TIME DOUCHE CH. 4 - Let's Get It On

TIME DOUCHE CH.4 - LET'S GET IT ON

By MJ Heiser

Napoleon Bonaparte has a reputation for being cagey, smart, relentless, and incredibly short-tempered. He experienced a meteoric rise to power, and it began shortly after the end of the French Revolution. Yes, before long, he will be one of the most powerful men in the Western World.

But Marie is effing sexy, and there is no way you're letting this hot piece get away from you.

Besides, you think to yourself as you sink further into irrevocable arousal, I have a time machine. He does not. I can totally get away with this.

She whimpers as you pull her bustle-bottomed body closer to you. Curly tendrils of her soft, fragrant hair fall in your face. She straddles your leg and slowly starts to grind her delicious, curvaceous, straight-from-a-period-romance-novel body against yours.

"There is something so different about you," she whispers heatedly into your ear. "I saw it when you first arrived. You are – cleaner? Different grooming? You stand differently –"

Nubleman's totally unwelcome voice intrudes on this very sexy moment. "Please, dear God, tell me you're not about to boff Marie Therese."

"Who?" you ask your pocket.

Marie screeches and bounces away from your prong-accented lap. "Merde! What was that?"

Damn, you think, and you slap your hand over your forehead. You addressed Nubleman before you addressed the woman you were about to defile. You drag your hand down your face, then return your attention to Marie. She's wide-eyed and frightened, pressed into the far corner.

"Shh, it's okay," you whisper, approaching the young woman and trying to find a way to keep her from screaming. As the blood returns to your brain, you find it suddenly easy to reflect on how fear is a total turn-off.

"Someone referred to me as Marie Therese!" she whispered. This whisper is a far cry from the silky purr she'd slid into your ear just a moment ago. This one is harsh and accusatory. "Who said it? You tell me now, you peasant scum!"

You frown at her. Peasant scum? Who is this broad?

"Uh, I didn't hear anything." You want to slap your hand over your forehead again. You sure aren't going to be winning any Nobel prizes for rhetoric. –Oh, right. The Nobel prize guy hasn't even been born yet, has he?

The young woman's manner stiffens, and you see something almost regal in her bearing. "You lie, pig."

Pocket Nubleman has gone quiet. You want to ask him who the hell Marie Therese is, but she doesn't seem to respond well to him, and the last thing you need is evidence of what you're trying to convince her didn't happen.

There's commotion in the next room. Marie pulls you close, but it certainly isn't a move borne of desire or any of that lovely lust that was so thick in the room a moment ago. She hisses in your ear: "You listen to me now. No one is to know I am Marie Therese. As far as anyone is concerned, Marie Therese is on her merry way to Austria to escape the fate of her parents. I want no part of beheadings or anything having to do with my royal past – I want only to live my life as a common woman, and perhaps even the consort of Napoleon."

You think you hear a deep intake of breath from your pantaloons pocket. You wonder if Nubleman is rubbing his fat fingers together in glee over these dark intrigues. You don't really care. You suddenly feel the sleep deprivation down to your toes. Lust overrides fatigue, but the effects don't last forever.

What I wouldn't give for a Starbucks, you think wearily to yourself.

"Do you understand me, pig?" Marie adds.

"So I can't tell Napoleon that you're – whoever you are."

"I am Marie Therese," she says haughtily, drawing herself up to her full height. "I am Madame Royale, Fille de France, and eldest child of Louis and Antoinette."

"So – Napoleon won't like that."

She giggles. "He'll probably want to kill me."

You sigh. "That's not even a little awkward for me, is it?"

Her smile falters. "What isn't?"

French royalty was apparently not well-schooled in sarcasm.

Oh, well, it hardly matters. You're out of here tomorrow – right? Then Marie can play her little black-sheep, naughty-princess games with Napoleon and all of his other friends. In the meantime, you need sleep.

"Never mind. I won't tell Napoleon – but may I get some sleep now?"

