Delenda Est

 
The pleasant aroma of fish stew lingered even as the next course of fruits and baked cakes was brought to the table by the servants in the prosperous household. Filling his head with such happy memories was a trick Himilco’s pedagogue had taught him to help him endure pain and fear, but its effectiveness was breaking down. The desperate reality could not be denied. He fought against his lungs while a part of his mind told him to just inhale water and accept the peace of death. He must remain below the surface until he was well past the great chain blocking the inner military harbor or else he surely would be spotted by Roman sentries. Even so, he was gambling that Roman eyes were distracted by events at the city wall. After a protracted siege the Romans finally had taken the wall next to the inner harbor and were pouring over it. Defenders inside Carthage were falling back to the final redoubt at the Temple of Eshmun. Himilco hadn’t gone there despite the entreaties of his mother. He had no wish to starve to death in a siege of the temple, nor did have any illusions he could combat professional soldiers in the streets. Instead, when he saw amid the chaos a clear path to the inner harbor some instinct impelled him to run into it. He stripped down to a loincloth and jumped into the water before the Romans completely cut off access to it.
 
He wished he had stayed in Britain before the war as his seafaring merchant father had offered. He could have stayed in the household of his older sister Asherah who had been married off to a local barbarian who controlled tin and silver mines in the southwest of the island. The marriage had sealed the trading deal for the metals and thereby made their family rich. Asherah had complained bitterly on the sea voyage to Britain but in the end she seemed happy enough to be left behind there with her husband. The fellow was good looking in a hairy barbarian way and he was a nobleman by the rude standards of that place. Himilco had enjoyed the trip, though the swims in the cold northern waters that his father had insisted he take to “toughen up” were unpleasant. Nonetheless, Himilco had refused the offer to stay behind for a year and instead returned with his father to Carthage to pursue his studies and learn more of the family business. Then the war came. His father had been killed in a Roman raid on the outer harbor. Asherah was the only member of his family whom the odds favored to be alive by morning. As for riches Himilco’s only remaining possession was his loincloth.
 
Himilco broke the surface of the water and gasped. He coughed up salt water and then choked on smoke from the burning buildings and burning flesh wafting from the city. He had swum not nearly as far into the outer harbor as he had imagined. He was certain his splashes and coughs would alert Roman sentries but none of the shouts from the shore and walls seemed directed his way. No projectiles splashed around him. He reckoned his only chance was in the water. He had no chance on land, which was thick with soldiers on the mainland side. 13 years old and scrawny, he was no match for even one of them. Yet he was old enough to be considered “military age” and most likely would be killed on sight despite being unarmed – or, if very lucky, he might be sold into slavery. Himilco didn’t pray to Tanit and Melqart for help. He had tried that in the city for months. They weren’t listening. His father, unusually for a seaman, had been a skeptic in such matters and Himilco was leaning toward the view that he was right.
 
Himilco tried to get his bearings. The Romans early in the siege had obstructed the outer harbor’s main exit to the sea. In response, the Carthaginians had cut a canal through the fortified spit of land separating the outer harbor from the Mediterranean. This second lifeline to the sea hadn’t lasted long. The Romans blocked the new canal by sinking one of their own ships in it. Still, Himilco figured the canal was his best bet. If he could swim past the hull of the sunken ship he could slip out to the Mediterranean. His arms ached and his chest hurt as swam toward the canal. Again he contemplated how much easier it would be to give up and be done with the pain. Himilco’s arms and feet continued their motions even as they protested. He could see no guards by the canal as he bobbed his head between strokes.
 
He entered the canal after what felt like an eternity but the setting sun had barely budged since he had surfaced in the harbor. He saw no soldiers. Himilco hoped the ongoing sack of the city had drawn them away from this narrow sea break. He reached the ship blocking the canal. It was sunk up to the gunnels. He could see why the former warship had been chosen for sacrifice. The hull was rotting and infested with barnacles. It would have sunk of its own accord soon anyway. There were just a few feet of clearance between the ship and channel bank. He worked his way toward the sea keeping just his head above the water. Just he passed the stern of the ship the tip of a Roman pilum appeared inches in front of his face.
 
He looked up to see a grizzled veteran with scars on his arms. His armor was well-worn but shipshape. Himilco closed his eyes waited for the killing jab. At least the struggle was over. Moments passed. Himilco opened his eyes. Astonishingly, the pilum withdrew. The veteran nodded his head seaward. The sun had finally slipped below the horizon, and though it was hard to be certain in the growing twilight Himiclo thought he saw tears on the man’s face. Himilco would never know why the soldier let him live. Perhaps he had a son Himilco’s age. Perhaps the kill would have been too easy. He had seen hunters for this reason release animals tangled in vines or trapped in bogs rather than take them as prizes. Romans at this moment were slaughtering his countrymen inside the walls of the city yet this one spared him. You never knew about people. Himilco resumed swimming to the end of the channel and slipped into the open sea. He looked back at the old soldier who was deliberately looking the other way.
 
Himilco swam parallel to the shore hoping to reach the beaches where merchant vessels unloaded their goods to sell to the Roman army. Ideally one would be Phoenician and he could beg for a passage. Despite their blood ties to Carthage, Phoenicians shamelessly sold to the Romans, but the crew still might take him aboard. Then again, they might him into slavery but he had to take his chances. He wasn’t strong enough to swim safely past the entire war zone. On foot, death or capture was certain. His luck with the veteran could not be expected to be repeated.

Himilco hadn’t counted on a backcurrent. No matter what direction he propelled himself the shore continued to recede. His last reserves of strength were fading. He was cold. The waters were not as cold as those by Britain but cold enough. His mind was oddly at peace with the notion of drowning but somehow his body continued to struggle. The sky turned dark and starry. Only the fires in burning Cartage gave him any sense of direction. He eased trying to make headway and instead expended merely enough energy to stay afloat. A sloshing sound approached. He had spent enough time at sea to know what it was. He called out. The sound grew louder. There was definitely a dark shape. It resolved into the silhouette of a type of vessel had seen many times. The ship had a rounded bow, a square mainsail, and a spritsail. It carried oars but not as a primary means of propulsion. They were just to aid in maneuvering into docking positions. She was a merchant vessel and not a very impressive one.
 
