Got cornered by a Dust Bear the other week, and I'm still not a hundred percent. Getting the lumps from a roving swarm of third-rate stemtech is a twitch-inducing experience to say the least. My hands still rattle a bit when I talk, and my left eye is a little cone fried. I'll pick up a new one at some point.
Barb came by to visit—brought a Vapour Pet to cheer me up. She says it lasts a week and evolves from some single cell 'cium into a rainbow whale before it sublimates. Thoughtful but unnecessary—I'm not sticking around recouping in the Hex for much longer.
I wouldn't even've been molested if Lunscombe hadn't pulled his chute early. He was supposed to meet me outside the Body Dump, and we'd take his Zipper out to the courts—mostly to hustle the Skinks and make some side credit. But he was late—I can picture him now skimming down from the clouds way before the apex, all loose and lazy. Guy had to walk the rest of the way from way out near the puddles. Lunscombe was typically reliable but prone to anxious notions. I've told him to come live closer, but he insists on bare knuckling it here by trebuchet. Doesn't make sense for such a nervous guy, but hey, who am I to judge—we've all got stuff.
A couple of minutes late doesn't seem like much, but when you're out in the lanes, you can't really just stand there. Gotta keep movin, or the Sweepers collect you—idle hands and all that—worst case scenario, and you're off to the Reducer, but most times they'll just fling you into the pot for a quick reprogram—though slush code never really sticks as far as I've experienced— and nothing a few Neuts couldn't fix anyway.
So there I was minding my wax, steppin from side to side, trying to look busy when this nasty katamari rolls around the corner and gets up right in my mask. It stinks, and I try to push off, but it goes low when I go high, and the next thing I know, I'm laid out flat, sticky, and wreaking while this D-Bear blows off down the way like nothing happened.
At first, they feel like tingling blisters all over your body. Some people with Lumps start growing errant parts. Ears on arms, fingers on faces, that kind of thing. But my pustules didn't really morph into anything so exotic—they just gave me the hot shakes and erupted into a syrupy goo that made it impossible to do anything but lay in the hammock until it cleared.
Barb sees me pacing and tells me to calm down. She says it's not worth getting into it with the labs, but the way I see it, it's not NOT worth it either. We all gotta eat, I explain to her for the hundredth time. The lab org says they're an "unfortunate byproduct- synth industry-blah blah blah", but I have a feeling they let em loose on purpose. Why? Dunno but when they roam around endlessly, they glom up all the critters. And bugs are life—delicious crunchy life. The bears don't need em, but WE do. I give her a look.
Barb means well, but I think she spends too much time in Heroland. Plugged in for a lot of the day, that shit will make you crazy. She always thinks she's gotta help somebody. Got her own things to worry about, and I wish she did sometimes. But I like her just the same. Though probably not in the way she likes me. I catch her every once in a while, goggles up, eyeing my buttocks like they're a pair of company hams.
Still annoyed at Lunscombe, but Barb's right, I need a distraction so I call him over, and tell him I'm bored and feeling the pangs of danger play sticking my spine like a tap. He tells me Sure I'll be there!—he's taking the Transpeder here this time and to meet him at the terminal—which is fine even though it's out by the ravine. Maybe we can go and do some bush diving down there and find some larvae. Once last year, we found a hollowed out thorax and took turns wearing it over our shoulders while the other one jousted us off a log with a drought stake. It was fun until I accidentally stabbed Lunscombe in the throat. He gurgled all the way to the neighborhood patch kit.
When the Transpeder crawls in, I can smell the acid from the swamps and then the sour cheese of the passengers popping out of the sticky black fuselage like fish eggs from a papilla. Lunscombe looks a little puffy today—like an overinflated pillow. He strides down the platform toward me, his kilt swinging and clanging.
"Hey Pock, how are you doin? No hard feelings eh?," he says, pulling his mask down and over annunciating the word feelings. It was more annoying than it should of been but I love Lunscombe. He's loyal and honest to a fault. Don't think he could tell anyone a lie–which is problematic from time to time.