"I still want to have you," she says, and that gorgeous sex kitten has suddenly made her reappearance in the room. She glides closer.

And right at that moment, the door to your private little hidden shelter explodes inwards, showering your head with wooden shrapnel. Four large brutes (really? France was capable of making men this big? What happened?) shoulder their way into the cramped space.

"What have we here?" says the biggest of the louts. He is obviously unaware he has uttered a total movie-line cliché. "Where is Napoleon? He is due back at camp. We have reports that Marie Therese has escaped."

Marie looks at you. Once again the fear in her eyes proves to be a total turn-off.

Should you...

A. Betray Marie's trust and tell the men that she's the escaped royal?

B. Defend Marie, hoping to get into those royal knickers at a later time?

C. Try to rouse Napoleon in the hopes these men stop asking uncomfortable questions?

TIME DOUCHE CH. 1 - STAND AND BE SEEN

TIME DOUCHE CH.1 - STAND AND BE SEEN

by MJ Heiser

With a blinding flash of insight, you understand how this whole thing can be twisted to your advantage. Maybe you are the kind of moron who mistakes a time machine for a shower, but that happened because any enclosed space found in a tiled room in a 21st century American home is easily assumed by the people of your time to be a shower. Designers are constantly coming up with avant garde new interpretations of ways to make yourself clean; how could anyone anticipate that this thing could be a time machine, after all?

You think about this for just a second longer. Yes, it was an easy mistake to make for people of your time. What would this thing look like to the people of Revolutionary France?

A big, daffy grin overspreads your face. This is a bad omen to the people who know you, but you haven't gotten the memo that your grins are signs of coming disaster. "Nubleman, I have a plan," you say, and to your own ears, your voice carries the excited certainty and rightness of a big-shot A-list celebrity on the silver screen, getting ready to face down zombies or aliens or even the US Congress.

"You have a -- a what?" Nubleman asks. Maybe he's gotten the memo.

"Play along with me," you say, pulling a dirty, roughly-woven shirt over your head. It manages to just barely cover your privates. You don't have time to put on any of the other elaborate clothing of a bygone era. Somebody should have introduced these people to the wonder of sweatpants, you think giddily to yourself.

"What the hell are you talking about? You're in 18th century FRANCE! This is no time for playing along with anything!" Nubleman stammers.

There's no time for discussion. You step out of the strange titanium enclosure, puffing up as much confidence as you can, and fix your gaze on the approaching riders. It's obvious that they'd finally noticed the shiny foreign object while you'd been fussing with this strange shirt you're now wearing -- a shirt that barely protects your delicate 21st century flesh from the unexpectedly brisk breeze. The last thing they expected was to see anyone emerge from this thing, and that anyone includes you.

"Merde!” shouts one of the riders.

"Greetings, Earth people!" you announce.

"What the blazes are you doing, you idiot?!" Nubleman bellows.

If you'd had the presence of mind to emerge from the time machine speaking French, you may have survived the experience. French aristocracy may have spoken English, but most of the peasantry now taking over the country did not. Unfortunately, you started speaking in a strange tongue, and the shock of that combined with your abrupt appearance and Nubleman's disembodied shrieks of outrage are just too much for the imaginations of the three men in front of you. They scream and fire on you in superstitious horror. Despite their fright, their aim is perfect.

All I wanted was chicken, you think to yourself as blood leaks from your perforated body. Fortunately you're dead before those dull bayonet blades can reach you.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 1

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.1 - AGE GRACEFULLY

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.1 - AGE GRACEFULLY

By MJ Heiser

Wait. Who’s in charge here? Oh, that’s right, I am, you think to yourself as you end the call and set the phone back down. I’m not going to let the industry bully me into doing something that will make me look like an expressionless clown. I’ve made my mark on the industry. Besides, other stars have grown old gracefully – Sean Connery, Katherine Hepburn, some, uh, other people. I can do it, too.