He shouted again and this time heard shouts back. As the vessel drew close an oar extended out to him. If it was a Roman oar his long swim would be fruitless. He pulled himself along the oar toward the hull and reached up toward the gunnel. Rough hands pulled him on board.
 
“What do we have here? Not very pretty for a Nereid,” the words in Greek came from a bearded man with a commanding presence despite his small stature.
 
“Prettier than you, Captain, if you don’t mind my saying so,” said a crewman. “Perhaps it’s Arion looking for his dolphin.”
 
Himilco had heard some story of a Greek saved from drowning by a dolphin and guessed this was the reference. A basic familiarity with Greek was another skill beaten into Himilco by his father, a man whom Himilco was increasingly inclined to forgive for his severity.
 
“What are you doing out here, boy? Fall overboard?”
 
Himilco weighed a lie against the truth. Either was a gamble. The Greeks were traditional enemies of Carthage but also had a difficult relationship with the Romans. He decided to be truthful up to a point.
 
“I tried to get away from the city,” he said in halting Greek.
 
“Carthage?” asked the captain. “What was your plan? To swim all the way to Tyre?”
 
Carthage had been founded by Tyrians who maintained a cultural relationship with the city. “No, I meant to keep close to shore but the current was strong and pulled me away.”
 
“I’m not sure what good you did yourself. We’re headed for Carthage.”
 
“There is no Carthage.”
 
“I can see the flames, boy. I’ll rephrase. We’re going to sell our goods to the Romans outside Carthage. Armies always need supplies. Sacking your city means they are better able to pay for them. Maybe I’ll throw you into the bargain as a sweetener.”
 
“The Romans will just kill him,” said one of the sailors.
 
“Well, that’s neither here nor there.”
 
Still shivering from the cold sea, Himilco collected himself. He usually flubbed his rhetoric exercises with his tutor. Getting tongue-tied this time would mean his life. A part of him didn’t care, but once again an urge to live a little longer took control. “You will miss the opportunity of a lifetime if you do that. The Romans use agents to negotiate with merchants like you – Greeks mostly. They will bargain you down to rock bottom prices and take a hefty fee for themselves for the privilege. You would do better trading at almost any random port.”
 
“I don’t think your assessment is disinterested,” said the captain.
 
“It isn’t. But it is true. Tell me, what are you carrying?”
 
An uncomfortable silence lengthened. Himilco knew he was showing unseemly arrogance for someone who had just been rescued, but he gambled the approach would work.
 
At length the captain’s curiosity got the better of his annoyance. “It’s fortunate for you you’re a good-looking lad,” he said. Himilco wasn’t sure what that had to do with it, but didn’t respond. “Not that it’s your business, lad, but we’re carrying wine and olive oil.”
 
“Then you definitely can make a better deal elsewhere.”
 
“A fish in the net is worth a school in the sea.”
 
“There is just a sardine waiting for you here. The farmlands around Carthage are rich with vineyards, fruit trees, and grain. We exported wine before the war. How do you think the Romans have sustained their army? You always can sell what you are carrying of course, but you won’t get a good price for it. Those goods are cheap here. Forget the sardine. I can deliver a whale. Captain, how many times will you rescue a scion of a merchant family who offers you a fortune?”
 
“‘Scion,’ are you? Are you telling me you’re worth a ransom?”
 
“No. The only person would pay for me would be far more profitable just to trade with. Choose to be rich, captain.”
 
“You’re going to make me rich.”
 
“Yes. And you could pay all your men bigger shares than they’ve ever seen besides.”
 
“I’ve heard enough,” said the captain. “Boy, you are an urchin I saved from drowning – an act I’m regretting. Maybe I’ll toss you back in the sea.”
 
“Let’s hear the boy out,” said a crewman, skeptical but curious about Himilco’s talk of shares.
 
“Fine. Tell us. Where is this great fortune of yours? You are doing a good job of hiding it.”
 
“Britain.”
 
The captain laughed. “Beyond the pillars of Hercules? That is crazy.”
 
“No it’s not. I’ve been there myself on a ship no bigger than this.” Himilco chose not to mention that the ship was a sturdier design built and rigged for ocean trade. “My father had a fleet of six. I’m guessing the wine below isn’t the finest.”
 
“Soldiers aren’t picky so long as they can get drunk.”
 
“I’m not so sure about that. But even the vilest plonk is rare in Britain. There are no vineyards there. Wine of any kind is more valuable than gold. It’s more valuable than the tin and silver mined there – mines owned by my brother-in-law, a barbarian noble named Sysul. Go there without me and you’d just be robbed by some local warlord, but Sysul has a longstanding business relationship with my family. And there is more than just metals. Amber is cheap. They import it from the northern reaches of Scythia. You really can be rich.”
 
The crewman who had wanted to hear out Himilco balked at mention of Britain. “Captain, tell me you aren’t really considering going out into the ocean because some fancy boy has caught your eye. There are serpents and giant waves and whirlpools that swallow ships like ours”
 
Himilco thanked the crewman silently, for he saw this rebellion was hardening the captain to insist on the opposite.
 
“Those are just tall tales,” said Himiclo. I’ve been there because my father took his children with him on the trip. Are grown men too afraid?”
 
“Don’t think I don’t know what you are doing boy.”
 
After taking a moment to unravel the double negative, he answered, “Do you care so long as you profit?”
 
Pytheon,” said the captain as he shifted attention to the crewman, “if you don’t want to go we’ll drop you off at a port in Spain. That goes for any one of you. Boy,” he said to Himilco, “if any part of your story is false you’ll wish we gave you to the Romans. We’re tacking north.”
 
