Maarvik And The Purples Of Tristan V

"With Maarvik Satya Zawaski has written not just a book of first contact with an alien race, but of continued contact. Instead of paralleling the difficulties earth races have living together, Maarvik examines the lives of intelligent, appealing castaways growing up among people who don’t look like them, or reproduce like them, but with whom the young Purples develop deep and complex bonds.

"The situation is a little like the one in Alien Nation and a little like Stranger in a Strange Land, but it is a highly original and strangely moving book that left me wanting to know what happened to the characters next, because I’d come to care about them."

--Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

MAARVIK AND THE PURPLES OF TRISTAN V

By SATYA ZAWASKI

Copyright 2013 Satya Zawaski

Smashwords Edition

Cover Illustration by Wilmer Vergara

Copyright 2013 Satya Zawaski

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CONTENTS

FORWARD

PART I

1. PRECIPITATION

2. HAZARDOUS BEGINNINGS

3. KITTY-KITTY

4. SEEING THINGS

5. GREEN EYES

6. CARING FOR BABY WHAT

7. CITY PEOPLE

8. FOR REAL

9. WOT DAT T’ING?

10. PURPLES

11. SHOW AND TELL

12. BEKAH

13. CAIN

14. IFT

15. IS IT A DATE?

16. A SUPERMARKET IN AMERICA

17. MAGDALINE WERTHER

18. GOT RELIGION?

19. THE FINAL DESCENT

20. TIME FOR NEW PRONOUNS

PART II

21. MANU SPEAKS, LANI FREAKS

22. STUFF OF DREAMS

23. ROSE-AY ROSE

24. BUDS

25. ALL GOD’S CREATURES

26. THE PREACHER

27. WORRIES

28. MAARVIK AND JORGE

29. MIND AS MEDIUM

30. GROWING UP ROSE

31. TIVR

32. TSUNAMI

33. FUNERAL

34. EARTHQUAKE: SEATTLE

35. EARTHQUAKE: WHIDBEY ISLAND

36. AFTERMATH

37. AUNT MAGGIE

38. PURPLE ARGENTINA

39. SEATTLE CENTER

40. A SMALL ADVENTURE

41. A VOICE ACROSS THE SEA

PART III

42. JENNI’S FAREWELL

43. A LAST VISIT

44. SIMON RETURNS

45. PUBESCENCE

46.ROSE AND MANU

47. THE LEGEND OF PRIFFCAAH

48. MAARVIK’S MALAISE

49. REAL ESTATE

50. BANISHMENT

51. THE ARCHIVE

52. BELVEDERE

53. HOME ON THE HILL

54. TRANSITION

55. A MOTHER’S CONCERN

56. ALANZO

57. GRIFF

58. T-HOUSE

59. A SMALL PRETTY PLANET

60. THE LAST TIVR GROUP

61. MARKET

62. SPECTACULAR INDEED

63. EMO

64. WHOOPS!

65. RETURN

66. ROGUE TAILORS

67. A RISING WIND

68. THE PARTY

PART V

69. CONCLUSION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

FORWARD

Any major project—be it a work of art or a work of industry—involves innumerable agents—both seen and unseen. Maarvik began with a disturbing dream that became the opening scene. The imagery was so potent that I felt compelled to get out of bed and write it down—I did so and forgot about it for nearly a year.

At some point I continued the story, marveling as the characters revealed themselves to me—sad and beautiful, funny and complex. Though I’d written poetry since junior high school, I’d never done much fiction, apart from some creative writing in college. I compared the project in my mind to building a house. It seemed a big project.

I wish to first acknowledge and thank those invisible agents, the muses and spiritual entities who quietly inspire us, and who gave energy and substance to the Purples, their human friends, and the story itself.

Next comes Peter, whose enthusiasm for the project frequently surpassed my own, and who continually edged me on. His support and encouragement was and is a true blessing.

Enormous credit for this finished manuscript must be given to my editor, Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, whose insight and experience helped me to finally develop a consistent tone for the novel’s many characters and their adventures. A good mentor must be merciless in assessing his/her students’ shortcomings, but still know when to sprinkle on the praise. She did both.