These thoughts comfort you, but aren’t very practical in the short term. To support your new world-view, you decide to go for a run in the morning. That will give you a natural, healthy glow, surely. And it’s much better for me than surgery.

First thing in the morning, you put on your running shoes and head out the door. It’s a beautiful day in Los Angeles – not too hot, not too cold, just right for a run. Now that the weight of your decision is off your shoulders, you find yourself full of energy and excitement. Who needs plastic surgery, anyway? I’m just glad to be alive! You decide, then, to take a good brisk run out of your neighborhood and up the steep hill about a mile away so you can get a good look at the view.

The run really is good for you. You feel more and more justified in your choice to just enjoy life. You’re not even winded. You imagine that everyone who managed to get into the after-party is still sleeping off their booze-induced comas, maybe even in the bed of someone they shouldn’t have slept with. Not you. Being an outsider is a great thing. Now you can discover how to live a real life.

You make it to the hill. It’s steeper than you remember, but you’re just too high on endorphins to really give that thought much weight. You get started jogging up the incline. Further . . .further . . .you’re really pushing yourself now. Your heart is hammering in your chest, and your breathing has become shallow and raspy.

Oh, look! There’s a bench on the other side of the road from you. Just further evidence that I’m doing the right thing. A place to rest is provided, just when I need it.

You step out into the empty street. It doesn’t stay empty for long. Before you even have a chance to register that the noise you’re hearing isn’t just the rush of blood through your ears, you’re pegged hard by a brown delivery service van. Tires screech as you hit the pavement, but the vehicle rolls over you anyway, crushing your spine.

Right before the lights go out, you think Oh, great. And my corpse won’t even be pretty for my last time in the papers.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 1

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.10 BACK TO THE NOSSA VESSEL

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.10 - BACK TO THE NOSSA VESSEL

By M.J. Heiser

You realize in a startling moment of clarity that none of the crap that’s happened to you since you woke up in Malloy’s locker is any of your business. What is your business is the stuff that happened on the ship. You have to get back to the NOSSA vessel, ASAP, get to the bottom of these shenanigans.

President Womack is just going to have to deal with your reluctance to play hero today.

You march with purpose to the wall that somehow conceals the transporter the Janitor King used to bring you both to this weird office on Mars. You show no hesitation in manipulating the control panel – after all, you’ve just proven to be a whiz at hacking through interplanetary computer defense programs. You smile to yourself as the wall of white light and energy appears in front of you, and with a single-minded determination, you move into the light.

Unfortunately, Whiz Kid, you maybe should have taken an extra minute at the control panel. After all, the last person to manipulate it was the Janitor King, and he had it set to transport one Earthling and one Martian. You overlooked that one control, and it’s leading your body through unfortunate contortions through space and time.

You never make it back to the NOSSA vessel. Instead, for the next several months leading to your gruesome death, you’re going to have to deal with being stretched, pushed, pulled, and contorted like so much organic-material taffy – and you’ll spend every day of that time wishing you’d just played the hero.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 10

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.10 HACKING OFF ALONE

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.10 - HACKING OFF ALONE

By M.J. Heiser

Possibilities swirl through your mind. You can't help yourself from a fleeting desire to know exactly what it was that led to this -- specifically, how in the hell did you end up in Malloy's locker, anyway? The only memory you have from just before that moment was a normal one, of slipping under the sheets in your quarters, glancing at the TID (time information device), and taking a deep drink out of a bottle of water next to your bed . . .

"I really need an answer if the plan is going to work," the Janitor King says, a tone of strained patience in his voice.

"You say this thing has all the answers," you say to him, lifting the datacube slightly in your left hand. A beam of white light catches a corner of the crystal-like material, and the light splinters into a prism.

"It has all the answers a human would need," the Martian answers politically.

"You didn't answer my question. Does it have everything?"

"What are you getting at?"