“At night sir?”
 
“Yes, at night.”
 
“You won’t regret it,” said Himilco who was half-regretting it himself. As rough as the Mediterranean could get in a storm, there really was even more danger in the open ocean. It would have been so much easier to have surrendered to fate back in the harbor. Still, he had cheated death for at least another day. “Um, may I have some clothes?” he asked.
 
“We’ll talk about that tomorrow.”
 
Himilco wasn’t entirely at peace with the captain’s answer, but he already had learned about himself that he would do what he must. His countrymen who stood on principle were dying back home in the streets. He stared at the orange glow onshore.
 
“You can call me Kimon,” said the captain. “My home is in Corinth. You’ll like it there when we get back.”
 
Though willing to make what business deal he could in Britain if they arrived there alive, Himilco had no intention of ever leaving the island again. Nonetheless, he nodded assent.

Diner

Rex exited the glass four-story office building that housed Trans-Form Corporation along with a several other tenants with similarly uninformative names. It was his final day of work – or rather his final night. He had volunteered for the 6 to 2 shift because it paid a little more than the daylight shifts. “Your division has been outsourced,” he had been told. He wasn’t entirely sure what division that was exactly. He hadn’t noticed any divisions as such. He and three other data-entry workers had been let go seemingly at random as far as he could tell. He suspected it would have been five had not his former coworker Cindy been diagnosed a few weeks earlier with the new sleeping sickness that so far had afflicted a dozen people on the East Coast over the past few months. The last he heard she was still in a coma. The CDC hypothesized a mutation of the mosquito-borne Zika virus was the cause, but had yet to confirm it. He wouldn’t miss the job, but he would miss the paycheck. He sometimes thought that the only reason some simple AI program hadn’t yet replaced everyone doing his mind-numbingly repetitive job was that his manager then would have no one to yell at.

He walked across the expansive asphalt parking lot toward where he had parked his aging Honda. At 2 a.m. the lot was nearly empty. The lights were out on the pole under which he had parked while the sky was still light. His car was now invisible amid a cone of blackness more than 200 feet wide at the base. He felt uneasy as he entered the darkness, but there was no sign of anyone else present. Still, he breathed a sigh of relief when opened the car door and slid behind the wheel.

Rex turned north up 202 toward the building where he lived. The 16-unit building had condo-converted several years earlier and he had bought one of the one-bedroom units on the advice of his accountant, who had said the tenant’s discount made it a sound investment. He just barely had qualified for the loan, and then only because the numbers he submitted on his application charitably could be described as optimistic. He questioned the purchase decision on the first of every month when the bank electronically depleted his bank account by the amount of the mortgage payment, which was higher than his previous rent. He questioned it again when property taxes came due each quarter. The unit was nearby work, which counted for something – or used to be. There was no telling how far he would have to travel to his next job.

He realized he wasn’t ready to go home. He lived alone. Most nights he was alone, and this long since had ceased to bother him. At the best of times he barely could afford to date, which in an odd way was a relief. Still, he wanted to be somewhere other than his couch in front of his TV, so he drove past his condo toward the Nonsense Diner, open 24 hours. The name of the diner came from nearby Fort Nonsense, a spot where some of Washington’s troops had been posted in the Revolutionary War. George, or more likely one his noncoms, apparently had an odd sense of humor.

Not many places were open this time of night, so the diner was moderately full. No one looked at Rex as pushed open the glass door. Beneath various aromas emanating from the kitchen was a hint of marijuana. The diner had been in business since the 1950s, and much of the décor and equipment was original. The customers in the small hours were distinctly different from the daytime mix. They included stoners with the munchies, drunks fresh from the bars that closed at 2 a.m., hospital workers in their blues, and a few inexplicably overdressed men and women. “Freak show,” thought Rex, fully aware that he was one of the exhibits. “One of us,” he muttered to himself. He sat on a stool at the counter. It squeaked as it rotated. The Formica counter was decorated with images of rubber band-like shapes in various colors. A middle-age waitress with long blue nails and bleached blonde hair was reloading the basket of the coffee machine.

 “Menu?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Sure.”

She slid one in front of him. “Here you go, honey.”

As in many diners, the menu was several plastic-sheathed pages of amazingly detailed options.

“I don’t see you in here very often,” she said.

“No. I’m usually too tired after work, but I think you’ll be seeing me more often.”

“Won’t that be great. Coffee?”

“Yeah…Maybe I’ll have a Western omelet.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“A Western omelet.”

She poured a cup of coffee and put it in front of him along with four prepackaged tiny plastic cups of half-and-half. He preferred coffee black, so he pushed the packets aside. He sipped the coffee. It was bitter as though having brewed for hours. He chose not to complain. 

He sipped again. He contemplated how his life was so much more bland than he had intended it to be. Back in college he had imagined himself to have traveled the world and to be at least well on the way to riches by now. He remembered how as a freshman he had announced to his parents that he would never accept a dull lifestyle like theirs. “You’re just existing,” he rudely had said. His mom hadn’t answered. Now, with his 30^th birthday approaching, he was nearly broke. The closest he had come to global travel was the World Showcase Epcot at Disney World in Florida, and that only because his parents had moved to Orlando, and he visited them twice. He closed his eyes as a dull headache that had come and gone all day returned. It faded in a moment. He opened his eyes, and took another sip from the mug of coffee in front of him. It was rich, smooth and wonderful. He savored the aroma and flavor so much that the change took a moment to register. Hadn’t the coffee been served in a cup rather than a mug? Perhaps the waitress replaced it. He put the mug down on a butcher block counter top. He could have sworn it was Formica.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Not much. Decide what you want?” said the fellow in a white t-shirt and cap behind the counter. The cap had the name “Bob” sewn on it. He was middle aged and slightly overweight but there appeared to be muscles beneath the layer of fat. He needed a shave. His stubble was gray. Rex looked at the menu on the counter in front of him. It was stiff brown paper and a single page.

