From Earth, With Love
Background: "From Earth, With Love" was written specifically for a call for submissions looking for Terry Pratchett-style humor. I popped this story out and submitted it only to receive a rejection. Since then, I've tried submitting it to other magazines, but the weird humor in it doesn't make it a good fit for most SF/F mags.
As such, I'm officially taking it out of circulation and posting it here! Enjoy my attempt at humor. I'm sure it's horrible.
-- Mike
P.S.
This is my story and isn't being given away; i.e. all ideas are mine unless otherwise noted. See my copyright page for details.
If my cat hadn't died when my house fell into the ocean, I wouldn't be trudging through chest-high sludge on this poor excuse for a colony.
That said, it's better than paying off the contractors I hired to try and save my house, I guess.
"'It’sa magical, coastal wonderland,' they said," I mutter, voice nasally as Ismother my nose with the back of my gauntleted hand. "'A blissful, pureway to tear off the burnt crust of your old life and start anew,' they said."
My guideturns toward me, the thick yellow-brown schmear of miasmic sludge up to thechest plate of his rusted and stained exosuit. "They never mention thesmell, miss."
"They do not!" I shout, forgetting his name again, dragging my leg through the sulfur-infused muck another step, exosuit whining like a spoiled tween finding out they're grounded. It almost drowns out the constant pop and hiss of this sea of feces. Almost. "Left it off the pamphlet, the fuckers. 'Smells like God took a sanctimonious shit all over the planet' doesn't sell one-way tickets very well, I imagine."
My guidegrunts in the way most people on this planet do, his jaundiced-looking face amass of crags and crevasses turning away. His own exosuit smokes and grinds aswe make our way toward the relative safety of "firm" land.
I take abreath and throw up a little. The sulfur is bad--really bad--but the othersemi-toxic chemicals these sludge farms release make it a veritable olfactorymenagerie of horrors. Beyond the lumbering form of the man in front of me, ashort quarter-mile away now if my damned exosuit doesn't give out, is a raisedterrace of land with a quaint little village perched atop it. If you count gray,printed domes with translucent connecting tubes a village. Or quaint.
Elftown.
There are noelves there, mind you. Elves are fantasy, and this is an outpost in theTrappist-1 system on one of the more unfortunately named planets: Fuch-Feater. Somemadman in the late '20s identified it while high on meth and, thus, namingrights fell to him.
I don't knowif that's true, but it's my story and I'm sticking with it.
So, heresits the pleasant little village of Elftown, population 467 (about to be 468). It'smy new home after my guide drops me off and, I assume, treks back through thishorror show of a "farm."
Home.
I snort,inhale a particularly virulent cloud of methane, and pass out face-first into Fuch-Feater'spoisonous excuse for liquefied soil.
#
When I cometo, I'm in a room with as much character and temperature as a meat locker. Mycheeks feel like I popped out into the vacuum of space for a few seconds to"cool down". There's a tiny silver blanket spread out over me thatisn't doing much to alleviate the core-cold tremors wracking my otherwisefeverishly unhealthy body, let alone keep my nipples from etching my name inthe ceiling. The place smells sterile; even the omnipresent stink of rotteneggs is faint.
Opening myeyes is a struggle, mostly because I want to pretend none of this is happening andI'm not actually here. I miss my house on the Nevadan coast. I miss my eveningsunsets.
I miss beingloved and adored by my cat. No one cared too much for me back on Earth,especially after the "accident", but that cat. Sneakers. Sneakersloved me. I have the scars to prove it.
Sneakersfell into the ocean with most of my house and, ultimately, my inheritance.
RIPSneakers.
RIP cushy,rich-girl life.
Hello debtcollectors.
It took alot to convince people the "doctor" in front of my name wasn't a PhD.Not much use for philosophy doctorates out here in the Trappist colonies.
"Welcomeback, Doctor Stousman," a man says, voice thick with one of those lilted accentsfrom Alpha Centauri that remind me of someone from south Jersey trying, andfailing, to do a South African accent. "Are you feeling well, ma'am?"
I take anexaggerated breath of air that smells like a sanitized fart. "Ma'am's mymother's name..."
Sitting up isanother challenge. The room sways as I do so, but I keep it together longenough to look up at him.
He'sdefinitely one of those Alpha Centauri folks. Deep brown skin, dark hair, arather beautifully crafted aquiline nose, and brown eyes catch me. Honestly, hereminds me of pre-space-colonization Middle Eastern folks before most of the populationup and noped out of there once the oil was gone.