"You're asking me to take part in yet another conspiracy. I don't like conspiracies. I like the thought that by agreeing, I could save both of our worlds, but what if I'm being played for a sucker? That's been happening to me a lot lately. I don't want to be involved in a murder, no matter how deserving the target is, if I'm being lied to."

The Janitor King smiles at you. "Quite understandable, and a quality anyone would desire in their leader."

You roll your eyes. "Save the political bullshit, okay? I just want to know that I'm getting the real deal out of this." Once again you heft the datacube. "I want to see what's on this."

"Very well," the Martian says, rising from his desk and offering you his seat. "Use my terminal."

You sit down. The chair is obviously designed for the unusual ergonomic needs of a Martian body, but you hope you don't have to use it for long. Naturally, you're familiar with the terminal setup, and you slide the datacube into a notch right above your lap. A holographic screen appears in front of you. Electrons swarm into a recognizable graphic interface, and you're offered an option to view the contents of the datacube in either Martian or Human English.

You turn back to the Janitor King, annoyed that he's standing over you. "Do you mind?"

He looks startled. "What?"

"I want to be alone with this."

"Why?"

You sigh. "Because you may be hiding some tricks up your sleeve. Maybe you've preprogrammed the terminal to show me some really impressive stuff that isn't on the datacube. Maybe you have a dagger and you'll stab me if I look at the wrong thing. It doesn't matter. I want to see what's really on the cube, and I don't want you here."

He's obviously disappointed, and you wonder if you don't sense a bit of outrage coming off of him -- but he nods. He can't do otherwise. Your logic is sound. "Very well, but how do I know you won't make a copy of the information and abandon my proposal?"

He has a point, damn it. He seems prepared to concede your condition, so you know you have to be willing to concede his. "What if I promised you that if what I'm looking for is on this cube, I will gladly go along with your plan?"

A smile spreads on his strange, but noble, face. He nods. "Will 20 Earth-minutes be sufficient?"

"Yes."

"I will return shortly," he says. He may have been surprised and a bit shocked by your desire to see this thing alone, but he's leaving. There's a chance there's good stuff on the datacube after all.

You reach out and touch the electron surface of the screen and choose to view the contents of the cube in English. A directory opens in front of you, listing options for Agriculture, Space Travel and Exploration, Mathematical Theory, Physics, and Women. Your eyes grow wide at the potential knowledge spread in front of you, but you have time only for a cursory glance through the subdirectories in the Agriculture and Women sections (topics include "Growing a field of wheat on a cup of water" and "How to answer the question Do I Look Fat in This?") before you abandon the cube altogether and head instead for a root menu in the terminal.

After all, the one question you want answered right now can't be answered by the datacube containing the Martian equivalent of the Book of Life. You want to know what happened to you.

You hack into the Martian Overworld databank and cross your fingers. If the Martians were as smart as they claim, then they would have hacked into NOSSA's systems for some interplanetary spying. You hit paydirt in less than a minute. You hold your breath and route an encrypted tether from the Overworld systems into the NOSSA surveillance camera files. You're sloppy, but it doesn't matter. You'll be done in less than 15 minutes. You code the transmission back to the night you remember, falling asleep in your own bed, and you switch on the feed from the camera positioned in the hall outside your quarters. You fast forward through the speedy commerce of neighbors heading to bed and rising for work and sneaking bed partners into their rooms. You take special note of the time you would normally be leaving your room to head to work yourself.

There is no activity from your door. You watch anxiously until all of your accountant neighbors have headed off to the great desk farm, and just when you think you must have fast-forwarded past something important, you notice something very strange.

You see yourself, and the image before you makes your blood run cold. It's you, undeniably so, but you're wearing something you've never seen before, a black mercenary's smock and a face of black paint. Your movements are quick and graceful, but there's no mistaking the fear in your eyes as you look around you and access your quarters.

You rewind a few times, watching this other You move like a scared cat and go inside the room. You're just getting used to the idea that either you have a twin or you've been up to some really strange shenanigans when you notice two more figures approaching your room. They're beyond suspicious -- they're familiar. Saleen and Malloy are making sure they're alone in the hall before accessing your quarters and slipping inside.