Since the questions he really wanted to ask pointed toward madness, Rex asked about a menu item: “What are ‘possum fries?”

“What they sound like. Fries cooked in ‘possum lard.”

Rex looked around him. The dimensions and layout of the diner were unchanged, but the materials were rustic and a musty smell underlay the aromas coming from the kitchen. A customer gnawing on ribs caught his eyes and audibly growled.

“Is there a costume party somewhere?” asked Rex.

“Somewhere there is bound to be, I suppose.”

“Yeah, well, that fellow is a pretty convincing werewolf.”

“Freddy? Yeah, well he would be, wouldn’t he? It’s a full moon, buddy.”

Working the floor was a stunning buxom redhead with a very 1940s coiffure and uniform.

“Am I sleeping?” Rex asked.

“Not so far as I can see. If you’re going to sit at the counter you have to order something, buddy.”

“A Western omelet?”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“Did someone already say that?”

“Not that I heard.”

Rex forced himself to stay calm while he figured out what was happening.

“A Western. You take US dollars?” Rex asked.

“Why? You got something else?”

“No.”

 “One Western omelet coming up,” he said. “Possum fries on the side?”

“OK.”

The fellow pushed open a swinging door in back of him a crack, and barked, “Western and P-fries!.”

In his peripheral vision, Rex saw the wolf get out of his booth and growl. Rex instinctively grabbed a fork. Freddy growled again but sat back down.

Bob said, “Freddy just doesn’t like to be stared at. Wolves take that as a challenge.”

“Why did he back down?”

“Silver fork. He’s all about finger food.”

“The tableware is real silver?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? You ask a lot of funny questions.”

“I’ll ask one more. Where am I?”

“Right there.”

“Will you excuse me a second?”

He stepped outside. It was definitely Morristown. He recognized the topography and the road layout, but it was a crazy ramshackle version with fewer than half the right number of structures and not one of them stood straight. The streets were unpaved and wildlife teemed on vacant lots. Baboons stared at him from across the street. Baboons in New Jersey? In the parking lot were luxury cars, monster trucks, and horses tied to posts. Not knowing what else to do, he reentered the diner and sat on the stool. Bob slid a stoneware plate in front of him with an omelet and possum fries. The food smelled delicious.

The redheaded waitress leaned on the counter next to him. “Seems crazy at first,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“None of this can be real. Am I crazy?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You seem to know what is going on.”

“Maybe you wanted me to explain things to you. Doesn’t mean I will.”

“You mean I wanted… all this?” he asked.

“Maybe. Not everything is about what we want though. They’re what we fear, too. Be careful of that.”

“So you’re saying this is a dream,” he said.

“I’m not saying anything of the sort. You are the one questioning what is real. I was just saying you should be careful.”

The tall man rose from a table near the back. As he walked toward the counter, he did not stand out because of his size, his striped double-breasted jacket, or his fedora. His most eyecatching feature was his lack of any color other than black, white, and gray. He looked as though he had he had stepped out of a ‘40s film noir.

“OK, I’m definitely dreaming,” Rex said, “not in some weird scifi sideslip dimension or something.”

“Red’s my girl,” said the noir goon.

“I’m not anyone’s girl, Moose,” said the waitress

“I’m not talking to you,” said Moose.

Rex pinched himself hard enough to hurt. Apparently even if he was dreaming he still could feel pain. He wasn’t about to fight a movie image if he could feel the punches.

“Whatever you say, pal,” said Rex.

Satisfied, Moose returned to his table – he couldn’t fit in a booth. “Red” lost all interest in Rex, too, and checked the booths for any coffee refill requests. Rex turned his attention to the eggs and fries. They were more flavorful and satisfying than anything he’d ever eaten. He paid his check – $1 including tip – and walked outside. He didn’t see anything resembling his Honda compact. He took out his keys and pressed the “unlock” button on the remote. The lights of a 1939 Packard flashed.

“A Packard with remote door locks,” he said to himself. “OK.”

He got behind the huge steering wheel, slipped a key that previously hadn’t been on his remote into the ignition, and pressed the starter button on the dash. The flat-8 rumbled to life. Rt 202 still existed though it was unpaved. He saw no sign of the interstate that should parallel it. He manhandled the vehicle south along the rutted road flanked by deep woods. He swerved once to avoid a large sabretooth cat, but met no traffic. He didn’t know to expect when he reached the location of his condominium, but the palatial gothic estate on the spot still came as a surprise.

He parked in the circular drive and walked toward the huge oaken double doors to the main house.

His head began to spin. Painfully bright light blinded Rex. He dropped to his knees and then onto his back. The gravel transformed into something softer. Faces in green surgical masks hovered over him. He shut his eyes against the glare, but heard voices. One of them said, “Just like the others. It’s as though they fight being wakened.” “We really can’t up the dose,” another voice answered. The words ceased to be comprehensible but blended into rising and falling buzzes.  He couldn’t tell how long this continued other than too long. There was nothing about it or the life he had led that he wanted to face. He willed himself back to the driveway.

Quiet returned. Rex opened his eyes and recognized Cygnus in the stars overhead. A gentle breeze rustled the trees. He rolled over onto his stomach, got up on knees and palms, and then rose to his feet. He walked to the oaken doors and tapped a knocker. A dark-haired beauty in a blood-read full length dress opened a door and tilted her head to welcome him inside. Fangs were clearly visible behind her parted lips.

Rex hesitated only a moment. Whatever this was, it beat hospital bills and unemployment. He walked inside.

Beneficiary

But for Maggie the large boat-shaped conference table was vacant. Nothing in the arrangements for today’s meeting required the presence of her boss, but Maggie thought it odd that she was late. As the wall clock’s minute hand nudged over the 9, Adelle Jogash at last entered the office suite. She was uncharacteristically unburdened either by attaché case or papers.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” asked Maggie.

“How long has the pot been brewing?” Adelle queried.

“The better part of an hour.”

