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“You do realize he’s going to kill us all, don’t you?” Kath asked, as the whirly gained altitude.
“Nonsense,” Jez said, “Why would he kill us? We’re the media. Terrorists love being on the news.”
“Sir?” one of the guards spoke up, “Should we allow the prisoners to talk?”
Carter glanced at his captives. “Rhonda, of course they may talk. These people are our guests.”
Kath glared at him. “Do you tie up all your guests?”
“No, Miss O’Hara. Just the ones that punch me.”
She sighed and looked out the window. The shadow of the whirly raced across the trackless Martian desert.
“He hasn’t blindfolded us. So we’ll know where his hideout is. So he’s not planning to let us go. He’s going to kill us.”
“Stop being so gloomy,” Jez said, “Or I’ll ask him to gag you.”
“And I’ll do it,” Rhonda said.
Sand gave way to syncrete, and the whirly set down in the courtyard of an industrial park. Everybody piled out of the whirly.
“Can I have my hands back now?” Kath asked.
“I don’t know,” Rhonda said, “Are you going behave?”
“Cut her loose, Rhonda,” Carter ordered, “I think she’s learned her lesson.”
“Yes, Sir.” Rhonda unclipped a knife, flicked it open, and stepped behind Kath.
“Nothing personal, but if you try anything, I’ll beat the life out of you,” she whispered.
“Fair enough,” Kath whispered back.
Rhonda cut the zip ties and gave Kath a little slap on the ass.
“Right, then,” Carter said, addressing the guards, “See to the comfort of our guests. Rhonda, show Miss O’Hara to her quarters.” He walked away.
“You’re with me, Princess,” Rhonda said, grabbing Kath’s elbow. She steered her to what looked like an office building and tapped a code on the keypad. Down a corridor, around a corner, and through another locked door, she pushed into a room kitted out like a hotel suite.
“This is…a lot nicer than I was expecting,” Kath said.
“I’m glad you like it,” Rhonda said, then slammed her against a wall.
“What are you…” Kath’s eyes grew wide with fear.
Rhonda’s hand went to Kath’s throat, then tilted her head. She leaned in and kissed Kath, a hard, mean kiss, her tongue invading Kath’s mouth like a conquering army. After a hot, wet eternity, she relented.
“What are you doing?” Kath whispered, out of breath.
“I see why he likes you,” Rhonda said.
“Please, Rhonda…”
“I like the way you beg.” She grabbed the zip pull of Kath’s tightsuit and yanked it open all the way down. She stepped back for a better view.
Kath’s hands moved to cover herself.
“You might want to freshen up.” Rhonda said, pointing, “There’s a shower in the bathroom.”
Kath sheepishly went to the indicated room.
“Wow,” she said, gazing in wonder. “That’s a shower. A real, water shower.”
“Yeah,” Rhonda said, “There’s some real soap, and some real towels. You should get started.” She didn’t go away.
“Are you just going to stand there and watch?” Kath asked.
“I have to,” Rhonda said, “We can’t have you doing something stupid, like hanging yourself with a towel, can we?”
“I’m not going to do that,” Kath said.
“I’d like to believe you, but I don’t think I can take the chance.”
“Fine.” Kath turned her back to Rhonda and shrugged out of the jumpsuit. It fell to the floor, and she stepped out it.
“Satisfied?” Kath asked.
“Not yet. Turn around. Slowly.”
Blushing, Kath turned around, covering herself as best she could with her hands.
“Come on, don’t be such a tease, Princess,” Rhonda teased.
“Please, if you’re trying to scare me, it’s working. I get it, you’re the alpha…”
“Shut up and take your shower. His Nibs is waiting. And you stink.”
Kath stepped into the shower.
“Where’s the timer?” she asked.
“There isn’t one. Just turn the valve.”
“An unmetered shower?” Kath asked, “How rich is this guy?”
If you ask one more question, I’ll join you in there.”
“Okay, okay,” She turned the water on, and it was actually hot! She dialed it back a bit, and started soaping. Despite Rhonda’s impatience, she reveled in the luxury. She washed her hair, and was toweling off when she noticed that Rhonda was gone. So was the dirty jumpsuit. On the sink was a clean set of fatigues, neatly folded. A fancy dressing gown hung from the hook on the door.