Thanks to Elise for undertaking that final read-through, and to Wilmer and Joe for hanging in there to finalize the cover art. To Benno for his insight regarding geological changes on Maui, Jill for helping with the Latin names, and Ellen, commenting, in the final hours, Enough! And lastly, thanks to you, dear reader, for picking up this novel and giving it a shot. Aloha.

For My Parents,

Florian and Agnes

PART I

1. PRECIPITATION

Splosh! What was that?

It was mid-afternoon, and Ms. Jennifer Bromley-Ashe looked up from the design she was working on. More of a game, really. She was weaving a scarf on her computer—once she’d created the design a Tailor could produce the actual object. The image hung before her, in mid-air, where she could examine it from all angles. She leaned forward--her spare, sturdy frame taut with concentration, her steel-gray hair brushed back and out of the way in a ponytail. She kept it simple and manageable, like most things in her life.

The house she inhabited was modest (some would say small), located in a slow-paced, tiny town at the southern tip of Whidbey Island, an hour’s drive north of Seattle. Jenni lived there alone, since her husband died, nearly seven years ago, and managed to be alone most of the time. That suited her just fine.

Splosh! Smack-thump!

It sounded too heavy for rain. But snow? This late in the season? It rarely snowed anyhow, and never in March. The lamp flickered and she shivered involuntarily. Jenni looked toward the window, where notch by notch, the daylight was diminishing.

Suddenly the random splattering built to a low level roar. Now it sounded like a hundred slushy snowballs, pelleting the windows in rapid succession. The windowpane was quickly covered in a reddish muck, making it impossible to see in the yard. Jenni rose from her seat. She thought that it was snowing dirty, which didn’t make sense, and then she thought that something had died. Somehow that made more sense, the thought coinciding with a rising chorus of sirens, crying children, and barking dogs. And then the power went out.

What in the hell-- she muttered, shuffling in her housecoat toward the door. She poked it open and peered into the odd stormy night. But it wasn’t night; it was two-thirty in the afternoon. The snowy sludge had covered everything in a matter of minutes. Her yard resembled a Christmas display gone bad, spreading before her like a sheet of Styrofoam, soiled with blood and dirt. It blanketed the pale grass underneath, and clung to the trees, clumping on branches, and concealing tender buds beneath. The foamy mass was already inches deep on her neighbor’s roof. And still it came down—heavily and thickly—dirty pink against a pale brown sky.

You OK? Jenni! You OK? It was Clive from next door, calling out from under an eave. He held a battered umbrella over his own head of tousled white hair, and wore a pair of unbuckled galoshes on his feet.

The woman turned to him and nodded. Several seconds passed without response. Fine she finally answered, realizing he had missed the silent gesture. Her voice sounded rather shrill, and certainly not fine. "What is it?" she shouted over the roar.

Damned if I know! Power’s out!

She started down the stairs, clutching the top of her gown, but backed away when she felt the moisture on her skin. Ugh! It was disgusting: slimy and oily. She cowered under the roof of her porch, shaking her head. Then, finally, with a nervous movement of her fingers, she gestured for him to join her.

"Can you make it? He ran to her quickly, lifting his knees high, as if to keep from touching the ground. At five-foot-ten, he was several inches taller than she, and surprisingly sprightly, despite his stocky frame. Face to face under the safety of the porch, they gazed into one another’s eyes.

"What is it?" she repeated once again, as if there were nothing else to say.

"It’s warm," he answered, stating the obvious, though neither had noticed it until now.

So it wasn’t snow.

Could be an experiment, he offered. Seeding something different in the sky?

"But we should have heard something!"

He shrugged. That was all he had. It sure wasn’t pretty like snow. He had gotten some on himself, and was searching for a rag in his pocket to wipe it off. It was viscous, like motor oil. Or like algae in a pond, the slimy part. He put his hand on his chin and pondered. The two old neighbors stood side by side on Jenni’s porch, gazing at the firmament. The noise was dying down; it was almost quiet. The downpour eased a bit. And then it stopped altogether.