Adelle grunted, but said “Alright, but add a little more cream and sugar than usual.”

Maggie did as instructed as Adelle settled into her faux leather executive’s chair at the head of the table. Maggie set the steaming mug in front of Adelle seat at the head of the table. The coffee was the hazelnut grind that Adelle preferred but which Maggie found too sweet.

“Just twelve more minutes,” said Adelle. “Then it’s a wrap.”

“So it seems.”

Maggie remained outwardly calm despite her inner excitement. She thought back to when this had started 60 days earlier.

**** ****

Maggie served four coffees and one tea to the men and women sitting impatiently around the at the law offices of Adelle Jogash, attorney at law. The office space was located on the second floor of a strip mall on the outskirts of Madison NJ. Half the retail space on the ground floor was empty, the previous tenants having suffered the fate of many brick and mortar outlets in the age of e-commerce. The office space on the second floor was also vacant except for the portion leased to Jogash. Maggie was in her third year of law school, but her internship so far consisted almost exclusively of serving coffee, taking phone messages, and some basic filing that she felt a trained monkey could do. She had been recommended for the internship by the person whose last-will-and-testament was the reason for today’s meeting. Maggie knew that Jogash liked to keep people waiting. It enhanced the impression that she was a busy person with more important things to do. The five were restless but oddly quiet considering that they knew each other. They did exchange numerous furtive glances. As she set down the last coffee mug Maggie could hear footsteps echoing in the hall outside.

Adelle Jogash entered the office. Fiftyish, but looking a decade younger, she wore a blue power suit and heels. Her arms were full of stuffed folders that pertained to no business of which Maggie was aware. Maggie assumed that they were props carried solely for the optics. She ignored the table as she took the folders to her private office. She reappeared a few minutes later holding another legal-size manila file folder. She sat down at the head of the table, opened the file, and also opened a laptop computer already at her station. She removed a small envelope from the file and spilled a flash drive from it. She plugged a flash drive into the laptop. A wide screen wireless TV on the wall lit up.

“Thank you all for coming. “You all know why you’re here. You’ve all received written notices in accordance with the terms in the will of the late Ernest Pradik, and you have spoken to my intern Maggie, so let’s proceed to the video file mentioned in the letters to you unless one of you has a question. Mr. Terence Lacomb, is it?” she asked, glancing at her open folder. “You look as though you have a question.”

Terence wore semiformal attire that would have been fashionable 10 years earlier. “I thought Ernie was broke,” he said.

“But you took a chance by coming here anyway,” said Ilse from across the table. Ilse was a long-haired aging hippie who Maggie guessed was high.

“Did he have life insurance or something?” asked Terence.

“No,” said Adelle. “That would be handled by the insurance company independently of these proceedings. He did, however, have a winning Pick-6 in the lottery last year.”

“I didn’t hear about it.”

“He avoided the press.”

“He always was a lucky bastard,” said Terence.

“I don’t think being diagnosed with an enlarged heart and then dying at age 47 only a few months after winning a lottery can be considered lucky,” said Maggie.

Maggie went quiet as Adelle gave her a stern look.

“So how much money are we talking about?” asked Terence.

“Let’s allow Mr. Pradik to speak for himself,” answered Adelle.

Ernest Pradik appeared on the TV screen looking relaxed and robust despite his heart condition.

“Greetings. Excuse this bit of theatricality – or don’t. It’s up to you. I saw it in a movie. I’m told I could pass from this earth tomorrow…or next year…or five years from now or ten. I’m not sure whether to admire the medical professionals’ willingness to admit their ignorance. I plan to update this video file every year, so if you are seeing this, I guess it the date was an early one. So, greetings from the grave. There is little doubt my mind that all of you are present today:

Brent Itzer, the prankster who tied me to a tombstone when I was ten. No one found me there until two hours after dark. The joke is on you, Brent. I opted for cremation so there will be no tombstone by which you can wax nostalgic.

Ilse Zerlich: You turned me on to psychedelics in your dorm room at college. You should have asked me first. I probably would have done it just because you were pretty. At least then what happened would have been my fault. Slipping it in my Snapple without telling me wasn’t cool. I was in therapy for months.

Terence Lacomb, my ‘partner’ in a dot-coms back when you could make serious money with the simplest applications. You charged all your personal expenses to the business, robbed the till, and left me with the debts.

Celia Treanor, my true love who cheated on me with my best friend.

Reginald Podul, the best friend.

Let us not forget Adelle Jogash who represented me so well that I lost everything settling the claims against the dot-com and ended up owed her money. She isn’t a beneficiary, of course, but she is billing the estate for her services.

Why on earth would I benefit people whose connection to me is what I’ve just described? All of you have played a major part in who I am. In order to make peace with oneself, one must embrace the concatenation of events that made one who one is. Aw hell, I’m switching to Second Person: you cannot separate the bad times from the good and still remain you. After four decades I’ve finally made that peace. You more than any other six people are responsible for who I am today – or rather, by the time you hear this, who I was – so here you are.

Within days of collecting lottery winning Ms. Jogash gave me a call to offer her services and try to sell me annuities. I knew then that she is the right person to handle these proceedings. How much money are we talking about? I expect after expenses the total will be $5.7 million. Divided among you equally that would be a comfortable safety net for each. For just one of you it would be a tidy fortune.

It will be divided equally among all who are present in the offices of Adelle Jogash 60 days from today, whatever day ‘today’ may be, sometime between the hours of 4 and 5 PM: EST or DST depending on the time of year. Your entry into this building and this room must not be physically obstructed on site by locked doors or some other barrier or you will be considered constructively present. Anyone not present for any other reason will be will be excluded from the inheritance no matter how extenuating the circumstances might be. In that case your share will be divided equally among those who are present.

Ms. Jogash has further instructions should none of you choose to participate.

Good luck. I think you’ll need it.”

“Why would anyone choose not to participate?” asked Celia.