A loud noise startles you out of your focus, and with a few deft gestures, you log off of the terminal and yank the datacube from the slot. The door to the Janitor King's office flies open, and a squadron of at least a dozen armed Martian toughs enters the room. To your distress, you realize their weapons are drawn and their faces are shielded behind gas masks.

"Step away from the terminal," warns one of the toughs, gesturing at you with his raised laser rifle.

"Yeah, sure, of course," you say, and you step sideways and out from behind the desk. You shoot an accusing look at the terminal, and too late, you realize the Janitor King must have activated a remote-monitoring system. Stupid, stupid, stupid! you think to yourself.

"You are under arrest for accessing confidential Martian Overworld systems," the armored tough-guy intones gravely.

"Great," you reply. "Just half an hour ago I was going to rule the world."

"You will be executed 30 Earth minutes from now."

"What?" Your breathing has stopped. Maybe your heart has too.

"You are not on Earth. You are on Mars. Our systems of justice are a little different. All the evidence we need has been recorded and will be transmitted to your embassy after your execution."

He's smug, and you're terrified. The thing is, you've been terrified for nearly a solid 24 hours now, and you can't bear any more. It feels like a fabric inside you has been growing thinner and thinner, and it finally gives way and releases the animal lurking just below the surface.

"I don't think so," you say, your voice coming out in a silky purr.

The Martian tough guy freezes. "I beg your pardon?"

"You should," you say. "My name is Wallace, and I'm a trained assassin."

The Martian is quick, but you're quicker. He blasts a shot of laser energy at you, and you lift the data cube and let the shot hit the angled corner of the storage device. You know from your training what will happen next, and you're deeply gratified to see the laser split into multiple rays. The prismatic components of the laser are unstable, and they're capable of piercing Martian armor, which they do. Martians fall all around you, including the leader. Only five remain, and you make quick work of the stupidly surprised survivors with your own laser pistol, catching each of them at the joint of the armor between neck and shoulder.

You blow a theatrical breath over the barrel of the laser gun and tuck it away, then stow the datacube with its intact contents into a pouch at your waist. You have maybe 10 seconds to consider your options before either the Janitor King or the Martian guards' reinforcements arrive.

Will You...

A. Run out of the office with twin laser pistols blazing?

B. Use the light transporter to return to either carry out or prevent an assassination?

C. Use the light transporter to return to the NOSSA vessel to track down answers?

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.8 GET YOURSELF A MARS-A-BON

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.8 - GET YOURSELF A MARS-A-BON

By MJ Heiser

Sure, you could follow King Krackpot into his office. You just met the guy, and despite all outward appearances of custodial cleanliness, he could have been king. He sure knows a lot about Martian politics.

Then again, you could be an assassin, but you’re pretty sure you’re not. You haven’t detangled all the details of what happened to you that led to waking up in Malloy’s foul locker, but you will, and when that happens, you’ll realize –

What? That you’re more important than you seem? Please.

The one thing you’re sure of is that you can’t go into the office with that regal janitor. You’ve walked into one too many ambushes already, thanks, and you’re sure this will be more of the same.

You think about following the team, but – well, there’s something dangerous about those guys. You can almost sense a need to party coming off of them. They may be all friendly and cheerful and generous, but sports guys party harder than anyone at your novice level of partying could handle (you still think “Pin the Tails on the Grosnark” would be a fun drinking game). It would be better to hang back, surely, and wait. Maybe President Womack will show up and make this easy on you.

Yup, it’s just better to hang out here, in the hotel lobby, and while you’re doing that, you can satisfy your appetite for one of those ooey-gooey Mars-A-Bons.

You wander over to the kiosk. The sweet cinnamon smell is like a siren’s song. You look over the offerings. They have the ever-popular standard, called the Earth-A-Bon, which is obviously dripping with butter, cinnamon, and frosting. However, they’re also offering the trademarked Mars-A-Bon, which is suspiciously like the Earth-A-Bon, but filled with Kerraberry filling.