2. HAZARDOUS BEGINNINGS

The foamy mass that descended over much of the planet was certainly not snow, nor hail, nor any normal sort of precipitation. It disappeared, however, as quickly as a light spring snowfall. In cities, villages and towns around the world, it was trampled on, ground to dust, and blown away. Eager spring showers flushed it off hillsides, and into rivers and streams. In the warmer, drier regions of the globe, the hot sun baked it to a thin pinkish-beige film, which flaked into oblivion. For the most part, nothing much came of it.

But there were notable exceptions—a hollow in a tall tree where the stuff had collected—a moisture-retaining place, that was neither too hot nor too cold. Isolated mountaintops, just below the tree line, also afforded protection, as did the rare jungle valley where predators were few. The process of renewing life, begun in the upper stratosphere of earth, might yet complete itself under the proper conditions.

Wherever it took hold, the sprouted swaff began to grow rapidly. Delicate, newly-formed roots, shallow, thin, and long, absorbed rough minerals from the air itself, from the very bark on which it grasped a tenuous hold. It didn’t need much to start with. And with the development of the distinctive pink hair-like strands, a sort of nest began to form.

Microbes of bacteria, recently revived, fed, grew, and died. Cumulatively, they added layer upon layer of extraterrestrial biological matter, a suitable base for the more complex arrangement that was necessary to support a parallel development. For many of these nests contained a more evolved type of life, a life akin to human in the scope of its potential.

These embryonic cells developed only where they were engulfed in these clusters of swaff, with their accompanying bacteria: bundles of organic matter that both fed and housed them. The outer walls of their cells were permeable at this early stage, and they absorbed the compounds necessary to grow directly from the environment, as an amoeba might. Enzymes within the cells themselves rendered the surrounding matter useful. Fortunately, the chemical structures of Earth were similar to those of Tristan V, their distant home planet. Some died, but most were able to assimilate the components vital for life.

3. KITTY-KITTY

Six months later, on a green island off the coast of Washington State, a swaff nest was growing in a wild blackberry field overlooking the Salish Sea. The fledgling it held, like its contemporaries across the globe, remained silent and still within its incorporeal womb. In the last few days it had learned to distinguish some of the colors and shapes that defined its world: pink strands of swaff, stray bits of plastic, verdant mosses and pale green blackberry branches.

The creature gave off two distinctive smells, one sweet and flowery, emanating from its abdominal cavity. A means to lure, then trap, a variety of insects into the opening, which began to be digested immediately, this was the primary means by which it had fed itself during this final trimester.

The other scent, by which Nature had hoped to discourage predators, was acrid and bitter, and came from the rest of its body. Sometimes it worked. Today it did not. Prowling slightly outside the boundaries of her accustomed territory, the gray female housecat stiffened slightly. She had picked up the distinctive scent of a near-mature embryo. It was an odor that had initially repelled her, when she had first discovered the creatures. That had been earlier in the spring, before the animal had tasted the ripe, still balls of flesh. She had found them, initially, by smell alone, for they had lain hidden and still within masses of damp, mossy grass.

Now she grew excited by a whiff of the familiar scent. The cat had feasted on at least a dozen during the last several months, finding them in the branches of the trees she sometimes climbed, and in the fields she loved to stalk. They were, unfortunately, less lively than the mice and shrews and bunnies she was so fond of hunting. They made no sound and gave no resistance; even the little birds in their nests struggled more. But though they’d smelled and tasted strange at first, she had at last grown rather fond of them.

As she crept carefully among the thorns and stems and brambles, the sleek feline spotted a familiar-looking nest beside a small cliff. To one side was the Salish Sea, deep-dark green, with its restless gulls and terns. But just before her, not a full leap away, the telltale pink strands of swaff moved ever so slightly in a mild breeze.

And there was more: a separate, larger movement in that spiny tangle overhead. The cat’s back arched high. She froze, creeping even closer. There was a jiggle up above--a distinct, minute clash of leaves and supple branches. The nest’s inhabitant, barely observed, had eye tentacles that were just beginning to unravel. The unfortunate nestling was, for the first time, getting a better look around. The timing couldn’t have been worse. A single bright eye popped through the twiggy canopy.