And I'vealways had a soft spot for dark and handsome. Luckily, tall has always beenoptional, because he's not.
I flash mymost charming smile and toss my heavy, mud-encrusted ponytail in some semblanceof flirtatiousness.
Then I vomiton the floor.
And justlike that, he's gone in a whisper of automatic doors and choking sobs. It takesme a few more minutes to offload the rest of my hearty lunch of"whatever-the-hell-these-are" and"please-God-tell-me-these-are-noodles-and-not-cephalopod-penises"onto the floor. It tastes about as good coming up as it did going down, whichis both pleasant and disturbing.
I wipe my facewith the sleeve of my drab gray under-suit and climb off the cot my queasysavior placed me on, taking care to avoid extracted gut contents. Luckily, agood puke seems to have gotten my head back, so I get up and do my best jewelthief "casing the joint" impression while humming the James Bondtheme song to myself.
And it'sboring. There's almost nothing special about this place. I'm in one of the podsand it's the same dreary tone as it looked on the outside, though there's adistinctly beige undertone to everything. The walls aren't as smooth as Iexpected; they're concrete-rough to the touch, and slightly warm. Well,anything is warm compared to whatever godforsaken temperature they keep thisdome at. Besides the "colorful" contents next to the bed, you could plopthis place down in the middle of any desert and it'd fit the color palette.
Anotherglance around the room and I realize my stuff is missing. My mind goes to myjournal with my losing lottery ticket in it. I was off by three numbers andthey're burned into my mind.
33, 87, 19.
"Sonuvabitch,"I mutter, stretching out a sudden kink in my back. "They better not've messedwith my stuff. And my tater tots better be in there still. I only brought theone bag."
To my right,a pale face appears in the window of the dome door, which slides open with awhisper. It's not my handsome savior, but rather a pretty little redheadedthing sprinkled with dappled skin like God knocked the cans labeled "Freckles"and "Dimples" over on her. The all-white uniform doesn't help at all. She's also carrying one of theoriginal TeleTale InfinityTM tablets. Jesus, those things are almostthree years old now. The new ones are basically sheets of paper. That thingmight as well weigh a full ounce.
"Can Ihelp you, Pippy?" I ask with a grin.
She doesn'tget the joke, but I don't blame her too much. Few people care about late 20thand early 21st pop culture references nowadays. Maybe peoplewouldn't be so literal if they did.
Story of mylife.
She raises awell-crafted eyebrow. "Um, you're Doctor," she glances down at anarrow tablet, "Julian Stousman?"
I grimace atthat. Mom, drunk, gave me the wrong first name at birth. How I avoided FetalAlcohol Syndrome, I'll never know. "Yeah. Call me Doc."
The womansmiles a plastic smile and looks down at her Infinity, lips flattening into aline. "I'm Deirdre Styles. I'll be coordinating the expedition tomorrow. It'sgood you got here in time--"
I blink. Hard."Wait? What expedition?"
Deirdre eitherignores or doesn't hear me, finger sliding up across the surface of the tablet."We lost our medical officer to a methane pop last week. It's wheels up atsix standard, so get some food and rest and be ready."
She turns toleave, but I grab her by a perfect white sleeve just in time. "You need a'doctor' doctor? Like the cut-you-open-and-sew-up-your-insides kind?"
Deirdrelooks at my hand until I let go, then cocks her head to the side and locks eyeswith me. Hers are green. They're not pretty, but that might be all thejudgement washing over me. "Yes."
I had afeeling the lying-about-being-a-doctor thing would catch up with me eventually, but I thought it'd take abit longer than this.
"Sorry,"I say with my most cavalier tone. "But I'm not that kind of doctor."
"Whatkind of doctor are you?" Deirdreasks, eyes narrowing.
I cough,small bits of definitely-not-cephalopod-penis tickling my tonsils. "I'vegot a doctorate in Late 20th Century Philosophical Thought."
Deirdretakes a very visible calming breath. "Thenwhy are you here? We needed a medical doctor."
I shrug, notmentioning the "deposit" I paid the travel correspondent when they filledout my transfer paperwork. "I'm here to live out my golden years inrelative peace and quiet?"
Her mouthdrops open, then snaps shut. She looks at the tablet and scrolls furiously tothe top of whatever record she has pulled up. "You're 36!"