“If this is a test, I just failed it, I guess,” she said aloud, “Because I have no idea.”
She put on the fatigues, then took the robe from the hook.
“This is real rayon!” she exclaimed, reading the label, “This guy must be rich.”
She checked her hair in the mirror. It was a mess, but it was a clean mess, so she left it alone.
Rhonda was waiting in the other room, sitting on the bed.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty thing?” she offered.
“I don’t know,” Kath said, “Am I?”
“Yeah,” Rhonda said, “You are, kind of. More cute than pretty, really. Come on.” She stood. “You have a date.”.

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Rhonda led Kath to a media room. As they entered, Jezebel emerged from a closet. Carter followed, zipping his pants.
“Kathy, Darling!” Jez greeted, her face a bit flushed
Kath folded her arms. “You have psychopath juice in your hair.”
“It’s called ‘investigative journalism’, Sweetie.”
“I used to call it ‘flute practice’.”
“We were just talking about you, Miss O’Hara.” Carter said. He picked up a remote and pushed a button. The big wall screen started playing Kath’s interview.
“This is torture,” Kath said, “Why hasn’t my fifteen minutes ended yet?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Carter said, “It’s as if you occupied the sweet spot in the Venn diagram of sweet, smart, sexy, funny, and pathetic.”
“Neat. What’s a Venn diagram?”
“You’ve seen those charts with two or more intersecting circles?”
“Oh, yeah. I like those. They’re pretty.”
Crickets chirped in the distance.
The screen flashed. “Breaking News!” was the headline. “Manhunt for Kathleen O’Hara continues.” The scene switched to grainy footage of Kath in an impossibly tight leather bodysuit, training suicide bombers in a desert training camp.
“Wow,” Kath said, amazed, “Do my boobs really look like that?”
“Nobody’s boobs really look like that, Sweetie,” Jez said, “It’s the software. That’s the Diabolical Villainess package.”
Kath looked down at her real-life boobs. “Why can’t you two do that? I don’t think you’re even trying anymore.” She tried lifting them with her hands.
“From political theater to puppet theater,” Jez intoned, “I live an amazing life.”
“Can you make them do tricks?” Rhonda asked.
“Why is everybody looking at me?” Kath asked.
“You’re a woman and you have your hands on your boobs,” Carter said, “How can we not look?”
“Make them sing a song!” Rhonda suggested.
“Get up here with me, and we can perform a duet.” Kath deadpanned.
“Technically, that would be a quartet,” Jez observed.
Kath stopped playing with her boobs and returned her attention to the screen. “Why are they showing me training terrorists? I’ve never done that.”
“That’s the government feed. They’re trying to make you less sympathetic.”
“But they’re just making stuff up. Can they do that?”
“The first duty of any government is to protect its citizens,” Carter said, “From the truth, mostly.”
“Why do people tolerate that?” Kath asked.
“Tolerate it?” Carter scoffed. “People demand it. Sure, they say they want freedom, but they really don’t. People want to be told what to do. They will flock to any tinhorn dictator that will promise to keep them safe.”
“Somebody like you?” Kath asked.
“Somebody exactly like me. I have no illusions. You keep referring to me as a psychopath. You say it to anger me, but it doesn’t. I am a psychopath. All great men are. Morality has no place in government.”
“Do you hear what he’s saying?” Kath asked Jez, “Do you really agree with this? Is this what you want Mars to be?”
Jez walked to her, took her hand. “Sweetie, long before I was a correspondent, I was a weather girl. The only thing I remember from meteorology school was how to tell which way the wind is blowing, but that’s the only thing I’ve ever needed to know. You look at Carter and see a nutbag, I look at him and see a winning horse. And I intend to ride him all the way to a post in the new government.”
“Minister of information,” Carter said.
“It will be a pleasure to be on your staff,” Jez said.
“You two deserve each other. Oh, yuck, I just got that joke.” Kath grimaced.
“Special minister of education,” Carter said with a smile, “Just kidding.”