The cat spotted it, stared into it. The tentacle supporting it was not unlike the tail of a mouse. She squatted back, then pounced. Thorns met her face and she backed off. The thing was small. It would take a bit of doing to procure it. Chastised, she sat and examined the surrounding clump of matter. How to approach the treasure inside? Now she tore gingerly at the nest, pawing away shredded bits of plastic, breaking strands of swaff and parting stems. Finally, the mottled grayish thing was exposed.

It was larger than the others. The eyes, so recently liberated, had already slunk back into place. Stretching on her hind legs, the tabby put her head down and sniffed her prey. She searched for the long opening along its middle and licked at it. It was barely there at all, only a remnant of the former cavity remained. Exploring the thin slit, the cat’s tongue brushed the sweet sticky gel, finding the usual bits of half-digested, bitter-tasting flies and gnats. They were crusty and lifeless and not much to her liking.

Sniffing some more, she further explored the warm, rat-like body. She felt and heard the heart, and the chest rose and fell as lungs did their work. The eyes, perhaps sensing danger, had remained in retreat. The creature was completely still. The predator bit the part where cavity met solid flesh, a small line like a scar. It was tender, readily broken by her sharp teeth. A bright, bloody spurt issued from the wound, fuchsia-red. She found it tasty. Just a few more nibbles exposed tender organs, fascinating, even to a feeding cat. At first she merely licked at them. Finally she tore at its innards, ripping free the sweet meat and feeding in earnest.

Barely a mile away, another nest-bound creature was waking up.

4. SEEING THINGS

Good heavens!

Jenni Bromley-Ash had been aware for several months of the large ‘squirrels’ nest’ in the old fir that grew next to the garage in her back yard. Not that she had actually seen any rodents, but it was too large for a bird’s nest, and that was the logical assumption. Anyway, it was a common enough sight—a bundle of leaves and twigs up there in the branches. She rarely used the garage now, since her husband passed away—and the thing was just there—like the building itself. She had been barely conscious of it: a minor but definite part of her landscape.

Something up there had her attention now though. Peering through her kitchen window, she thought she’d seen it again—some movement, subtle rather than scurrying, definitely unlike a squirrel. Was that an eye? A tail? She’d seen it move again, further piquing her curiosity. An odd thing, though she couldn’t see it clearly. She could have sworn it had an eye—an eye that was swinging on a tail? Or something. Not only that—whatever it was seemed to have taken note of her. At least twice in the past week.

Now she was imagining—again—that it was looking back at her. A small bright round green eye. Jenni was sixty-seven years old, of reasonably sound mind—at least she had thought and hoped so. Either there was a floating green eye up there watching her or she was losing it. One thing she did know was she definitely did not want to get closer to that thing. Not alone, at least, as fascinated as she was. Impulsively she buttoned up her sweater, turned around, and headed out the front door to her neighbor’s place.

She knocked on the door with quick, urgent movements, striking sharp blows to the weathered wood. In a few moments she would open the door, peek in, and call his name. Before she did though, Clive appeared. He had on a well-worn sleeveless undershirt and a pair of nondescript jeans.

What’s up, Jenni? His alert blue eyes looked into her own. For nearly thirty years they had lived alongside one another, and since her husband Scott had passed, it was Clive to whom she turned in moments of distress. Not that she bothered him incessantly, but when things spun out of control, he was her primary source of relief. And there were other, minor things she needed help with, like a toilet that wouldn’t flush or a window that was stuck.

There’s something in my yard, up in the tree, she explained. Then, turning her eyes away, she shook her head back and forth quickly several times. I thought it was a squirrels’ nest—but, well-- She stopped and looked at him again, directly. Do you think you could come look at it?

Sure. He picked up his brown slippers that were next to the doorway and slid them on. Tightening her lips, she led him across the lawn.

There! She pointed up the tree to a mass of dried leafy fibers and pink string. It’s been there all summer, and I didn’t think much of it. But, now—something’s moving around up there!

The old man studied the nest. Quite a collection, isn’t it?