"And Iplanned on them being quite golden given all the sulfur on this planet," Isay with as much indignation as possible, but I know I'm in it deep now. "Apparentlywe're both disappointed?"
"Clearly,"Deirdre says, then crosses her arms across her chest, tablet hanging in hervice-like grip like she wants to hit me in the face with it. "Regardless,we're leaving in the morning and you're coming. Your contract isexplicit."
I knew Ishould've read the damned thing. "But I'm not a medical doctor!" Iexclaim, fully expecting her to cave to my obvious distress.
Unfortunately,like the hill that killed my beloved Sneakers, she doesn't care how I feelabout this.
"Well, Ihope you at least know CPR," she says with a grimace, then does anabout-face like a Nazi on Adderall and leaves the room.
I standthere alone for a moment, chewing my lip.
I knew thiswas a mistake when the travel consultant wouldn't show me a picture of whatthese "spectacular blue sunsets" looked like. That spectacularly bluesun through this yellow atmosphere looks like an old 1970s Buick: puke green andracist.
With agroan, I crane my head back and curse.
A headywhiff of my lunch hits me in the face and I dry heave on the floor.
At leastthey could've left me a towel.
#
After anight of dreadful sleep in the meat locker they call my "bedroom",we're up ungodly early, pushed into these hunks of metal and plastic that aresupposedly exosuits, belted into some slurry-skidder vehicle, and sent on ourway.
There's fourof us altogether: myself, Deirdre, Rook (my queasy savior), and Terry, aheavily lidded white guy with a ratty salt-and-pepper beard who looks like heate the doctor they lost last week before going to his Extreme CrossFit class.
Introductionshappen in the cramped confines of the skidder, then it's silent as Terry drivesus wherever we're going. Despite the stink of sulfur, I doze in and out ofsleep through the trip, mostly because I'm tired, but also because I reallydon't care. I pick up bits and pieces about some "structure" we'regoing to investigate amidst fantasies involving Rook, deep-fried tater tots,and a squid penis wearing a top hat.
The squidpenis is very polite and a gentleman.
"Wakeup, Doc."
I'm jarredawake by Rook, his cologne tart and sweet in my nostrils. Then I see Deirdregrinning and thoughts of top hats and fried food fade away.
"Gooddreams?" Deirdre asks as the hatch pops open and rotten eggs flood thecabin.
I shrug,nonchalantly rubbing at my eyes. "Better than reality, that's forsure."
Deirdre doesa weird snort-laugh and hops out of the skidder, exosuit whirring and whizzing.
I stumbleout much less gracefully, arms pinwheeling, but catch myself before hitting theground.
"It'sremarkable," Rook says, awe clear in his svelte voice.
I crack myneck. "What is?" Then I see it.
It's asilver spire. An impossibly tall spear of somethingthat reflects the blue sun and yellow sulfur air into green streaks of light. Aroundit, puffs of gas disturb the clouds of thick air, giving it this otherworldlyaspect.
Otherworldy.Ha.
It remindsme of a concert I went to in undergrad after I took a lot of drugs. Ideally, this won'tend up with me engaged to a middle-aged drummer. And the music was betterat the concert. Right now, Fuch-Feater is farting its own tune. It's not veryrhythmic or pleasant.
"Helmetsup people," Deirdre calls out as a malleable globe envelops her head fromsomewhere. She continues talking, voice echoing from a speaker near my neck. "Breathingis going to get dicey here real quick. We don't want to lose another doctor."
I ignore thesarcasm.
"Thesethings have helmets?" I ask to no one in particular, thinking about thelong trek from the drop point to Elftown through the "farm." "Would'vebeen good to know before I passed out and puked all over myself."
Rook comesover, his helmet already up, and taps a small button at the base of my neck. Immediately,the world twists as the glass--plastic? I have no idea--slides into place. Aneat little HUD pops up in the top left with pictures of everyone and somebasic health info.
My image isone of those placeholder silhouettes. "Was I supposed to send you aheadshot?"
"Nope,"Deirdre mutters. "You're 'retired,' remember?"
There's ashort chorus of laughter and my cheeks get hot, but I hold back any snappycomebacks. For now. I just woke up, after all.
Thesemonsters didn't even give me coffee.
"Thisside," Deirdre says, walking toward the... whatever direction away-from-the-rising-sunis on Fuch-Feater.
Probablywest. I think.
As we comearound, I run my fingers along the side of the spire, feeling the cool metalthrough the sensor-replicators on the glove fingertips. A line of grooves rubsacross my fingers like Braille. I'm not blind, so I can't read it. I mean, I could, but why?
