Authors: Marc Andre
“‘We suspect John’s Mother returned to one of the fortified sectarian compounds that litter the rural wastes beyond Salt Lake City,’ said Salt Lake City Police Chief Howard Johnston.
“‘Before we performed a section, I visited her myself to procure payment and she was certainly dressed like a cult member. Even pregnant and dressed like a weirdo, she was pretty good looking,’ said William Redstone, hospital administrator. Police and hospital billing staff continue their search for Baby Boy John Doe and his mother.”
I was pretty blown away by the article. Back home, my friends and I always joked about kids with “cyborg brains,” but I had no idea they actually existed. I skipped down a few lines and opened another link, which was another article from the Salt Lake City Morning Sun:
“Six Weeks After Surgery, Miracle Baby Walks, Talks, Tells Jokes.”
I skimmed down to the part about the jokes. “Having spent his entire life in the hospital, Baby Boy James Doe’s jokes were of a medical nature. ‘How do you hide money from an internist?’ He asked. Answer: ‘Place it under a bandage.’
“‘How do you hide money from a radiologist?’ Answer: ‘Place in on a patient.’
“‘How do you hide Money from Dr. Klee?’ Answer: ‘Place it under some humility.’
“‘How do you hide money from Administrator Redstone?’ Answer: ‘You can’t hide money from Administrator Redstone.’
“When asked to comment about the child’s joke, Dr. Klee dodged the question and drove away in his Edison Speedgator. Administrator Redstone,
on the other hand, was frank. ‘The financial realities of modern medicine require that I diligently collect money.’”
Although I didn’t find Allen’s jokes very funny, present was a level of sophistication that indicated that, even as a mere two month old, he was smarter than I will ever be.
I skipped down a few lines again to find yet another article from the Salt Lake City Morning Sun:
“Feds Continue Siege on Religious Compound. Arturo Pfendler Identified.
“There is no end in sight as Federal Agents continue their three week old siege on a fortified compound near Sampson Springs, a small rural community approximately 200km from Salt Lake City. An unnamed source within the F.B.I. confirms that facial recognition algorithms applied to visual data obtained from a fallen agent’s helmet cam have positively identified Arturo Pfendler, leader of the religious group Brethren of the Celestial Heavens, as present within the compound.
“F
.B.I. agents came under heavy fire earlier this month when they raided the compound to serve an arrest warrant for Arturo Pfendler for conspiracy to kidnap esteemed neuroscientist Francesca Steratta from her residence in New York City. Dr. Steratta’s work has led to cures for several neurodegenerative disorders including Fatal Familial Insomnia and Marchiafava-Bignami. Salt Lake City Police were tipped off about plans to abduct Steratta by an adolescent runaway girl they had picked up off the streets. According to Police Chief Johnston, the girl fled one of Pfendler’s five fortified compounds on the eve of her wedding day to one of Pfendler’s ‘blessed male’ lieutenants.
“‘Brethren of the Celestial Heavens
is a well-known polygamist group,’ said Steven Kidherder, a senior social worker with Utah’s Division of Human Services. ‘So called “blessed males” in the group are allowed as many as twenty wives, some as young as twelve years old. To keep the appropriate male to female ratio, so called “bedeviled” young males are either cast out of the community or irreversibly chemically castrated.’
“F
.B.I. officials are uncertain why Pfendler allegedly conspired to abduct Dr. Steratta as she is much older than the young women he allegedly coerces into marriage. Last year, Pfendler completed a fourteen-month sentence of biostasis-assisted re-education after a standoff with police at the Los Angeles home of topless bikini model Fiona Mammalot. Court records reveal a neighbor of Ms. Mammalot called the police after four men broke down the model’s front door and forced her into a van. After vowing to ‘fight until our righteous deaths,’ Pfendler surrendered to police. Three of his lieutenants were killed during the firefight that ensued.
“’It’s rare for re-education to fail,’ said Kidherder, who worked as a parole officer before taking on his current position at the Division of Human Services. ‘However, recidivism can occur among persons with strongly ingrained religious beliefs or profound psychopathology.’
“Four F.B.I. officers died during the raid near Sampson Springs April 3
rd
after being fired upon by a phased plasma rife in the forty watt range, a class 3 weapon. The head of a fifth is being kept alive in a jar awaiting a donor body. The names of casualties have not been released to the public.”