"It is a little strange," she affirmed. There was more to it, she realized, than she’d supposed. The materials looked sort of tossed together—green and brown and lichen-like. Still, it was more like a squirrel’s nest than a bird’s nest.

What’s that pink stuff? Clive furrowed his brown. It’s almost like the Spanish moss I’ve seen in Florida, except for the color.

"Moss? You mean the kind that hangs? She shook her head. I assumed it was just string."

They continued staring at it together. The nest itself was unusual, but still the mind could accept it. All sorts of things—natural and man-made—could find their way inside a bird’s nest. A squirrel’s nest was mostly leaves, but it wasn’t too great a leap to imagine that paper or plastic or string could wind up in one. The object had no real shape—it was just a bunch of materials loosely held together.

I don’t see anything in it though, Clive finally announced.

No, me neither. But I did earlier. Something’s up there all right.

Squirrels?

I don’t think so—Clive? She hesitated and bit her lower lip.

What is it, Jen? he coaxed.

Well, I was looking out my kitchen window and something up there caught my eye. Before I didn’t pay much attention to it. But now I’ve been watching it and something--. She shook her head and stopped.

What did you see?

A tiny green eye. Just one. I know, it sounds odd. Just one and I swear it looked back at me.

The man’s jaw tightened; other than that, his face showed no expression. He fixed his clear blue eyes on her. You’re really spooked, aren’t you? He returned his gaze to the nest. It was probably just a cat. Cats have green eyes and they climb trees.

"It wasn’t just green, Clive. It was round." She paused. Not only was it round, it was disconnected—an eye that was suspended in the air! But she was hesitant to tell him that.

It didn’t seem at all cat-like, she said evenly.

What else could it be?

She didn’t have an answer; maybe it was just a cat, and the rest was her imagination. Jenni wasn’t convinced, though she needed an explanation.

Well, she finally responded. I hope that you’re right. She paused again, sensing an urgency she was uncertain how to convey. I could have sworn it was up there watching me." She might have said more. She could have said it was up there waiting for her.

A brief silence ensued. Suddenly Clive’s expression changed. Say, remember that strange snowfall last spring?

How could I forget? She looked to the horizon and shook her head, recollecting how the sky had turned a dirty brown, and everything was covered by a pinkish foam. "We never learned much more about that, did we?"

"A little. I watched a newscast where they talked about it. Apparently it was composed of organic matter—it wasn’t just made of dirt and moisture. There’s speculation that it came from outer space, some microscopic organisms carried in by accident on one of our ships. It might have even come from an asteroid.

But it could just as well be the result of some mutant bacteria. He looked to the sky and scowled. There are lots of toxic gases—some of them radioactive--in the atmosphere.

Jenni tightened her lips and again shook her head, this time more slowly. By now you’d expect them to have figured it out. That was way back in early spring.

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

She glanced back up the tree. What about this?

I don’t know what it is, Jen. If you’re really worried, we could call the police. Or the SPCA.

We could, she thought. I could. But I called you first to get another opinion. Let’s wait and see what happens. Want some coffee?

Sure.

They turned and headed back for her house. She made exactly two cups—no use in wasting the water—then sat in her wallpapered kitchen—yellow and white daisies on a humble beige background--as they drank their beverages and conversed. Every so often Jenni got up to glance out the window. But this time she didn’t see anything.

5. GREEN EYES

It was hungry.

Fully into its sixth month, the tiny alien baby grew restless in its bed of leaves and grass and mosses. Since its abdominal cavity was now completely closed, the automatic feedings designed by Nature were no longer in play. No flies, wasps, moths, ants or butterflies made their way into the sticky opening. The fully-formed infant now had its pre-teeth, a temporary extension of the gums, made of a tough sort of cartilage, and had gnawed away much of its nest. The latter was a composite mix of native and non-native plants: a bundle of pink swaff, mosses, and leaves. They had grown along with the infant, providing both shelter and sustenance during the six month gestational period.