Suddenly,the spire collapses in on itself, the air shaking and screaming as it does so. It'slike someone strangling a whale for its lunch money. I curse and jump back,knocking into the block of stone that is Terry.
"Don'ttouch anything!" Deirdre shouts waytoo late to be helpful.
As suddenlyas it began, it ends. The spire is now a strange looking box and I can't helpbut think it looks like an elevator, replete with two clear silver doors and a hugebutton with a down arrow.
"It'san elevator?" Rook mutters, breaking the silence.
Apparently,I'm not the only one.
"Wedon't know that," Deirdre says, but steps up and inspects the button. "Noone touch anything."
She'sleaning in close, trying to take a picture of it with her antiquated Infinity,when the ground shakes and she faceplants into the button.
A resoundingding echoes in the air amidst variouscurses in what sound like Spanish, then the doors open and flood the area infront of the structure with pure white light.
Rook isinside before Deirdre can complain, followed by Terry. She steps in, voicerising into a fevered pitch at their stupidity. Then the doors start to close.
I have asplit second to jump inside or wait.
I reallyconsider waiting. The idea of taking E.T.'s Elevator to HellTM isnot appealing, but I've never been good at being alone in strange places.
It's a tightfit--I really need to start joggingor something--but I slide in as the doors close.
"So...what next?" I ask the others, marveling only slightly at how gross andyellowed our exosuits look in this bright light.
Deirdre grimaces."First--"
She doesn'tfinish. The box lurches to the side and we all collapse in a heap of limbs andcurses. The force of it keeps increasing, like during the initial takeoff fromEarth when I finally booked my flight.
And justlike then, I black out.
#
I'm thefirst one awake, which is a surprise to me, that's for sure. I figured at leastbig ol' Terry would have a faster recovery time than my chunky self, butapparently not. I try to give myself a pat on the back and fail. Flexibilityisn't my strong suit.
You need todiscuss Freud and Jung? I'm your gal. Need mayo from the top shelf? Order thetaller, more flexible version. She'll probably look like Deirdre in a brown wigand a lot of makeup covering those freckles.
The doorsopen as I get to my feet. "Wow."
The elevatorhas dumped us into a massive room. It's a hemisphere, all made of this samesilvery metal. Light emanates from everywhere and nowhere at once, which ismore than a little bit mind-bending. There's an ozone tang to the air making myhair stand on end, even inside the helmet. I step into the room and look around.In the center is a raised dais with a large sacrifice-someone-to-a-silver-godaltar. Beyond that, there doesn’t appear to be anything else.
"Whathappened?" Deirdre's voice chimes in from the speaker at my neck. There'sa little bit of an edge to it now, like she's trying to keep herself in check. "Whereare we?"
I shrug. "Dunno."
Terry gruntsas he gets to his feet and walks past me toward the central altar-thing. "Whereverwe are, it seems to have breathable air. 78% nitrogen, 19% oxygen. No toxinsaccording to the readout."
I glance atthe HUD and see the readout he's talking about. A cartoonish "thumbsup" icon sits underneath a heading titled "Atmospheric Readings."
"Wonderful,"Rook mutters as he joins me out in the larger room. "But where are we?"
"Here,"I intone with a grin as I spout some philosophical wisdom that usually gets mea couple free drinks back home. "We're here and always have been here. It'sjust our perception of space that changes."
Rook glancesaskance at me. "What?"
I shrug. Philistines."Never mind. I have no idea, but we should check that out, right?" Iask, pointing at the definitely-not-scary-altar.
"Wrong!"Deirdre shouts, voice cracking, stepping in front of Rook and I like she's somesort of guard dog. "We've done enough here without documentation and, and,Jesus. I just need to think for a second."
"Okay,okay. Damn. Calm down, mom," Isay, rolling my eyes.
Deirdreglares at me but takes another of her exaggerated breaths. "Okay, no onetouch any--"
"What'sthis?" Terry asks.
Then he explodeswith a sound like an old rubber tire blowing out on the highway.
POP!
I'm farenough away only a fine, red mist coats my helmet, leaving the room the shadeof puke after drinking a bottle of Rosé. Deirdre, though, looks like someonepicked her up and dipped her in a vat of melted red crayons, but the front ofher helmet is clear and the look of absolute horror on her face makes me wantto howl in laughter for some horrible reason.
Which, despitemy best efforts, I do.