“Use your own imagination,” said Reginald. “He wanted us to be all paranoid about each other: all worried someone will prevent us from being here in 60 days. Maybe even kill us. The sick bastard.”

“It’s a prank. The whole thing is,” Brent added.

“Well, you would know about pranks,” said Ilse.

“And you too, if I heard correctly,” said Brent

“I’m willing to take our dear friend Ernest at his word when it comes to his reason for benefiting us,” said Terence. “But I also think Reggie and Brent are both right, and that Ernie wanted to needle us one last time first. I suggest we ignore his obvious invitation to do harm to each other and just all return here in 60 days. We may all be humanly flawed, but I doubt anyone here is a murderer.”

“Of course,” said Ilse. The others nodded. Maggie didn’t hear confidence in Ilse’s voice, nor did she see it in in the eyes of anyone at the table.

“Well the. See you all in 60 days,” said Adelle. “Maggie, please see everyone out. I have other business to attend to.” Adelle rose, walked to her private office, and closed the door. Maggie knew she had no other business pending that afternoon.

**** ****

The wall clock read 5 o’clock. Maggie rechecked the time on her phone. The wall clock was accurate.

“That’s it, then,” said Adelle. “Not a single show.”

“So it seems.”

“Quite surprising, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not really.”

“What do you mean?” asked Adelle.

“Oh come now, Ms. Jogash. I’m sure you know, but let’s go down the list. Ilse Zerlich died only four days after our last meeting of an opioid overdose. The police ruled it accidental. Terence Lacomb died of carbon monoxide poisoning a week later. Suicide so they said. Celia Treanor fell down a flight of stairs. Also an accident. The next one is no accident. Brent was killed by a crossbow. Who uses a crossbow? Police are investigating that one.

“Why didn’t you mention this to me earlier?” said Adelle. “In fact, if you knew about these events, why didn’t you make a friendly call to the authorities telling them of the inheritance connection?”

“I don’t think I’m telling you anything you don’t know. I was wondering what would happen to Reginald Podul. He was the most paranoid of the bunch and had an old bomb shelter in which I suspect he ensconced himself. That made him difficult to target.”

“How do you know he had a shelter?”

“I read the old listing for the house he bought. It was built in 1962 and had a shelter. All that info is online these days. Unfortunately, he left a crossbow in plain sight… or at least someone left a crossbow in his yard. The police are questioning him as we speak. I got a call from jail a few minutes before you arrived today. He tried to call you rather than a defense attorney. At that point even if they released him immediately he couldn’t have made it here on time.”

“I’m not surprised he called here, but I wouldn’t have been able to bend the rules for him. The will was quite specific,” said Adelle. “If he isn’t here he doesn’t inherit.”

“Was putting that crossbow in his yard the reason you were late?”

“You are fired for suggesting that, Maggie, but why would I do that? Even if I had a motive, which I don’t, that is a very uncertain way to prevent him from being here.”

“I’m sure you had a back-up plan in place if something went wrong with that one – maybe a lethal one. I don’t know how much you were involved with what happened to the others. Maybe they did it to each other, but I’m sure about Reggie. Of course you have a motive. You now get to administer the estate while you ‘search’ for the nearest surviving relative, billing the estate $200 per hour plus expenses all the while. I’m sure you expect the search to turn up empty until the account itself is empty.”

“Speculative. Slanderous, if you repeat it elsewhere.”

“And in case you think of casting any suspicion my way should investigators come to your door, I’ve made very sure to document my whereabouts 24/7 for the past 60 days so I have an airtight alibi for all five unfortunate occurrences. By the way, your search is over: I’m the deceased’s nearest relative. That’s why Ernie recommended me for the job here. I have all the proper documentation to prove it and I expect no trouble from you. Don’t worry, I won’t mention my speculative and ‘slanderous’ thoughts to anyone provided the full value of the estate is transferred to me. Please be expeditious about it. There is a house I’m interested in, and I don’t want to lose it to some other buyer with ready cash.”

Crystal Sky

Blue-Claw closed the last large aperture into his modest but comfortable home, a single-family detached dome of clay and calcium carbonate. He was a family of one. Imperfections in the seals around the openings were enough to allow adequate water exchange with the outside. He was on leave from the school where he attempted to teach literature to willfully ignorant adolescents so he could molt his shell. He had enough seniority to extend his leave long enough to allow his new outer layer to harden up after the old one had been shed, thereby putting him less at the mercy of prankish students on his return. He settled into a comfortable position with his two claw arms stretched forward, his fingered tentacle arms stretched out to the side, his legs tucked underneath, and his tail relaxed. Blue-Claw let his body temperature lower to that of the surrounding water. He nodded into unconsciousness.

Blue-Claw awoke to an unpleasant warmth. He groggily wondered if some freak warm current had engulfed his house. He could tell by the itching that had not yet molted. His infrared snout sensors were overwhelmed and blinded by ambient heat. He twisted the stalks holding his broad-spectrum eyes and saw two men dimly lit by their own bioluminescence. Their carapaces looked scuffed and tough. One held a hose that stretched out his front door, which had been forced open. The hose was the source of the heated water flowing around him. The two men barely fit in the room.

“What the hell?” Blue-Claw shouted in an unsuccessful attempt to sound intimidating.

The closest man, holding the hose with both his claws, turned a valve with his fingers and shut off the flow.

            “I don’t have anything worth stealing,” said Blue-Claw, “but take what you want and go.”

“If we were here to rob you, we wouldn’t be spraying you.”

Even in his groggy state, Blue-Claw could see the sense of that statement. The intruders wore basic black with none of the accouterments of officialdom, but their attitude exuded authority.

            “We’re sorry to wake you, Professor,” said the fellow with the hose

            “Look, this is a mistake. You have the wrong person. I’m not a professor.”

            “Are you Professor Blue-Claw of Western Reef Four?”

“That’s my name, but not my title. I’m just an instructor at a school.”

            The second man snorted through his gills, “Then the only mistake is my assumption that you are someone more respectable. You must come with us. You’re needed.”