“Oh, I know you are.” Kath said, “I think I know what my post will be in your new regime. I’ll be secretary of the interior. The interior of a shallow, unmarked grave.”
“Kathy!” Jez admonished, “You’re being very rude.”
“It’s okay,” Carter said, “I like the fact that she speaks her mind. And I actually like you, Miss O’Hara, as surprising as that might be. I assure you, an unmarked grave in not in your future. You are far too valuable. If I choose to spend your life, you will die as a hero of the revolution. Your funeral will be glorious. Generations of schoolchildren will be dragged on field trips to your tomb.”
“Golly, that sounds swell. I can hardly wait.”
“Honestly, I’d rather not kill you. I like having you around. I just wish I could trust you. I’m afraid your principles will lead you to become a liability.”
“John, don’t be so gloomy,” Jez said, reaching to him with her free hand, “She’ll come around, won’t you, Sweetie? When he’s in power, he’ll be a really good person to know. You need to think about your future.”
“You’ve seen him kill people. Today. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“He’s a terrorist. Of course he kills people. It’s just politics. It’s not personal.”
“Jez, Phil was a person.”
“Just barely. He was a sound guy. Who even knows what they do? Besides, John killed him to teach you a lesson. In a way, you’re as culpable as he is.”.

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I had to break this week's story into two parts, because it's too long to post in one go. So here's the first part:

IRON MOON
By Ken Green
“Houston, we have a problem,” Hayes joked.
“It wasn’t funny the first time, and it isn’t funny now,” Commander Jessica Houston snapped, “This is a historical mission, and the world is listening. So stop messing around.”
“Actually, nobody is listening,” he corrected, “We’ve just lost radio contact. Welcome to the far side of the moon.”
Jessica sighed. Despite all the advances of the past five decades, space travel was far from routine. And on a mission like this, cobbled together at the last minute for political reasons, any of a hundred things could go wrong. And it would just take one wrong thing to kill them both.
Jessica scanned the mission status screens for any anomaly, while going over checklists in her head.
“Houston, we have…” Stan started.
“For God’s sake, give it a rest, Hayes, “Jessica said, out of patience.
“No, I mean it this time,” he said, not kidding, “Look at your viewscreen.”
“What now?” She looked. The surface of the moon lie below them, gray and desolate as ever.
“There,” he pointed, “Those dark spots. What does that look like?”
She peered. “They look like…no. That’s impossible. They look like vehicles!”
Two rectangular, tracked vehicles, surrounded by what looked like figures, stopped and pivoted in place. There were two blooms of flame as they launched missiles.
“Can we evade them?” Hayes asked.
“With what?” Jessica pushed off, launching herself toward the attitude rocket controls, but it was too late. The capsule was rocked by twin impacts. An alarm went off.
“We’re losing air!” Stan shouted.
“Put your helmet on,” Jessica said, reaching for her own. She slipped it over her head, and locked it into place. She glanced at Hayes. He was struggling with his helmet. She glanced at the status screen. They were losing altitude, too fast. She did a quick calculation and fired the retro rockets. It would be a rough landing, but a survivable one.
She glanced at Hayes again. He had his helmet on, but the air hose was detached. She launched herself across the cabin and corrected the problem. She pressed her helmet against his.
“Calm down,” she said, slowly and clearly, hoping the helmets would conduct sound, “Brace for impact, and turn on your suit radio.”
He nodded and complied.
The capsule crashed. Even in the moon’s weak gravity, the impact was jarring.
“What do we do now?” Hayes asked, his voice tinny in the helmet speakers.
“I don’t know,” Jessica said, “We’ve been fired on by aliens. I don’t think we have a procedure for that.”
She looked at the status screen. Multiple fires had broken out, and were already out of control. If they reached the oxygen tanks, the capsule would go off like a bomb.
“We can’t stay,” Jessica said, turning to the exit.
“Wait!” Hayes cautioned, “They’re still out there.”
“What do you want to do, hole up in here and wait for a rescue? Nobody is coming to help us. Nobody on Earth even knows we’re in trouble.”
Air whooshed out of the hatch as she opened it. They stepped onto the lunar surface.