This was one of the more fortunate individuals. It had developed according to plan, exactly as it would have in the environment of Tristan V, its native planet. Every stage, however, brought with it a new set of challenges. How much longer could its luck hold? A miracle was about to occur—a new life ready to descend. It would come down on its own, as nature had intended.

Had it matured at the top of some tall sbana tree on Tristan V, most likely it would have been spotted long ago. Some small band of locals would have been keeping watch, awaiting with eager anticipation this momentous occasion. The tentacles by now would have unraveled, the eyes would have been looking around. Searching, as this one was now. Searching. Almost certainly, contact would have been made! For the rodent-sized creature had something besides physical hunger to contend with. Just now, as its tentacles had unraveled and its hunger become great, it had become suddenly and painfully aware that it was alone.

The wide, luminous eyes freed up, the small creature could, for the first time, examine a world beyond the familiar grays and greens of its arboreal home. A long dark shadow, as black as night, extended to one side. Beyond the garage roof, the ground itself was brighter than the branches overhead: a looming sheet of luminous green grass, as open as the sky. Further away stood a massive white structure, and there was movement within. That was the important place.

Inside the building was a constant shifting—a shadowy ghost that appeared and disappeared again. And then the figure was still and steady, at the opening that was a window. A Tristanite face would have registered immediately. This one took a little longer, although at length it recognized the intelligent eyes, the shining consciousness within that met its own.

The woman herself was rather stunned, and not at all certain of what had happened. But the tiny being in the tree had called out to her, and she had answered. It was an immediate, barely conscious response, but it was there. From that first look, contact had been established.

The time had arrived. Already there was a hole where the being had gnawed through the floor of its airy nest. Its short, stocky body was a tightly-bound affair, designed to remain hidden and disguised. Dull and grayish, with just a hint of the glorious purples and blues that would intensify in time. It had squat, sturdy legs—perfect for its descent into the world below. The soles of the feet were lined with a bumpy, Velcro-like substance. Calloused, temporary protrusions on the fingertips gave a firm, unyielding grip. Clutching the twiggy sides with both hands and feet, it poked its head out and hung upside-down.

Something was wrong in this approach, however, and it pulled itself back up. Righted anew, it extended its eye-tentacles. A vast new world spread out below—the dark long roof, the big white house, green grass and vegetation. This time the creature started feet-first. Holding the sides of the nest with both hands, it clamped its eyes in close. Both legs dropped simultaneously. Tough, groping feet reached down for solid space, steadied themselves on the woody bark in the crook of a branch. The sensations were new, but the body was ready, and that first grasp was determined and strong. It lowered the rest of its body onto the trunk and began working its way down, hands following feet.

Jenni had had a good night’s rest. She usually did. She lay in bed for several minutes, watching the room grow visibly brighter as the day took hold. Pushing aside her quilt, she hurried out of bed, went to the bathroom, put on her robe, and entered the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee. Water was precious, nearly as precious in Washington as it was in California, and she measured carefully.

It was a pretty September morning outside. The sky was bright; the sun nearly shining. She opened the back door to let some fresh air in, stepping out onto the back porch. Ahhhh!" She shrieked and instantly stepped back inside. A mousy buggy thing was standing at the porch’s edge, just looking at her! It had bug-eyes popping over its head on long wiry tentacles!

She stood in the doorway—looking. And—it—stood—looking back—making tiny, pathetic squeaky sounds. It was almost the cry of a baby. It was almost the whine of a cat.

It blinked.

Something shifted inside the woman. Was it hurt? What was it trying to tell her? She stepped back outside.

The thing was almost squealing now—a muffled, steady sorry cry. It wasn’t horrible-looking, really—just odd. It stood upright on a sturdy trunk, had two arms, and a set of muscular legs. From the head down, it approximated a human form. But there was the head, somewhat flattened, and strangest of all, a set of wide eyes that floated on a pair of dark antennae. Its entire body was a dull purple-blue. She realized now that this was the creature she had seen in the trees. It was the eyes—bright green and luminous. Intelligent! Not really bug-like at all!

The creature seemed harmless and possibly hurt. She bent down to get a closer look. It was barely a foot tall, and stood on weird bumpy feet. Its eyes, perched on wiry tentacles--extended--so they floated, vivid green above its head. They were fixed on her. They reached out to her.