            “By whom?”

            “I don’t ask such questions. I just follow orders.”

            “May I get dressed first?”

            “I’d take it as a personal favor.”

            Moments later the men led him outside and closed his broken door behind them as much as it would close. When the man who hadn’t held the hose turned, Blue-Claw saw he had a speargun slung on his back. Blue-Claw considered making a run or swim for it but decided he wouldn’t get far. They ushered him into the back seat of a long unmarked limousine of the sort used only by industrialists and high ranking government officials. The two mean flanked him. A driver was positioned at the controls in front. The craft floated upward and a propeller whirred.

“Hydrogen peroxide powered?” asked Blue-Claw.

“You’re not a Professor. I’m not a mechanic,” said the man on his left.

“Yes” said the driver. “Hydrogen peroxide.”

They accelerated rapidly. Instead of heading toward the downtown of the capital as he expected, they headed out into the countryside away from his suburban neighborhood. It occurred to him that his neighbors, if they were watching as they likely were, must assume he was arrested. Blue-Claw realized they might be right. They passed hydrothermal vents surrounded by shrimp farms and then into a seemingly undeveloped region. Blue-Claw knew the open secret that there was a hush-hush government reservation out this way. His suspicions were raised further when they approached a large isolated building extruding from a reef. The sign on it said General Services.

“General Services? Don’t they deal with building maintenance and office supplies?” said Blue-Claw.

“I don’t ask,” said the man on his right.

“Of course you don’t. Look, I still think you have the wrong man.”

“I tend to agree, but you are the fellow we were told to bring in.”

“What is this about?”

The man looked at him.

“Let me guess. You didn’t ask,” sighed Blue-Claw.

A large entrance into the reef was disguised by the reef’s natural baffling. The vehicle maneuvered to the entrance where heavily armed guards waved them past. The limousine descended a tunnel deep under the reef. The tunnel opened into a huge space illuminated by bioluminescent microorganisms embedded in the walls and the curved ceiling. Many vehicles including some of a clearly military nature were parked inside though none of them bore any official markings. The limousine came to a stop in front of a young woman who wore what appeared to be an army uniform except that it, too, lacked insignia. The two men on each side of Blue-Claw exited. He cautiously got out on the side by the young woman.

            “We apologize for the abduction Professor Blue-Claw,” she said politely.

            “I’m not a professor.”

            “You are Blue-Claw of Western Reef Four? The one who writes science fiction stories?”

            “Well, yes. I’m surprised you’ve heard of me. I mostly in the cheap membrane magazines. My books aren’t exactly best sellers. ”

            “Then you are the right person and we need to talk to you.”

            “About science fiction? Did one of my stories inadvertently reveal some secret technology?” he joked.

            “Please just follow me.”

            Blue-Claw followed the woman through a series of corridors.

            “They are just stories,” he said. “Nobody takes them seriously.”

            After a long labyrinthine route that Blue-Claw would not have been able to retrace unguided, they entered a large but sparsely decorated office. Behind a desk reclined an older woman a third again as large as Blue-Claw. Her uniform bore the first insignia he had seen since his rude awakening. She was an army brigadier general.

            “Mr. Blue-Claw, I’m General Long-Stalk. Before we proceed I’ll tell you up front that I require your complete discretion.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Don’t agree lightly. Any failure to maintain discretion… well it would be wise not to let that happen.” She flashed her neck lights for emphasis.

            “Yes, fine. The threat is understood. I’m suitably intimidated. What’s all this about?”

            “You have written some outlandish stories.”

“Is that a crime?”

“Not in the literal sense. You write about other worlds… such as worlds beyond the sky. About invaders from beyond the sky.”

            “Well yes, sometimes. I didn’t exactly invent the idea. Why not talk to Two-Click of Brown-Valley? She’s a much bigger name in the business.”

            “That’s why we don’t talk to her. You’re an obscure loner with no family or offspring. Two-click would be missed.”

            “I don’t know how to respond to that. They would miss me at my school.”

            “We’ve already arranged your sabbatical and provided them with a faculty replacement. They think you are going to writers’ camp.”

“Once again, I’m suitably intimidated. General, what is this about?”

“I’ve read some of your fiction.

“I’m flattered.”

“Do you really believe there is a beyond-the-sky? Do you have any reason to believe it?”

“Reason? Do you mean am I in psychic communication with beings Out There or something?” joked Blue-Claw. The general remained stony faced. “Um, no. No reason as such. I mean, no one really knows.”

“I asked you what you believe. Is there a beyond-the-sky? Or is there just the world we see: a solid core, a liquid ocean, and a solid sky of ice?”

            “Surely you have more qualified people than I to ask.”

“Yes, we do, but our ‘experts’ spend too much time telling me the limits of knowledge and not enough time giving me answers. I want your speculation and your opinion.”

Blue-Claw saw she was serious.

“Well, alright then,” he said. “There are many possibilities. Maybe space curves back on itself so that the sky is boundless but finite. Maybe if you go straight up eventually you will return to the center of the world. Or maybe the ice is infinitely thick and goes on forever. Maybe there is another layer of rock above the ice, another ocean above that and another sky above that in endless layers. Maybe there is something above the ice so different that we can’t imagine it at all.”

“I’ve heard all these before. What do you believe.”

            “Personally, I think there is an above-the-ice. I think it stands to reason.”

“Why?”

“We know the sky is divided into plates that grind, move, and supraduct. At the seams where the plates meet water flows up. I know some say the water circulates somehow within the ice thereby driving the movement of the plates, but I think it goes straight up all the way to the top and emerges there, maybe causing on the surface something akin to the thermal vents on the ocean floor, but of course much colder.”

            “Vents into what?” asked the general.

            “There are endless possibilities.”

The general flashed impatiently.