You don’t like Kerraberries. You remember watching a Mars nature program when you were in school that demonstrated that when Kerraberries are harvested, they scream. You can’t get that image out of your head. It doesn’t help that the filling looks like human blood.

“One Earth-A-Bon, please,” you say, fishing some enloms out of your pocket.

The creature behind the register smirks at you. This is obviously a third-gender Martian. “Don’t have the stones to try a real Martian treat, eh?”

You pause. For some reason, you feel like you’ve just become the representative for the whole human race, and you know full well humans aren’t pansies. Even so – taunted into eating Kerraberry filling? “I don’t like Kerraberries,” you explain, feeling a bit like the 90 pound weakling on the beach who’s staring down the big hunky body-builder and waiting for the sand to be kicked in his face.

“And why not?” The Martian is checking its fingernails in a very feminine fashion. The biceps in its arms are flexing conspicuously.

“I just –“

“Because they scream?” There’s a teasing quality in the creature’s voice.

You think about this for a moment. You have to admit that you’ve never actually tasted a Kerraberry. Your prejudices against the fruit-like organism are based solely on those screaming sounds you heard when you watched the film, and the twitching of the Kerraberry’s death throes as it was harvested from the vine and thrown in a metal basket to die in darkness . . .

“Fine. One Mars-A-Bon,” you say, and put an enlom on the counter. You feel wretched. You’re reasonably certain whatever it is you taste when you bite into this thing, you’ll get physically sick from it.

Doesn’t matter. You’re eating now for the pride of your home planet. In a way, you’ve been raised to the level of Team Earth, and that gives you some small bit of courage.

The Martian gives you a lipstick-over-beard-stubble smile and hands you a warmed-up Mars-A-Bon. You decide to only see the comforting similarities to the Earth-A-Bon as you bring the confection to your mouth. The smell of cinnamon assaults your nose, but right behind it is an almost gamey odor, something you’ve smelled when meat is going bad.

Never mind that, you think to yourself. You take a bite.

The warm creamy frosting and buttery taste is the first thing you notice, but the normal bliss doesn’t last long. Your mouth is flooded with an organic, almost metallic taste. Since it’s warm, it tastes like what it looks like: Blood.

You feel your gorge rise, and you turned a stunned, nauseated eye on the Martian. It’s watching you intently – waiting for you to fail. You refuse to do that. You choke down the first bite and taste the rush of sickly sweetness, apparently the Martian attempt to make this disgusting “fruit” more palatable to humans.

“How do you like it?” the Martian purrs.

“It’s – fine,” you stammer. You know you want to preserve your sanity and endure this by thinking positive thoughts, but you can’t help but gaze into the heart of the thing you’re eating. The filling is blood-red, and it’s mixing with the frosting, which looks more and more like infected pus.

As gross as this is, something is happening to you. Suddenly, you find yourself ravenous. This bloody, pus-covered mess in your hand is just the thing to take care of this primal carnivorous urge, and you take another huge bite. Frosting and Kerraberry filling coat your cheeks, chin, and nose, but you don’t care. You have to get this whole thing into your belly, and NOW.

You barely notice the noises coming from the Martian behind the counter. You’re lost to this weird compulsion for blood, and the closest thing you’ve ever tasted is the filling in this Mars-A-Bon. All too soon, you find yourself without any more Mars-A-Bon to consume, and you lick hungrily at your mess-covered fingers.

Then, with new eyes, you notice the creature behind the counter. Before, it was just a third-gender Martian, one who taunted you into doing something you really didn’t want to do. Now, however, it’s something completely different: It’s filled with blood, and it’s that blood you want, desperately.

“You’re allergic,” it whimpers as you leap over the counter. “You’re having a reaction. Let me get my needle . . .”