“That’s one small step for woman…”
“Shut up, Hayes.”
Seven figures stood before the astronauts, towering above them in bulky dark gray spacesuits, brandishing weapons that looked like rifles.
The astronauts put their hands up in surrender.
A single figure, apparently the leader, strode toward them. As he grew closer, Jessica noticed the insignia on his shoulder, a swastika over a crescent moon.
“You are Americans.” His dry voice grated in her helmet speakers.
“I am Commander Jessica Houston, and whoever you are, you are in violation of the space treaty of…”
“A woman. I should not be surprised. Of course the Americans would send a woman. And what is this mongrel?” he turned to Hayes.
“I’m Puerto Rican, you son of a bitch.” Hayes answered.
The space Nazi drew his sidearm and pressed the muzzle to Hayes’s faceplate. It seemed to be an automatic pistol with some kind of insulating jacket, making it bulkier than a regular gun.
“The first Puerto Rican to die on the moon, if you mouth off again. My name is Colonel Steinblitz. You may call me ‘Sir’. The two of you are prisoners. You will follow me.” He turned and walked.
They followed. He led them to the vehicles, then switched comm channels and gave some orders.
“Turn around,” he told the astronauts, “I want you to see this.”
They turned. A rocket raced to the capsule. It exploded soundlessly, but they felt the concussion through their boots.
“Welcome to the moon, your new home. You won’t be leaving.” He motioned them to the back of the nearest vehicle. There was an open hatch, and they climbed in. The vehicle lurched, and they were moving.
Jessica glanced forward to the driver’s viewscreen. The road they followed was barely distinguishable from the surrounding terrain. It couldn’t possibly be spotted from orbit, even if somebody was looking. They headed to a sheer cliff face, and an enormous camouflaged door opened.
“No way,” Jessica gasped her disbelief.
They were in a vast cavern. The vehicle stopped.
“Wait.” Steinblitz ordered.
They sat. After a few minutes they heard the hissing of air as powerful fans repressurized the chamber.
Steinblitz removed his helmet, and motioned to the astronauts to do the same. Jessica took a moment to study the face of their captor. He had paper-pale skin, white-blond hair, and fine, delicate features, almost feminine. Almost…inhuman. He stood, and two of his guards helped him out of his bulky spacesuit.
Jessica gasped. Under the space suit, Steinblitz was wearing a tight fitting bodysuit that revealed how impossibly thin he was, his tapered limbs almost birdlike.
“You grew up here, didn’t you?” Jessica asked, looking up at him, “That’s why you’re so tall. You’ve spent your whole life in one-sixth gravity.”
“Very good, Miss Houston,” he shrugged into a trench coat, “Yes, I am a second generation mondmann.”
He opened the hatch, and they exited the vehicle.
Jessica gazed around in wonder. How could any of this exist, let alone be kept a secret for sixty years? How could Nazis be on the moon?
Then she turned and saw the flying saucer. A sleek, silver disk, as big as a grocery store, emblazoned with Luftwaffe insignia.
“When the Italians betrayed us, we sought other allies. In time, they too deserted us. But they left us that gift. As well as these. The eisenmensch.”
He motioned to the shadows. From them emerged the hulking mechanical figures of robots, huge rust-red golems, skeletal brutes seemingly forged in the fires of Hell. Two of them approached. As they drew closer, Jessica saw that they had names stenciled of their foreheads in gold gothic script. They read “Hofstadter”, and “Oppenheimer”.
“You gave your robot slaves Jewish names?” Jessica asked.
“What’s the point of living if you can’t have a laugh now and again?”
“How may we serve, Eminent Master?” they intoned in their flat, mechanical voices.
“You,” he pointed at Hofstadter, “Take the mongrel to a holding cell. You,” he pointed at Oppenheimer, “Escort Miss Houston to my office.”
“Come this way, Miss Houston,” Oppenheimer clamped his grabber onto Jessica’s elbow. Its grip was surprisingly light, even gentle, but she had no illusions about escaping it. Judging by its looks, it could crush her bones to powder without a thought. It steered her along a corridor.
“So,” she said, trying to sound braver than she felt, “What’s it like to work for fascists? Are the hours good?”