I wasn’t exactly sure why the article was relevant to Allen, so I skipped down another few lines:
“Feds Fired Upon. Airstrike Ordered. Pfendler Sole Survivor Among Compound Residents.”
I skimmed the article. In short, Pfendler surrendered to the F
.B.I. after vowing every man woman and child would fight to the death. Hundreds died. Pfendler survived because he hid in a hole underneath a bunker. Apparently they found super sugar cupcakes and skin mags in the hole too. The article had a pic of Pfendler. He was this wimpy old stick guy, bald, with a metal ring bolted to his head. The article explained that the ring was called a “halo” and that “blessed males” wore it to profess their “blessedness.” I hoped the feds kicked his ass.
The relevance of the massacre became apparent in the next link:
“Twin to Miracle Baby Found in Grave Near Compound.”
Again, I skimmed the article. An autopsy showed the boy died of complications from hydrocephalus and increased intracranial pressure, which, as far as I could tell, were natural causes. That Dr. Klee guy went on record to say that the boy’s death wasn’t his fault because his staff would have caught the problem in time had the boy remained in hospital. They suspect that jackass Pfendler guy tried to abduct the scientist lady to try and save the boy. However, even if they were successful in kidnapping the lady, she wouldn’t have been able to help because she was a laboratorian and not a clinician. The feds confirm the boy’s mom was charred by neutrinos during the airstrike.
I scrolled down a hundred lines or so and picked another link:
“Adoptive Parent of Miracle Baby Wishes to Remain Anonyms, Family Lawyer Says.” The article gave little details beyond the headline other than the name of the lawyer and the identity of the court where the proceedings took place.
The next link was a record of adoption, but I chose not to read it as I had pried my nose deeply enough into Allen’s past already.
The very last line was a link to an article from last year: “Supreme Courts Clears Way for Deportation of Cult Members Refractory to Re-Education.” Apparently women cult members did well with re-education but male members did not. The Kidherder guy explained that this was because cult membership oppressed women but endowed men with special privileges, provided they hadn’t been chemically castrated. The article also explained that many cult members escaped the raids on Pfendler’s four other compounds and are still at large.
There was a knock on the door, so I switched off the vid and unplugged my module. Ellen was in the hall. Under any other circumstances I would have been thrilled to see her.
“Wow, your living quarters are really tiny!” she said.
“It keeps the rain off our heads,” I said indifferently.
“We’re in space! There’s no rain!”
“It’s a manner of speech.” There was a short pause during which I noticed something peculiar about the lighting in the passageway.
“Allen says he is very sorry,” said Ellen.
“He’s right behind you isn’t he, lurking in the shadows?”
Allen stepped out of the darkness
, looking pretty sheepish. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of friends, and sometimes when we tease each other I just don’t know what to say.”
I suppose a real sense of humor can’t really be simplified down into binary code,
I thought. “You are forgiven. We’ll catch up tomorrow,” I said. Ellen smiled, but I closed the door before she or Allen could say anything. I was very tired and emotionally drained, but it was hard to stay angry at someone whose brother’s head had imploded and whose mother got charred by government neutrinos.
“Have a seat,” he said gesturing to a vacant desk on the front row. I complied and sat down.
“Your teachers and I, we noticed your grades have improved.”
“I’ve been studying.” I said.
“You should be proud of yourself,” he explained. “Earlier in the semester you were failing. Now you’re hardly an honor student, but you definitely could graduate high school and might even gain admission to a vocational school.”
“Gee, thanks, I guess.” It was a peculiarly phrased compliment, but I could tell Mr. Fox’s intentions were good.
What followed was an awkward silence that lasted several seconds. Mr. Fox lightly touched the side of his head and asked, “What do you think about my hair?”
It’s really creepy,
I thought.
It fits you like a crash helmet and makes you look like a villain in a D-rate action flick.
“It’s okay, I guess,” I said. “Style is a bit old fashion, but at least you’re not going grey or bald.” His hair was unnaturally red. I guessed it was a cheap implant, or that he dyed it. Patches of grey would be an improvement.
“Yes, I assure you I am not bald.” Mr. Fox said with conviction.
“Well, that’s good, I guess.”
Another long awkward pause, “your brother —”
“Is he causing trouble I asked?”
“No,” he said, “I was going to ask you if he ever said anything about my hair.”