"Oh myGod!" I shout, half-maniacally. Then I laugh until I fall on my knees andcry. And I try and try to stop, but the pure absurdity of it all has its clawsin my stomach and its feathers on the soles of my feet.
I know. I'ma horrible person.
"You'rehurt," I hear Rook's voice over the comms between choking gasps for air.
"Yeah,just tie it off," comes Deirdre's robot response. "I can't feel it."
"Willyou shut up?" Rook screams at me over the comms.
Tears blurmy vision, so I tap the button to hide the helmet. "I'm trying, oh my G-g-god,"I manage between laughing fits leaving me in hiccups.
"Whatthe hell just happened?" Deirdre screeches in sudden panic, as if thereality of it all just hit her, voice topping out the speaker at my neck in ahissing mess.
Hiccupswracking my body, I walk over toward the altar area, for once being careful nottouching anything. Don't have to tell me--is it four times? Four times.
Anyway.
To the leftand right of the altar are two thick rods that pulse and glow. One of them hasTerry's index finger fused to the top of it.
"Don'ttouch these," I say as straight-faced as I can. I spin and throwjazz-hands in the air. "Or--BOOM!"
"JesusChrist," Rook whispers, unmoved by my comedic talent. "Terry..."
"Terry'sdead," Deirdre's voice is rough with tears. "This is my fault."
Rook wrapsher in a hug. "It's not, Deirdre."
"Yes,it is."
Theycontinue like that for some time, all wah-wah-ingand woe-is-me-ing. Maybe it's theshock of it all, but I'm looking at the altar by this point and the fact myfeet are smearing in what used to be a person doesn't bother me. I can't stopthinking about how much it looks like that time I microwaved a tomato forthirty minutes, which makes me giggle more.
I feel likeI should apologize to someone but screw it. I shouldn't even be here.
Somehow, theTerry-spray missed the altar entirely. I lean toward it and a command consolerises out of the surface, stretching the metallic surface like it's latex. Itcomes to eye-level, then expands into a three-foot by two-foot display.
"Heyguys," I call over the radio as black characters begin typing across thescreen. "It's talking to me."
"What?"The sound of booted feet echo behind me and soon they're next to me, eyes wide.
"It's...in Courier," I whisper, more than a little confused.
"Lookslike English to me," Deirdre says heavily, holding tight to her bleedingarm.
I notice herwound for the first time and, Jesus, it's not good. Looks like part of Terry'sexosuit speared through her arm at an angle.
Yikes.
"Maybeit shows up in different languages for each of us?" Deirdre continues,voice flat and analytical. "Or maybe there's a more emotional connectionthat warps what we see--"
"Courieris a font," I say, cutting her off. "It's in English for me,too."
"Metoo," Rook says. "But what does it mean? Is it a riddle?"
"Seemslike," Deirdre mumbles.
Since we'reall reading it silently and Deirdre is starting to bleed everywhere, I figureit might help to read it aloud.
I clear mythroat and proceed in my best professor voice: "You know the formulae, thescripture of the cosmos. You know the science of space and time, as well as theway it bends and twists when you use faster-then-light travel. But, due to yourmost basic selves, you only experience spacetime in one direction: forward.
"Withthat we posit a single question:
"Do youunderstand what spacetime is?"
The three ofus share a confused glance, then Deirdre scoffs, her pale face sheet-white atthis point from lack of blood. She's a tough lady, that's for sure.
"Ofcourse, we do," Deirdre mutters, taking a half-step back. "And whothe hell is 'we?'"
I reread theending and try to nibble on a fingernail in thought but end up punching myselfin the face with a gauntleted hand instead. "Ow," I grunt, licking atmy purpling lip in annoyance, all the humor of the situation drained by myself-abuse.
For thefirst time, I become distinctly aware the monochrome Jackson Pollock paintingto my right used to be a person and a spike of anxiety slams into my chest.
Deirdreshakes her head, then sways. Rook catches her and a little stab of jealousybites at my stomach. Not that the jealousy is important right now; this littlethought experiment has me intrigued. It sounds really familiar.
"Itseems like a yes or no answer, right? Fifty-fifty chance of getting itright," Rook mutters, a small bead of sweat making its way down hisforehead and onto his bushy eyebrows. "I'll give it a try."
Rook helpsDeirdre to the ground where she takes a knee. I barely hear Rook as heapproaches the podium. The gears are turning in my head and I'm remembering aparticularly boring undergrad class in New Berkeley where we discussedknowledge arguments.