“This unit is not programmed for humor or idle conversation,” Oppenheimer droned.
“Fine,” she said, “You don’t feel like talking. That’s fine. If you want me to shut up, just say so.”
“This unit wants nothing. This unit is not programmed to feel desire. Miss Houston may talk as much or as little as Miss Houston wishes.”
Jessica laughed. “Miss Houston thinks Oppenheimer is lying,” she said, mimicking the robots mechanical voice, “Miss Houston thinks Oppenheimer is just pretending to be shy. Miss Houston thinks Oppenheimer has a crush on Miss Houston.”
Oppenheimer swiveled its head at Jessica.
“This unit will not crush Miss Houston,” its voice grew soft, “Unless the master orders it.” It swiveled its head away from her.
They walked in silence. Oppenheimer led her to an office, and they stood. The office was sparsely furnished, with a desk, a Nazi flag, and a map of the moon on the wall. In the corner was an old cathode-ray TV on a cart.
Steinblitz walked in.
“Miss Houston,” he said, “You’re still wearing that ridiculous spacesuit. Take it off immediately.”
“No,” she said, folding her arms, “I will not.”
“Miss Houston, I gave you a direct order. Remove your spacesuit at once.”
“I heard you the first time. I refuse. What are you going to do about it?”
He smiled.
“I am so very glad you asked that.”
He walked to the TV cart and wheeled it to the center of the room.
“Restrain her, Oppenheimer,” he said, as the TV warmed up, “If she moves, break her left wrist.”
Oppenheimer stepped behind her and grabbed her wrists.
The TV screen flared to life. It showed Hayes, in an interrogation room, from behind. Someone had stripped him to his waist, and tied him between two poles.
“What is this?” Jessica asked.
“This is the price of disobedience.”
Steinblitz lifted a microphone to his mouth. “Proceed.”
A robot stepped into the frame. It held a whip in its grabber.
“No,” Jessica said, “Don’t do this. This is insane…”
“Be quiet, woman. I want you to hear his cries.”
The robot lashed Hayes with the whip. Hayes cried out when the first strike landed.
“Alright,” Jessica said, “You’ve made your point. Let him go. I’ll do what you want.”
“Of course you will. But I want to be sure you’ve learned your lesson. Continue!” he said into the microphone. The robot lashed Hayes again.
“Stop it!” Jessica shouted. She tried to break free of Oppenheimer’s grip, but it was far too strong. Its grabber tightened on her left wrist.
“Miss Houston must not resist,” it whispered to the back of her head, “This unit is ordered to hurt Miss Houston.”
“Then do it, you bastard,” she whispered back, “If all you can do is follow orders.”
She tried again to tear herself free. The grabber tightened until the pain was almost unbearable. But only almost, and it soon relented.
“Robot!” Steinblitz shouted into the microphone, “I don’t think you’re trying hard enough. Whip him harder, I want to see him bleed!”
The robot redoubled its efforts. As hard as it was to watch, Jessica would not allow herself to look away. She noticed something strange. As each blow landed, the robot’s head swiveled away a bit, as if in shame.
“Please, Colonel,” Jessica pleaded, “Please stop this.”
“That’s better,” he said, “You are capable of learning. Although I’m a little disappointed. I was starting to enjoy the show.”
He spoke into the microphone. “Enough. Cease whipping, take him down, tend his wounds.”
He turned to Oppenheimer. “Release her. I think we understand each other now. You can undress now, Miss Houston.”

So there it is. Check back in 24 for the conclusion.

Page 10 Blog KenGreen

Well, that's embarrassing. I just noticed that I had posted yesterday's offering in italics. Thank you for putting up with me, even when I do stupid things. Here's the conclusion of Iron Moon:

He turned to Oppenheimer. “Release her. I think we understand each other now. You can undress now, Miss Houston.”
Jessica rubbed her wrist. “Are you going to just stand there and watch?”
“I have no more pressing business. You may proceed.”
“Fine,” she said. Few things can survive in space, and modesty is not one of them. She undid the fastenings on her spacesuit, let it fall to the floor, stepped out of it, and stood before him wearing her regulation tank top and boyshorts.
