republic serial and turn it into spectacle. That clip above, where the Imperial ship keeps coming and coming and coming into the frame, literally had people gasping in the audience. Mama said later that she'd read the cantina scene a dozen different times, but she never expected to actually see it. Everybody who was into "that sci-fi stuff" said that.

I'm glad she got to see it.


Mama passed away the very next year, too suddenly and far too soon. She got to see Star Wars, but she missed The Empire Strikes Back, which she would have loved (not the least because one of her favorite writers, Leigh Brackett, had a hand in developing the script). And Superman. And Raiders of the Lost Ark. And the Star Trek films. And I'm typing this with tears in my eyes, and thinking that's a silly thing to be getting emotional over. Only it isn't. It isn't silly at all.

Even now, over 35 years on, I'll be reading a good book or watching a good film or TV show and catch myself thinking, "She would have loved this." I won't start listing them here; if I did, I don't think I could ever stop.

And that 11-year-old girl rushing home with a copy of Sensation Comics #1 clutched tightly in her hands would have loved this, too: we are living in science fiction now.

We have a space station. It isn't a pinwheeling 2001-type construction or an O'Neill cylinder, as she would have preferred, but it's up there and it's a good start. We have robots tooling around on Mars. You probably have a combination communicator/tricorder in your pocket or purse right now, with a chip inside it more powerful than the computer that guided the first astronauts to the Moon. I'm typing this right now on a machine just as powerful, painting my words on a liquid crystal canvas, and when I hit "Publish" it may be read on similar magic screens by people half a world away. 

Yes, things are still pretty bad for too many people. But on the whole, the world is a better place than it has ever been in our whole history. Three steps forward and two steps back, but we still advance. We still dream. We still hope.

I got that optimism from her, too, of course. I never really got to thank her for that, or a lot of other things. So...

Thank you, Mama.

Thank you for my love of reading and learning. Thank you for encouraging me to think and create. Thank you for letting me stay up to watch my first lunar eclipse and the Apollo 11 landing (though you would have shaken me awake for that last, regardless). Thank you for Isaac Asimov and James Tiptree, Jr. and Roger Zelazny. For The Lord of the Rings and More Than Human and The Martian Chronicles. For "Jeffty is Five" and "The Nine Billion Names of God" and "A Case of Conscience". For Doc Savage and Retief and the Gray Mouser. For the Batcave and the Fortress of Solitude and Paradise Island. For Forbidden Planet and The Bride of Frankenstein and The Day The Earth Stood Still.

Thank you for giving me the worlds.