Then—another shift. There had been an uninviting acrid odor about the thing, vinegary and bitter. But as the unspoken dialogue continued between the two of them, rapid hormonal changes took place within the small alien form. One set of pheromones were switched off, and a second took their place.

Now it emanated a sweet, buttery smell, like biscuits baking in the oven: warm and inviting. The smell affected her in a manner similar to the warm autumn day—she opened to it. It eliminated her fears. There was no thought involved, only impulse. Within moments the woman stretched her arms out to the alien, tentacled, being, and it stepped gratefully into them.

Warm. Its bluish skin was rough around a tender, warm body. A soft baby creature body, cradled in her arms. She brought it inside.

6. CARING FOR BABY WHAT

Jenni tried to place the little creature (critter?) on the table, but it clung fast to her and wouldn’t let go. Lord, it had a strong grip! What are you, little baby-thing? She held it up in both arms and examined it more closely. Antennae. The eyes too held her—a different sort of grip, but no easier to break from. Beautiful, clear green eyes, fixated on her human face, penetrating a deep maternity within.

It had a mouth, where a mouth ought to be. And—something like teeth. She heard it breathing in the quiet house, but didn’t see a nose. No nose, but its body—its chest—heaved in and out like it was breathing normally. Ah, there! Tiny holes in the neck, just below the head, two on each side, and one in the back. Nostrils, actually, that moved slightly.

But that hair—a small colorful patch, sprouting from the very crown. It was soft and fine, like real baby hair—except for its color. Bright blue and pink and purple! Like a pretty little bird, she thought. It was, oddly, rather lovely, with its green eyes, bluish skin, and Technicolor bouffant. Like something from an anime film—

Must be a girl, she thought. Too pretty for a boy. She lifted it higher to examine its bottom. It certainly did have a bottom. Buttocks, even. Well formed. And an anus—thank goodness—in the right place. But, no extra hole or anything resembling a penis. Whatever it was, it seemed to lack a gender.

It squirmed a bit. She noticed it was moving the little mouth, smacking the tough extended gums. Hungry? She wondered if she should feed it—and what? She opened a cabinet, reached for a loaf of bread, and picked off the corner of a slice. She held it to its lips—it ate ravenously. Just chomped it and swallowed it all down. Bit by bit, she fed it the remainder of the slice. It gave her a long grateful look with its deep eyes. Then the lids closed, the antennae folded down. With eyes tucked neatly alongside its head, it fell asleep.

Jenni cared for it all day and the following night. It certainly was an engaging sort of creature! She fed it soy milk (with a teaspoon), scrambled eggs, pieces of banana (she had been fortunate that week in finding bananas)--even a little peanut butter. It struggled with the latter and threw up some of the milk. Otherwise, it went smoothly. She fashioned a sort of diaper from a dishcloth and changed it several times.

It was really like a human baby. It slept on and off all day and all through the night. When it was fed and content it made soft gurgling noises. It never cried. It never made the frantic chirping sounds again. She was so enamored of the thing, she didn’t even question what was happening until the next morning.

7. CITY PEOPLE

Hysteria? Excitement? Horror?

One would have expected the populations of the world to have swooned in a collective hissy fit in reaction to these unprecedented events, now occurring daily. Purple aliens in the backyard? Monsters swimming in the sea? Unnatural vegetation growing in the wild?

Probably, in another era, at another time, such would have been the case. But humankind as a whole was in such a state of disarray, so absorbed in the management of one ongoing crisis after another, that there was hardly energy left for a proper response. The warnings of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries had by and large gone unheeded. The planet had warmed, oceans had acidified, freshwater supplies dwindled, and whole food chains had been lost. Mass migration occurred, as large swaths of land disappeared or became uninhabitable.

The strange fallout from the sky in early spring of that year had not gone unnoticed. The asteroid which carried the seeds of another world had been tracked for years before its impact; concern regarding several important satellites along its trajectory was one reason it had not been blasted apart. The explosion might not impact them directly, but the debris that would result was another matter. More importantly, it had been calculated—correctly—that the object would structurally disintegrate long before reaching the earth’s surface.