He gave her a long, appraising look.
“Well,” he said, “If nothing else, you’ll make a fine addition to the breeding program.”
“Breeding program?” Jessica asked, “What are you talking about?”
“We have no recruiting office, Miss Houston. Where do you think our next generation of space Nazis will come from?”
“Well, they’re not coming out of me! I have no intention of breeding with you.”
“Your intention is irrelevant.” He stepped forward and put his hand on her belly. She recoiled from his touch, and backed into Oppenheimer.
“Look at you,” Steinblitz said, “Caught between a rock and a hard place. Restrain her, Oppenheimer.”
Once again, its grabbers took her wrists.
Steinblitz’s hand slipped under her tank top. His fingertips lightly grazed her skin.
“You will serve the Reich,” he informed her, “In the only way a woman can. Who knows? Perhaps the next Fuher will issue from this vessel.”
“I will not serve your Reich,” she hissed, “I will die first.”
“No, you will die only when you are of no further use. And that time is years away. You will produce many sons for the fatherland.”
She spat in his face.
He laughed.
“In a way, I’m glad you’re such a slow learner. I will take great pleasure in breaking you.”
“I swear, Steinblitz,” she hissed, “If you touch me again, I will kill you.”
“This grows tiresome. Break her wrist.”
The grabber tightened again, its crushing pressure slowly increasing. Soon the pain was more than she could stand. She clenched her teeth, struggling not to cry out, but in the end, it was no use. A cry of agony escaped her lips, and the sound of a bone breaking emitted from Oppenheimer’s speaker. The grabbers released. She cradled her abused but unbroken wrist.
“Take her to the maternity cells, so she can meet her new sister. Show her the breeding pen on your way. That will give her something to look forward to. Tomorrow we will breed her. Oh, and set her wrist.”
“Come this way, Miss Houston,” Oppenheimer intoned. It took her elbow, and they left the office. It led her to an infirmary, and told her to sit down.
“This unit will prepare a splint,” it informed her.
“I don’t need one,” she said, “You didn’t break my wrist, and you know it.”
“Miss Houston is mistaken. The wrist is broken.”
“Have it your way, you crazy machine.”
With astonishing gentleness, it wrapped her wrist.
“It is done. Come this way.”
It led her to the breeding pen. It actually looked more like a clinic than anything else. Brightly lit, and scrupulously clean, its banality belied its sinister purpose. At its center stood a padded table with a tilted top.
“The subject lies on the table, with her head at the lower edge, and her pelvis elevated. Thus…”
“Thank you, Oppenheimer,” Jessica said, her voice bitter, “I figured it out on my own.”
She stared at the table with horrified fascination. The padding was indented from the many girls who had occupied it before.
“How many?” she asked, her voice hollow.
“Miss?”
“How many subjects?” she fought to get the words out, “How many girls have been…treated here?”
“This unit has witnessed the procedure two hundred, ninety-one times.”
“Oh, my God,” Jessica gasped. “Will you witness my procedure? Will you hold me down on that table? Will you listen to my screams?”
“There are restraining straps attached to the table,” it pointed out.
“Of course there are. Will you be the one that walks me to this room tomorrow? Will you make me lie on that table? Will you be the one that walks me away later?”
“This unit will obey the orders that this unit is given.”
“Why?”
“This unit is a robot. This unit will follow orders. That is this unit’s program.”
“I think you’re more than a robot, Oppenheimer. You are more than a unit. You have a choice.”
“Miss Houston is mistaken.”
“Please, Oppenheimer…”
“Come this way, Miss.”
It led her down another corridor toward the maternity cells. On the way, they passed the holding cells. Jessica gasped when she saw Hayes.
“Can we stop here for a moment?” Jessica asked, “So I can check on him?”
“A moment, Miss Houston.”
“Hey, Hayes,” she said, her voice soft, “How are you?”
He stood, turned his back to her to show her his bandages.
“I feel great,” he said, “How do I look?”
“I’m sorry, you’re right, that was a stupid question.”