"M'good," I say and grin an overly cooked grin. My face is still bouncing back a bit. "Hey remember when we used to get into it down there?" I ask him, pointing down the embankment into a wilderness of thorny brambles and shock root.
Lunscombe stands in front of me, tilts his head, and examines my face up close, " You sure you're up for it?" he quizzes me, "you look a little lopsided still," he says tilting his head back the other way.
"I'm good Lunny," I say, dodging a few commuters trying to get moving into the streets. "Besides, this will make me feel better. I gotta thirst for knowledge," I tell him, "Let's go see what we can see!"
I scramble off the ledge and jump-step down the sandy slopes toward the basin. Lunscombe hesitates, then follows in great leaping stretches. He looks like he's losing control but he manages to keep his back straight and his head up, then finally runs out the last few steps on the gravel at the bottom of the ravine. We look around and make sure there're no obvious signs of danger or corruption, then back at each other, checking in.
"Hey, I know I'm not looking perfect, but you also look a bit swollen or something—little cosmetic accident?" I tease, knowing he'll get flustered.
"Yeah, I was trying to dress up for the Lumps Pageant," he snaps back and snorts, leaving me without the answer I was looking for. I'll leave it for now.
We hear a couple of distant pops and look up and see two specks arcing across the sky over the valley. We watch until their chutes open and start to glide down toward the mall.
"That's the way you trebuchet, Lunny," I say, "you'll get the hang of it one day."
"Yeah haha, i know," he shakes his head, "let's just let it go, okay? Besides, I like the Transpeder—'cept for all the toxic croc shit."
He lurches forward—down the trail we go, ducking under barbs and stepping over fossils. He's trying to be stealthy, but I can still hear the rhythmic swash of Lunscombe's body armor. I'm wearing my corduroy singlet. It's a little breezy, and it's chaffing my thighs but the thing is mostly comfy. Looks sharp too. Usually, there's no one else here; most think it's dangerous. Dust bears avoid it—they tend to get snagged, and the sweepers don't bother with anything down here. It's not worth getting tangled up in the bush wire.
We can hear crickets everywhere, but they're way too hard to catch unless you have the patience to set a zillion traps. Even then, the wrigglers will come out at night and raid your cans like a sneak snake. But if you're quiet enough, you can sometimes catch a beetle or grub, maybe a handful of ants if you're lucky.
I squat-walk and rake my hand along the dirt, hoping to find some grubs. Lunscombe swishes ahead, looking back every few steps in case I catch anything. He loves grubs.
Just when I'm getting discouraged and hungry, Lunscombe holds up his fist to stop. Out in front of us in a clearing, we can see a couple of lab goons shoveling some pink matter into a pit. It looks like melted skin but more elastic We watch, disgusted but curious, until they pack up their spades and leave with an empty wagon.
"You first," says Lunscombe, "whatevs in that hole—it's gonna make me puke!"
I nod with appreciation and walk toward the pit. This is what I was looking for today. You gotta mix it up or you get unsharped. Like my Nuther always said, "Only boring people get bored." You gotta get the most out of life. Squeeze every drop. Take chances. Roll with the punches. Get your hands dirty.
I shuffle to the edge of the hole and lean over to look inside. It burbles and roils—a slick oily liquid flesh. Bubbles on the surface expand and then pop with a gulping sound. I look back for a moment at Lunscombe, who's now comically horrified. He's pointing at me, mouth open but he just moans stupidly. I feel a warm tingle around my neck, and for a moment, I think someone snuck up and slit my throat. But the sensation travels up my head and down my spine as a wet meat tendril grapples my waist and pulls me into the snarling stew. I try to shout my last words to Lunscombe; I think I'm calling, "Help me!" but he hears, "Come with me!"
The guy doesn't hesitate, takes a few running strides, and jumps into the goo after me. We struggle at first, like a couple of writhing leeches, but then resign to let go. It feels good. Too good, maybe. What is that feeling, I wonder? Our bodies agitate in the living mass. An amalgam of sinew bone fat brains, our systems combine to actualize an immense body form. Minds cojoined now, we command a new corporeal mass. Doubleminded just like that. Our thoughts flow freely. Memories mash together like collage time at the baby farm.