“Actually he did.” I said.
“Really?” Mr. Fox said, concerned. “What did he say?”
“He said it looked good.” I lied.
For some reason Mr. Fox seemed relieved. There was a third long awkward pause, during which I was really beginning to feel creeped out.
“Your father?” he asked. “Does he work on this ship?”
So that’s what this is about,
I thought. “My mother’s single. “ I said getting right to the point so that Mr. Fox would dismiss me.
Mr. Fox smiled. I didn’t like the guy, but my mother could do much worse. He seemed the type to stay sober, and although he might scream and shout, I doubted Mr. Fox would ever hit Cotton. I really hoped he wasn’t going to ask me what my mother thought about his hair.
This time I broke the silence. “It’s lunch time. Can I go now?”
“Oh yes, you are dismissed.”
It was tense in the mess hall. Hammond, Allen, and Ellen traded nervous glances waiting for me to say something funny or lighthearted to indicate that the fiasco from the previous evening was either forgiven or forgotten. Cotton munched on a chalupa, either indifferent or oblivious.
A joke,
I thought.
Allen’s momma’s so charred by neutrinos she smells like barbecue.
“Allen’s Uncle’s moustache so thick, he made a walrus jealous.”
The joke was pretty feeble, but everyone laughed anyway.
After dinner we went to Allen’s living unit. He led us to his room and started rummaging through his closet. On his worktable were two long knives. I recognized them as auto carbine bayonets. Back home you could get them super cheap, around $300 at a surplus store. Every goon had one. Cotton shoplifted one once, but the cops took it away when they caught him trying to use it to pry the front off a vending machine to steal super sugar cupcakes. They
might have arrested him had they not been called away because some guy three blocks over was getting knifed by a virtually identical blade.
Cotton picked the one up on the right and rubbed his thumb against the blade. It was dull, which was how they invariable came at the surplus store, though local goons found the blades were capable of holding a razor sharp edge. Cotton never sharpened his.
Cotton picked up the one on the left and bent the blade. It was a trainer with an elastopolymer blade. Space marines used them for practice. They were great for practical jokes. Cotton put the trainer down to the right of the real one.
“What’s with the knives?” I asked. “Are we going to use them to pry stuff open?”
“No,” Allen said, emerging from his closet with a tape measure and a mound of rumpled grey cloth. “I was just messing around with them before you got here. And they’re not knives, they’re bayonets! I got ‘em cheap from a veteran last voyage. He cut me a deal, only $2000.”
“So… you have two
in case one breaks?” I asked, feigning ignorance. The fact that Allen thought he knew more than us about the weapon made him the perfect mark. I winked at Cotton who winked back. We were of the same mindset.
“No the one on the right is real and the one on the left is a trainer. It can’t pierce human flesh.”
Cotton picked up the trainer, which was on the right because he had switched them. He thumbed the blade as if it were real. “Why’s the real one so dull?”
“The bayonet is primarily a thrusting weapon. All it needs is a good point.”
“You mean like this!” Cotton said, plunging the blade into Allen’s chest. The blade bent sideways, but Allen shrieked and fell over backward. He sat there dazed. Touching his chest, he was perplexed by the lack of blood. Cotton and I laughed loudly.
Eventually
Allen figured out what happened, stood up, and smiled. “That was a good gag. We should try it on Ellen when she gets here.” He put the tape measure and the rumpled grey cloth down on the worktable next to the real bayonet.
“No, girls don’t appreciate that kind of humor.” I said.
“Yeah I suppose not. Ellen hates violence.”
“Aren’t you afraid Ellen’s going to snitch?” I asked, concerned.
“I know her pretty well, and she knows what we are up to. Don’t worry. She won’t tell.”
Allen rubbed his chest again. “
Wow, that was a really good gag. I never saw you switch the bayonets. I really thought you guys had killed me.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. Tell him about what we did to our friend Billy back home.” I said to Cotton.
Cotton started chuckling. “That was so funny. I’ll never forget…” His chuckles morphed into a paroxysm of loud laughter. He lost all tone and started rolling around on the floor.
“
Wow, that must have been some gag!” Allen said, curiously.