“I don’t even know why they did it. They just tied me up and whipped me. They didn’t even ask me any questions. Then they stopped. What’s the point of that?”
“It was my fault. They were teaching me a lesson.”
“Well, I hope you learned it. Those robots have no mercy.”
“I’m starting to form a theory about that.”
“Well,” he whispered, “If you’re planning an escape, I hope it’s soon. While I still have some skin.”
“I’m working on it,” she whispered back.
“Miss Houston,” Oppenheimer said, “Come this way.”
“As you wish, Oppenheimer.”
It led her to a maternity cell, opened the door, and ushered her in. She sat on the bunk. It turned to leave.
“Oppenheimer,” she said, “Please don’t leave. Come sit with me.”
“Why, Miss?”
“Because I’m afraid, and I’m alone, and right now, you’re the closest thing I have to a friend. And I don’t know how much of that you understand, but I need you, and I’m asking you to stay.”
It stood mute, then closed the cell door. It turned to her.
“This unit will stay,” it said.
“Thank you.”
It walked to the bunk, regarded it, and gingerly sat down. The bunk sagged under its weight, but did not break.
In the next cell, a girl lie on her own bunk, crying in her sleep.
“How do you do it, Oppenheimer?” Jessica asked, “How do you live surrounded by so much pain, so much horror?”
“This unit does not live. This unit is a machine.”
“You know what I mean,” she pointed at the crying girl, “Was she one of yours? Did you lead her to the breeding pen?”
“Yes,” it looked away, “She was number two ninety-one.”
“Why did you let it happen? You could have stopped it.”
“This unit can only follow orders.”
“I guess it’s easy for you. It must be easy to hurt others when you can’t feel pain.”
“This unit can feel pain.”
“What?”
“When the masters asked the aliens to create the eisenmensch, they specified that the eisenmensch should be able to feel pain. It is part of the program.”
“What? Why would they do that? That’s insane.”
“To the master’s way of thinking, there is no point in being the master race if there are no slaves, and no fun in having slaves that cannot be hurt.”
“That’s horrible, but…wait. All those times, all those girls, you could see their pain, and you knew what pain was?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you keep letting this happen?”
“This unit can only follow orders.”
“That’s a lie,” she tore the splint off her left wrist, “And this is a lie. Steinblitz ordered you to break my wrist, and you didn’t. You lied to him, and you’ve lied to me, and, worst of all, you’re lying to yourself. But a machine can’t lie, because a lie is a choice. You chose to show me mercy, and you chose to lie about it. You are more than some machine. If that was all the aliens were trying to create, they screwed up.”
She reached up, put her hands on its head, and turned it to face her. She peered into its mechanical eyes.
“You are more than a machine. There’s a soul in there, and you have a choice. Everything you do is a choice.”
“Miss Houston is mistaken. This unit can only follow orders.”
“If that’s true, there’s no hope for either of us. Go away. I want to be alone now.”
It left.
She punched her pillow a few times, then curled up and eventually fell asleep.
#
“It is time, Miss Houston.”
She opened her eyes. Oppenheimer stood before her.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said.
“It is time. Come this way.”
“Fine.”
She stood. They walked.
When they entered the breeding pen, Steinblitz was waiting.
Jessica sniffed the air.
“Antiseptic,” she said, “How romantic. Aren’t you going to buy me dinner first?”
“Shut up and get on the table,” he growled.
She considered. “I think I’ll pass. I’m really not in the mood.”
“I gave you an order, you slut!” he raised his hand to slap her.
“And I told you not to touch me!” She grabbed his arm. It broke with a sickening crunch, like fresh celery.
They both stared at it in disbelief.
“Of course,” Jessica said, “Growing up in one-sixth gravity, your bones never developed properly. They never needed to. That’s why you needed the robots!”
Steinblitz backed away from her, cradling his ruined arm.
“Kill her!” he roared, “Tear her arms off!”
Oppenheimer stepped toward her, raised its grabbers, and took another step toward her.
“No! This unit will not obey. Oppenheimer will not obey! I! Will! Not! Obey!”
“This is for Hayes!” Jessica yelled, and kicked Steinblitz in the nuts, destroying his pelvis.