“Well, my personal guess would be gas is above the ice. Gas rises. There are pockets of gas trapped in recesses in the ice down here in the known world. We make use of them for heat-treating materials in a way that is impossible in liquid where heat creates explosive bubbles that carry the heat away. I think there is an ocean of gas above the ice. I don’t know what, if anything, is above that.”

            “Could life exist in this ocean of gas? Like in your Invaders from Beyond the Sky?”

            “That is just adventure fiction, but maybe something lives up there. Very simple single-cell organisms do exist in the pockets of gas in our world. Something could have evolved in the huge volume of gas above the sky, too, but there is no telling what it would be like. It is so cold up there that the chemistry would have to be totally different.”

            “But they could covet our warm wet world, as they did in your novel”

            “By ‘they’ you mean intelligent life. Maybe, if it exists. More likely our environment would be toxic to them, but we just don’t know.”

“Have you heard of Project Skyhole?”

“Yes, that was science project to drill upward through the ice. It was abandoned because the equipment seizing up in the ice, or so the public was told.”

“The public was told correctly. But we have reason to believe someone else is more successful. What I’m telling you next is classified information.”

“Understood.”

“We have acoustic listening stations embedded in the sky that help us intercept certain data from other countries around the world.”

“I’ve written stories about that – about the government overhearing everything.”

“We know, and we almost arrested you over it, but we decided that would just give the story credence.”

            “So, I’m guessing you are hearing something that has you concerned. Has drilling by another country successfully penetrated the sky?”

            “No one in any other country has drilled upward any farther than we have, at least as far as we know.”

“But you said…”

 “We think something is drilling down toward us.”

            Blue-Claw was silent for several moments before responding, “You must be mistaken. Are you seriously worried about an invasion of aliens from above?”

“You wrote about it.”

            “That was just a tall tale.”

“Not so tall, it seems. Tell me, Mr. Blue-Claw. You tried to pass the idea off as a joke just now, but are you in communication with these beings?”

“No, of course not!”

“You do seem to know of their existence.”

“I don’t know anything. I just have an imagination. But this is wonderful. I see no cause for worry, general. I know my stories are full of monsters, but that is just for fun. Any real creatures so advanced enough to do what you are saying would have to be benevolent.”

            “Why do you assume that?”

            “They would not have survived otherwise long enough to have reached the necessary level of technical sophistication to drill down to us. Look how we have come close to destroying ourselves with our own technologies of death. They must be kinder and wiser than we – better than we. Otherwise they would have been wiped out by their own technology.”

            “I think that is an unwarranted conclusion. Maybe they are warriors and conquerors. Perhaps they are sole survivors who have wiped out the competition above the sky and are now gunning for us.”

            “I think the best way to find out is to talk to them.”

            “We agree. We’ve chosen you. No one has any actual experience with this, so there is no such thing as an expert, but you, at least, have written about aliens. We want to present them with as unthreatening a greeting as possible. So, we will remove your hard shell, take you up to the sky, and let you greet the aliens naked and unarmed at the moment they emerge into our world.”

“Up to the sky? How? I’ll freeze. No, I’ll suffocate first. The water at that altitude doesn’t carry enough oxygen to breathe naturally and it’s not dense enough to swim there for long. I’ll die and sink.”

“You call yourself a science fiction writer. You disappoint me. We will fit you with bladders made from biomaterials for buoyancy. We will fill them with heated oxygen that will keep you warm. You can release some into the waters around you so you can breathe better. If we time it right it will last long enough for you to make first contact. We will also plant our most powerful explosives at the location, which we won’t hesitate to detonate if the aliens show any sign of aggression. If they are hostile, they must learn right away that we can defend ourselves.”

“Which will be unfortunate for me.”

“We are prepared to make sacrifices, Blue-Claw. We are not eager for a confrontation. On the contrary, think what alien technology can do for our country and our world. Perhaps we are lucky that the arrival will be in our territory and not in that of our enemies.”

 Two tidal periods later Blue-Claw waited inside a pressurized stealth reconnaissance craft that looked like a piece of detached ice and could move almost undetected along the undersurface of the sky. The general, whose name Blue-Claw never learned, made it clear that the existence of the craft was classified and that revealing its existence to the public was a capital offense. Blue-Claw itched terribly because his shell had been picked off instead of molting naturally. His new outer shell was still soft and spongy. His claws were almost useless until they hardened up. He felt very naked and exposed, as indeed he was. He was grateful the pilot was male. He never thought of himself as shy, but he realized this was because he seldom put himself in positions where he needed to be.

“Here is comes,” said the pilot.

            Blue-Claw could see something emerging from the glassy sky. It was an egg shaped object. The power usage had to be enormous for the device to have drilled or melted its way all the way through the sky. More quickly than he expected the egg emerged the rest of the way. Segments of the eggshell dropped away revealing a complex craft unlike anything he’d imagined in any of his stories. It was smaller than the limousine that had changed his life so recently. If the craft contained living beings, they weren’t giants. A cable with some tech on the end remained embedded in the ice where the egg had popped out. Blue-Claw guessed it was a communications line of some kind.

“You’re on, Professor.”

“I’m not a professor.”

“If you live through this you will be.”

Blue Claw adjusted his buoyancy bladders and floated out of the hatch toward the machine as his own transport retreated. He flashed his lights and waved in greeting. The alien craft hovered and shone an incredibly bright light, but it did him no harm. He approached close enough to touch the craft with this tentacle fingers. A maw opened in the craft and a suction device drew him inside. He was excited to meet the visitors inside up to the moment automated knives inside the craft sliced him to pieces.

            At mission control in Houston, the announcer spoke to the press.

“We have to report a great success and a great failure. We penetrated the ice of Europa and discovered life: life more evolved than we had dared hope has been discovered, though it is still primitive. Analogs of simple crustaceans appear to be present in the environment. We were able to retrieve significant data about the creature’s biochemical makeup before the craft’s unexplained failure. Budget constraints limit us as always and even the small samples our probe retrieved will keep us studying for years to come. One thing now is certain however. Sooner or later we will return.