I could tell it was going to be a while before Cotton would recover, so I started the story. “Okay, so back home we had this friend Billy whose dad worked the graveyard shift. So one night we’re staying over, and Billy shows us this old pistol his dad stashed under
his bed. It was one of those old guns with the stick-thingy you put in the handle —”
“A magazine,” Allen interjected. I wasn’t sure what Allen was talking about. For such a bright guy, he didn’t seem to be following me.
“No, no! He didn’t keep any skin mags under the bed. You see he had this old gun —”
“Yeah, the magazine.
The ‘stick thingy’ is called a ‘magazine.’ It’s where the bullets go. In the old days it used to go in the handle. The ones they make now insert at the breech.”
“Yeah and the bullets had this gold casing —”
“Brass actually,” Allen corrected.
“Okay, I suppose they could have been brass. Anyway, Cotton happens to have these flash-pops, you know, the one’s you throw at little kids and that make a loud noise when they hit stuff.”
“I am familiar with flash-pops.”
“Okay, so Billy goes down
to the kitchen to get us some Stardust Colas, and while he’s there we take the stick — er, magazine — out and tape a flash-pop to the hammer-thingy.”
The concerned look on Allen’s face indicated that he did not like where this story was going. Cotton had recovered and was
smiling, anticipating the story’s good part.
“So Billy comes up from downstairs, and Cotton points the gun at him and yells, ‘Die Billy!’ He pulls the trigger. The hammer drops and the flash-pop ignites. Only it’s way loud because normally you don’t hit a flash-pop that hard.”
Cotton started chuckling again. Allen looked horrified.
“Billy sees the sparks flying out the back of the gun, and…” I started laughing myself, which made it hard to fi
nish the punch line, “and he… Oh I am sorry…” I completed the line but I was pretty sure it was unintelligible because my sides were splitting. Cotton had resumed rolling around on the floor.
“Wait? What happened?”
I finally caught my breath, as did Cotton who finally stood up. “Billy was so convinced that Cotton shot him that dropped a load in the back of his pants.” At the word “load” Cotton collapsed again, laughing.
Allen did not look amused. “You know, if Billy’s dad kept a round chambered, you would have killed him.”
“Naw,” I protested. “We took the stick thingy out with all the bullets. Wait, what’s ‘chambered’ mean?”
Allen was visibly agitated and shouted, “I can’t believe you two did that!”
With Allen’s outburst, Cotton stopped laughing. I felt a bit sobered myself. “That was so stupid and dangerous!” Allen said, continuing his reprimand.
“Well, sorry
I guess.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
Cotton said.
Allen calmed down a little. “I want you two to promise you’ll never do that trick again!”
“Yeah, well okay.”
“No, I want you to say, ‘I promise!’” Allen demanded.
“Okay, I promise.” I wanted Allen to drop it so we could move on.
“You too Cotton!
You have to promise too!”
“I promise.” Cotton said, timidly, looking down at his feet.
Allen went back to rummaging around in his closet. Cotton and I exchanged silent glances and took turns shrugging our shoulders. There was a loud knock.
“Oh that must be Ellen.” Allen left his bedroom to open the front door.
“Why didn’t he laugh?” Cotton asked. “It’s funny when someone poops in their pants.”
“I dunno,” I said, “b
ut we probably shouldn’t bring it up again.”
I heard three pairs of feet in the living room instead of just two. Allen appeared followed by Ellen and Hammond. Allen and Ellen both seemed pretty annoyed.
“Hammond!” Cotton and I shouted with delight. Hammond smiled, pleased to see us.
“Hey, Hammond,” Cotton said, setting the large boy up as his next mark, “check out these cool knives!”
“Hey, they are pretty cool.”
Quietly, Allen turned to Ellen and said, “What’s he doing here?”
nodding towards.
“I don’t know.” Ellen said, exacerbated. “He won’t leave me alone. He put his tray down next to mine at the mess hall, and he’s been following me around ever since.”
“Why didn’t you try to lose him?”
“I did. I couldn’t shake him.”
“Did you hide in the women’s washateria?”
“Yes, I stayed there for ten minutes but he
waited for me the whole time.”
“Why didn’t you
sneak out the back?”
Ellen frowned. “Yeah, I suppose I should have thought of that.”
I felt the need to interject. “Hammond’s cool,” I said, “and there’s no way he’s going to snitch.”
“Yeah, but, this is my —”
“Don’t be a jackass!” I said. “Hammond’s my friend!”
“Okay.” Allen said reluctantly. “He can stay.”