Nor had the odd patches of pink growth in trees and fields, or any of the other new and strange forms of plant or animal life, gone unobserved. But resources to investigate these phenomenon were limited. Global warming, coupled with chemical contamination on a universal scale, had been transforming life in unpredictable ways for nearly half a century, and it was assumed the current rash of sightings had the same origin. The changes on the planet were so vast, so all-encompassing, that the media, and the scientific community as well, made far less of these events than they might have.

Bekah Mancuso took a final glance in the mirror before heading out the door. She looked good. The blue metallic hair (recently done!) shimmered in all the right places. Her lips, a few shades darker, had that pouty look that, she was told, was irresistible. The cape was a bit off—she tapped the right corner of the square top button several times. With each tap the fabric darkened until it was nearly indigo. Perfect!

The young woman took the elevator down eighteen stories and walked into the miserable day. It was raining. Always. A man her own age—also waiting for the trolley downtown—pulled out a package of bright yellow candy (Why Be Sad?) and popped a lozenge into his mouth. Almost immediately, his mood brightened. What a world!

It was nice the way her hair deflected the rainfall, though. She tried to be cheerful. The guy was watching her. He was cute—about six feet tall, slender. His hair was black and gold and also repelled the rain. Fuck me! Bekah knew she looked good. It made her a little happy. Any minute, she thought, the train should be here. She checked in with her internal headset.

"Egbert. How long before the #5 arrives?"

Thirty-five seconds. The voice in her head was male, subdued and calm. It belonged to the tiny device—the hs, or headset—that was implanted in her skull. She’d given him a dorky name on purpose; it helped to lighten things up.

A red, five-car train pulled up silently up to the corner. The trains were all different colors, and you never knew which one you’d get. Like life, she thought philosophically. Not that she was trying to be philosophical, but there had to be some meaning to it all. Which train will you get, and where will it take you? With Bekah’s fertile imagination, she could go anywhere.

The interior upholstery was a pink and red plaid affair; the walls a solemn gray. All the seats were taken and even the aisles were packed. She and the tall guy, whom she’d never seen before, entered along with five other passengers.

"Egbert. Music. Sunset Trolls."

Instantly she heard the music in her head. It was preset for the trolley—not so loud that it drowned out everything, but loud enough to get into it. Bekah liked the Trolls. They were from LA, her hometown, and she’d seen them several times. They were upbeat, in a mid-twenty-first century sort of way. That meant they were not depressing. The music made you want to dance, or at least get out of bed. The lyrics were a little sad, but at least that was honest.

Bekah felt like crying but she didn’t let herself. She’d made it to Cascadia, the Promised Land. My God, it rained every single day! There was life here—green trees and actual things growing. When you opened the tap, water always came out. It cost a lot, but still—at least you could get it. Why Be Sad? She heard it in her head. There was a short, inane jingle and then the brand name. Verboten.

A tear leaked out. Bekah brushed it with her left hand, keeping her gaze down. When she looked up, the cute guy was standing there, facing her across the aisle. Reaching past the other passengers, he offered the bright yellow package. Bekah took it. She shook a single piece of ‘candy’ out and popped it in her mouth. There was an instant rush of pleasantness and euphoria. Better. She smiled her pursed lips sexy smile, nodded to him, and handed it back.

Ten minutes later Bekah got off downtown at 3rd and Cherry Streets. It took a minute to walk the half block to her job at the top of Cherry Tower. The building was fairly new, having been constructed within the last ten years. It was part of the boom that was still taking place in Seattle.

Not only Seattle, but the entire Cascadia Region was experiencing exponential growth as a result of Global Warming. Water was abundant here. Additionally, the melting ice caps had provided added benefit in the form of increased trade. The most efficient shipping routes from North America were here—not only to Asia, but to Europe as well, now that the northern seas were unfrozen.

The encroaching ocean, of course, had a giant downside as well. But the two-foot rise had affected Seattle less adversely than its neighbors. The South Sound cities of Olympia