You don’t give it the time to do anything of the sort. You remember vaguely what the film said about Kerraberry allergies, but the information seems to be coming from another life. Your nails, once neat, clean, and tidy, are now long and razor-sharp, and you rip open the Martian’s throat and take a deep, satisfying draught of blood straight from its neck.

Whatever the hell you are now, you don’t care anymore about President Womack or saving your reputation or even getting back to Earth. All you care about is killing and drinking.

This is hella better than being in NOSSA, you decide, then turn your eyes back to the janitor’s office . . .

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 8

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.4 MAKE UP AN EXCUSE TO USE THE BATHROOM

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.4 - MAKE UP AN EXCUSE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM

By MJ Heiser

Looking into Malloy's face again was not something you wanted to do right now. Despite the fact that this time he would be clothed (and you would therefore be saved the sight of his naked nastiness), there's little doubt he will recognize you, and having both him and Saleen the Overwhelming Amazon united against you wasn't a pleasant thought.

"I -- I have to go," you stammer. You clap your hands over your stomach and work hard at making your face turn green and queasy.

"What?" Saleen asks.

You don't give her even a second to object. The security system beeps, giving Malloy clearance to enter Saleen's quarters. You scramble in your best impression of a diarrhea-addled duck walk towards the bathroom. You let the door whisper shut behind you, and let out the breath that had been growing stale in your lungs.

From the main chamber of the living quarters, you hear Malloy's entrance.

"Saleen."

"Malloy."

"I thought I heard another voice."

"Er . . .yes. In the bathroom."

"Ah."

"Is everything ready?"

"Of course. Our spies are set."

"Their disguises and credentials are immaculate."

"A little self-praise, Saleen?"

"Perhaps."

You realize you've put yourself in the unique position to get to the bottom of this mystery. You almost wish you could see them as they talked and conspired about offing someone important.

"It's deserved, I suppose. So, what about the person in your bathroom?"

Uh oh.

"I checked the security clearance. There was no native error."

"Did you check your own intuition?"

"What are you implying, Malloy?"

"Saleen, my trip to the infirmary was due to sabotage. I have a General Alert issued for the person responsible."

Saleen doesn't sound impressed. "Unless you waited until five minutes ago to issue the General Alert, the security clearance would have caught it."

Malloy's voice takes on the measured tones of someone speaking to a mental deficient. "I. Was. In. The. Infirmary."

Damn it.

Several seconds tick by in pure silence, and once again, you forget to breathe. You wonder what's going on out there. Are they typing communications into their wrist sets? Are they creeping up on the door to the bathroom, laser pistols drawn? Or maybe -- please -- have they shrugged it off and decided they should just sit down and watch some 5D space tube?

"Hey in there," booms Malloy's voice from the other side of the bathroom door.

Nope, not watching space tube.

"Hey," you say, trying to bury your voice in a groan of defecatory effort.

"You've been in there a long time, friend," he growls. You can tell he's trying to be playful. The thought of Malloy being playful is as ludicrous as the thought of a slug being swift.

"Oh, yeah," you say, deciding to play this to the hilt. No telling what madness drives you to whip down your pants and sit on the can. "I'm sure it was the cafeteria grub today."

"I think you should open this door so I can, you know, check you out, make sure you're okay."

"No, no, I'll be fine -- you two should just go on." --With your devious plan for assassination.

"I don't think so. Either open the door or I'm going to blast it in."

"Wait, wait!" you stammer, only now realizing just how bad an idea it was to pull your pants down. You rise to your feet and try to pull them up, but your hands are trembling too badly to get a good grip.

"Three . . .two . . ."

"Hold on a sec!" you grunt.

"One!" Malloy crows triumphantly, and with a loud laser shriek, the mechanism keeping the bathroom door locked becomes simply inoperable. The door is wrenched open, and soon Malloy fills the space with his considerable -- but fortunately, clothed -- bulk.