Ellen rolled her eyes. I tried to reassure her. “It’ll be okay. With everyone else here, he probably won’t hit on you too much.”
Hammond yelped and fell over backwards. Cotton had just stabbed him with the trainer. The large boy stood up, his eyes wide
with bewilderment. “I thought for certain you had just knifed me! Man, that’s a good one!”
“All right let’s stop farting around and get started!” Allen said, bossily. Cotton let a loud one rip, just to make a point. Ellen look
ed disgusted, so I suppressed a chuckle.
“What are you guys doing here anyway?” Hammond asked.
“You’ll see in a minute.” I said quietly. “Try and be quiet, Allen hates to be interrupted.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Allen turned to Cotton. He unrolled the measuring tape. “I need to make some precise measurements. I’ll need you to strip down to your underthings.”
Cotton shrugged. Of course, neither mother nor I had done laundry recently so Cotton
wasn’t wearing any underthings. All his dirty pairs were stashed out of reach in the hamper. Ellen turned red and diverted her eyes. Allen was a bit surprised and didn’t seem to know what to do.
“Is that the first time you’ve seen a dong?” Hammond asked Ellen.
“Yes,” she said, tersely.
“Did you like it?”
“No!”
“Yeah, that’s not a very good one.” Hammond said.
Allen shrugged and started taking measurement, looping the tape around Cotton’s neck, then his shoulders and chest. When he got to Cotton’s waist, Hammond asked obnoxiously, “Are you going to measure his dong?”
“No. Genitalia parameters are not relevant,” Allen replied, sounding very scientific.
“It’s twelve centimeters,” Cotton said proudly.
“There’s no way that’s twelve centimeters!” Hammond said.
“It is when I’m using it.”
“Well, okay. S
till, that’s not very big. Mine’s twenty.” Hammond boated. I suspected my friend was lying.
“Mine’s still growing.” Cotton said. “It’ll be at least twenty by the time the voyage is over.”
The conversation made me a little bit uncomfortable. Ellen looked utterly mortified.
Allen ignored the two boys and finished his measurements, his face coming dangerously close to Cotton’s dong as he took my brother’s inseam.
“Here put these on.” Allen handed Cotton the rumpled piece of grey cloth and a clean set of undies. “You can keep the underthings. I won’t want them back.” Allen turned away and started punching numbers into his computer. “Let me know when you’re dressed.”
The grey cloth turned out to be some sort of jump suit. Tight in the butt and belly, but loose everywhere else, the garment fit Cotton poorly. “Done,” Cotton said.
Allen hit the return key, and in a fraction of a second the cloth seemed to morph, fitting Cotton perfectly like a second skin.
“Cool!” Cotton cried.
“The suit will help you with thermoregulation, so you shouldn’t get uncomfortably hot or dangerously cold. You could even wear it in space for brief periods if you had gloves, boots, and a pressure helmet. The outer surface is a ninth generation Teflon, so you should slide into tight spaces pretty nicely.”
“Hey, I heard about these,” said Hammond. “Fat ladies use these to make themselves look thinner, and flat girls use them to look bustier.”
“Hmm,” Allen said. “I suppose that could be a secondary function.” He typed a few more keystrokes and hit return.
We heard a whoosh and a hiss. Cotton’s butt and paunch flatted and his chest and arms puffed out. He looked pretty buff and his package seemed downright massive. Again, Ellen diverted her eyes.
“It’s not a physique undie,” Allen explained. “This is a special issue stealth battle dress uniform. A few voyages ago, I got it off a veteran who was former special operations. What civilians use to hide a panty line, the space marines use to tamponade bleeding if somebody gets shot. This pair is equipped with so much more technology than the junk you can buy at a department store.”
“Must have cost you a fortune,” I said, considering how much Allen had overpaid for his bayonets.
“Actually, didn’t cost me a dollar.” Allen boasted. “The veteran gave them to me in exchange for making a few arrest warrants disappear when we arrived back planet-side.”
Cotton’s face was turning red. His lips were sputtering but he seemed unable to speak. “I think he’s pretty uncomfortable.” I said.
“Oh! Sorry!” Allen turned back to his computer. With a single keystroke, the suit returned to its former setting. The more lumpy Cotton reappeared, equipped with his standard-issue paunch and package. A more normal pallor returned to his face.