Rook clearshis throat. "Yes, we do understand spacetime--"
And then I figureit out: "Wait!"
But I'm toolate. The room rings like a gong and the world shudders like we're standing ona massive tuning fork hit with a hammer. A piercing shriek echoes from myspeaker, but I can hear it through the helmet, too.
And thenthere's a horrible popping sound and Rook's exosuit falls to the ground, helmetsmeared red and purple. Deirdre screams. I mute her. There's still a dull echoof her heart-wrenching sobs as I approach the podium, but I put her out of mymind.
It's timefor me to flex this philosophical doctorate of mine for maybe the last time.
After all,I've a ginger to save.
"Okay,"I say to myself, then take a deep, calming breath. "It's just Mary thecolorblind neuroscientist. I know this. I can do it."
Breathe inthrough the mouth, out through the nose. Or is it the other way? Hell, I cannever remember.
I lick at myswollen lip and start into the same undergraduate diatribe that got me an A inPhilosophy 202. "Scientifically, we know spacetime, but experientially wedon't," I say, surprised at the tremor in my voice. "To experience isto engage with the mind in a way no formula can explain. We would need to foldspacetime in a personal way to understand it all and, since we can't, we'llnever truly experience it."
That's some doctoral level expositionright there, I reassuremyself, but I close my eyes and wait to get atomized anyway.
A tap on theback of my leg sends me screaming into the air and I land facing Deirdre. She'scrawled forward leaving a trail of mixed scarlet blood on the ground. Her lipsare blue as she stares at me and they're moving, but I can't hear anything.
Oops. Iunmute her.
"--thescreen? Can you hear me? Is Rook dead?"
"Err,yeah. Rook is dead," I say, then turn back to the screen.
The textchanges and a sharp tone issues from the altar, like the siren at the end of ahigh-scoring game of Skee-Ball. The warm feeling of success floods my body and Ithrow my arms in the air.
You have accepted your ignorance; Movedpast your failures.
Now take this gift;
And go.
As the lastperiod appears, a helmet with two silvery straps drops from the bottom of themonitor like a teardrop, then hangs there swaying in an unseen breeze.
"Dude,"I whisper.
It’s clearfrom the directions scrolling across the screen now the helmet lets me changean event, any event, in time and space.
Toexperience anything accessible via spacetime.
Anything.
"We canmake one thing a reality. We can warp time and space for one thing. This isunreal," I rasp out.
"Wecould stop Terry from touching... whatever that is," Deirdre whispers inawe. "We can save Rook. We could even stop ourselves from getting in theelevator."
I cringe,since it's kind of my fault. Hell, if I hadn't been here, they never would've foundit in the first place.
A grincreeps across my face.
"I getto choose Mary's apple."
Deirdrefrowns. "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing."I straighten. "I've trained my entire life for this moment," I say,stepping up to the monitor. "Turns out you do need a doctor here. A Doctor of Philosophy!"
She doesn'trespond to my grandiose proclamation, so I lay it out simply. "I'vestudied philosophy and thought experiments just like this for over a decade. Letme fix this."
We look ateach other for a long time. Deirdre, who sits at death's door and has alreadyrang the doorbell, nods. "Do it."
I grab thesmooth helmet, cool weight reassuring in my hands, and put it on. Then, usingall the philosophical know-how my research and studies have taught me, I pickthe one thing to change that makes this all better.
The onething that'll make sure this never happens.
"I knowwhat to do." With a grin, I twist reality into a pretzel and sprinkle itwith salt.
#
Three weekslater (or six months earlier, I don't know, I'm not a physicist and manipulatingspacetime is hard), I'm sipping Rosé on my deck, a plate of tater-tot crumbsnext to me, and the sun setting in glorious waves of magenta and gold acrossthe open ocean. The wind hits me in the face and it smells of salt and the sea.And maybe a little bit of dead seal. But not sulfur. Anything but sulfur.
The soundsof high-end erosion-protection machinery roars below my deck, drowning out eventhe crashing waves. I don't mind though. Turns out winning the lottery pays forthe equipment to keep your house from falling into the ocean. Crazy turn ofevents, right?
I raise myglass to the village of Elftown and its miserable denizens, specificallyDeirdre and, I assume, Rook and Terry.
"From Earth, with love," I intone as Sneakers jumps up on my bare lap delicately, gray cat body a-thrum with peaceful purrs under my fingertips.
THE END