He arches an eyebrow at you. You're standing in front of the toilet with your pants around your ankles. The security shirt Saleen had given you doesn't cover you anywhere near enough. "Well hello, sweetheart," he says, gazing fondly at the place south of your navel before bringing his gun to level with your face.

Your last thought is: Huh. I die with Malloy staring at MY junk.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 4

RED PLANET STOWAWAY - CH.2 BETWEEN A CRAP AND A LOUD PLACE

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CHAPTER 2: BETWEEN A CRAP AND A LOUD PLACE

By MJ Heiser

Something about Malloy’s dangling bits fills you with rage. This is no way to live, you think to yourself as a red-hot surge of determination swells through you. I will not be victimized by this naked, grey-fuzz-covered ape.

These thoughts take next to no time to go through your head, but even so, it was time you really didn’t have. You’re past the decision point. You stagger over the soiled, filth-smeared underpants on the floor and heave your shoulder against the locker door.

Clang.

Oh, crap, you think to yourself.

“What the –“

You curse the throbbing mass of pain on your head and use the brain that surely still operates beneath it to locate the lock mechanism for the locker. You lift it, the door opens, and you stagger out into the relative brightness of the hallway-sized room beyond.

You don’t get much of a chance to appreciate your freedom from Malloy’s locker. Your windpipe is cinched shut, and you’re hoisted roughly into the air.

“Urk,” you say, with less dignity than you were hoping.

Through the pain in your head and the steadily tightening tube of your awareness, you see Malloy scrutinizing you. The bright red of his face is alarming in contrast to the white nakedness of the rest of him. His eyes narrow. You’re pretty sure of this. You don’t want to think yet that it’s only your consciousness narrowing.

“You,” he breathes. Spittle lands on your cheek.

“Hack,” you reply in a choking gasp. You want to flail. You want to do the thing that kids do, which is sag, make themselves extraordinarily heavy, and slip out of their parents’ grasp. You can barely move.

“What were you doing in my locker?”

You flop your head to the other side, hoping for some relief on your windpipe. No dice. Malloy apparently did really well in the Chokehold classes at NOSSA Academy.

“Answer me, maggot!” he barks.

If you had the energy and the breath to do so, you would roll your eyes at him, sigh, then say, “Uh, hello? I can’t breathe, and therefore can’t answer, duh!” You come as close as you can and roll your eyes up to the whites.

You’re dropped. You take a great gasp of air, and it burns in your lungs. You spend a couple of seconds curled on your side, whooping air into your body and trying to come up with some creative way to get out of this.

You make the mistake of looking up. You are now gazing directly into the underside of Malloy’s underparts. You almost gag.

“Maggot, you owe me an explanation,” Malloy starts –

But again his junk has inflamed you with rage. You don’t have to lay here and take this. He wants an explanation you can’t give him. Above and beyond all of that, you’re being forced to confront the sight of the most unattractive genitals in the human species.

You strike out with your booted feet and feel the satisfying impact – like kicking a rolled up pair of tube socks. You hear Malloy suck in a huge breath. You’re reasonably certain you know what happens next, and there’s no real need to stick around to verify your assumption. You’re on your feet and moving fast, slipping out of the narrow locker rooms before Malloy can regain his composure.

You emerge into a long, narrow corridor, lit above and below by glowing fluorescent lamps in the ceiling and floor. You don’t get anything as easy as signs pointing the way. All you get are sounds and smells. To the right is the smell of hot grease, as well as the source of that chugging machinery noise that drowned out most of the conversation you heard from the locker. To the left is the unmistakable stench of human waste – sewage processing, most likely. About twenty feet down the right corridor you spy a metal-rung ladder heading up into parts unknown.

Malloy’s voice bellows behind you. If he hasn’t figured out yet that you overheard some very delicate conversation between him and Richardson, he will soon.

You have to make your choice.

A. Search the rust bucket's machine room for a weapon?

B. Dig around in the giant crapper for a miracle?

C. Take the ladder to nowhere, counting on Malloy being too fat to climb it?