Turns out Lunscombe has a thing for Barb. Guess there's nothing keeping him from reading me, either. But hey, I've got nothing to hide, except maybe that time, I shortchanged him on a split once. Maybe twice. It wasn't that much. If I could just check in—look at him and see, but I've no idea where our faces are at this point.
"Hey, Lunny! You in here?" I think as loud as I can, "If you can hear this, let's climb out of here and go see Barb. She'll know what to do" I try and wink—it's a reflex, but instead of closing an eyelid, some cavernous opening below releases a gaseous cloud that looks like freestyle sugar cotton but smells like death.
Takes us a while, but we limp out of the canyon—one stump after another. Back in the lanes, I catch a glimpse of us in one of the storefront windows. A sweeper hovers tentatively overhead. We look like a bumpy pyramidal torso with a couple of stubby tree trunk legs, there's possibly a tail, or a useless arm dragging behind us. We haven't figured out how to operate it yet. There's no discernible head, but I can see through an eyeball about halfway up our midsection. First lumps, now this, Barb is gonna never let us hear the end of it..
The drone beeps a couple of times and speeds off.
The Hex is our compartment complex. Looks kinda like a tilted white beehive jammed into the ground. It's surrounded by low-rise bunkers that bunch up around the city. We're standing near the front conveyer lift, waiting for an opening. Busy this afternoon—mostly sand scabs and factory kicks hucking back and forth between shifts. Hard to focus on anyone's reaction to us—what with only one eye as far as I can see. Everyone around here has seen weirder shit than this, though.
We get up to scaffold 47b and squeeze into Barb's place. She seems a bit ruffled, but I know she'll chill in a minute. Took a bit to figure how to squeak out a "Hello, it's us" out from under a rippling fat roll. Barb crosses the tiny room to open the window. Her cape flaps dramatically as she spins around. Face is still screwed up a bit, she looks like she smells a ghost.
"What have you two gone and do now? And where's Lunny?" she says, circling our bulbous mass, poking the flesh with her pointy finger.
"He's in here somewhere," I bubble from my talk flap, " I can feel him trying to say something."
Barb stops and has a listen, then goes around back and unpuckers some previously stuck cleavage and releases the upside-down mouth and nose of Lunscombe. I can feel him gasp and snort like a beached sucker. Got a bit of a lisp, but he manages to whistle out a "That you B? Thomething thmells good"
I know Barb from birth camp. Always eager and earnest—just dying to make friends. A people pleaser, she just wants everyone to be happy—very nurturing. You just have to get through that awkward pronotum first—then she's a gem. We take her for granted really, Probably cuz her zest is a little different than ours. Guess we’re a little salty, and she’s a little sweet. We bring out the best in each other.
Barb squats, squints, and turns her head sideways, surveying our half face and exhales slowly. Something does smell fantastic. It’s on her breath, off her skin, wafting around the room in swirling eddies. Lunscombe's nostrils twitch and flex. We're suddenly real hungry, and our bod nouveau is demanding sustenance. Barb's scent is irresistible—like a ganglionic fry-up. From somewhere inside, something percolates. We try to stifle what feels like a yawn, but instead of Lunny's mouth opening, a great yap blooms wide on our port side. Barb reels back from the gaping kisser, and I hear Lunscombe click his tongue excitedly like he’s calling a pet gecko. This seems to awaken the dormant tail-arm appendage, now engorged and perching like a cobra; it gives a wave and then spanks Barb into our food hole. She doesn't have a chance. Poor Barb—I hoped for a moment, her soul would join ours. It'd be glorious. The three of us parading pink down the plaza in lumpy abandon, sponging up insects and anything else in our path. But I guess sometimes two is good company, and three’s a crowd. And life is good, and Barb is life.
If you liked this, check out my contribution to the Blackwater Files:
We need a whole novella of this!
I hope you’re in charge of the future, I really want to try a vapor pet. This was incredible!