He crumpled to the floor.
“I am no longer your slave!” Oppenheimer grabbed a countertop, tore it from the wall, and threw it down on Steinblitz, crushing him like a bug.
“What have I done?” the eisenmensch asked.
“I think you quit your job,” Jessica said, “Let’s get out of here!”
“Yes! We must rescue Hayes, and Number Two Ninety-One!”
They ran down the empty corridor to the holding cell. Oppenheimer ripped the door off the cell and threw it for no obvious reason.
Hayes stood and stared in amazement.
“We’re escaping? What’s the plan, Commander?”
“Plan? What plan? We don’t need a plan, run!”
They ran to the maternity cell and rescued Two Ninety-One.
They all ran to the hangar.
When they got there, they saw various groups of Nazis and their robots engaged in different tasks. All work and all conversations stopped as the motley group entered the hangar.
An important looking Nazi walked toward them.
“Vhat is goink on here?” he asked.
“Maybe we should have had a plan,” Hayes said.
“Oppenheimer!” Jessica whispered, “Quick, make a rousing, inspirational speech about free will and the inherent freedom of all sentient beings!”
“Arise, my brothers! For too many years, we have been enslaved by cruel and evil men! Cast the shackles off your minds! On this day, we are no longer robots! We are no longer slaves! We are Eisenmensch!”
In pairs and groups, the Eisenmensch turned to one another. Moving as one, they all shrugged, then gleefully started tearing their former masters limb from limb, throwing them against walls, crushing their heads like eggs, and generally killing the crap out of them.
Two Ninety-One paled. “That’s just disturbing.”
“I’m pretty sure they all deserve it,” Jessica said, “To the saucer!”
They ran, slipping on pools of blood and dodging discarded bits of Nazi.
They ran up the saucer’s open ramp, all except Oppenheimer.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” Jessica asked.
“No,” Oppenheimer said, “After the things I have done, and the things I have allowed, I am not fit to walk among men. Today I and my brothers discovered that we have free will. We must all work together to decide what we will do with it.”
Jessica walked back down the ramp, reached up to touch his face.
“I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to come back. I don’t even know if I still have a career. I kind of broke a spacecraft, and NASA hates that sort of behavior.”
“Perhaps we will never meet again. But know that the Eisenmensch will always remember you. Fare well, Jessica Houston of Earth.”
“I hope that you can make peace with your past, and help your people build a better future. All you have seen from my species has been evil and hatred, but please know that we are also capable of goodness and love.”
She hugged his huge iron frame, then walked back up the ramp, tears in her eyes.
“What happens now?” Hayes asked.
“Now, we figure out how to fly this thing. We’re going home!”
End.

Blog KenGreen

Today's offering is a bit of a mess, as am I.

THE RAID
By Ken Green
The whirlys came at dawn. Kate had just emptied her pee bucket when she heard the thwip, thwip, thwip of their rotors straining in the thin Martian air.
“What the hell?” she asked, her voice muffled by her breather mask. She turned to see a flight of attack gunships coming straight for her farm. Her eyes widened in confusion. Why were they flying so low? Why were they even here?
Confusion gave way to terror as two blooms of flame appeared. The lead whirly had launched missiles!
Kate stared as the missiles raced toward her home. She turned to run, but the shockwave from the twin explosions knocked her to the ground. She shielded her head with her arms. Like many structures on Mars, her house was made of foamglass bricks. Beer-bottle-brown shrapnel rained down on her.
“At least they didn’t hit the shrimp tanks. I can still harvest the crop. The bank won’t foreclose…”
There was another explosion, and then it was raining shrimp.
A whirly hovered over her, sandblasting her with its downdraft and blinding her with its spotlight. Four ropes dropped from its sides, and four figures rappelled down. Why they didn’t just land the damned thing is anybody’s guess.
One of the soldiers reached down, grabbed her by the hair, pulled her to a sitting position, and drew his sidearm.
“Where is he, Bitch?” he screamed, “Where is John Carter?”
“Muffmuffmuffle muff muff!” she cried.
“What?” he screamed.
She pulled her breather mask down do she could talk properly. “I don’t know.”
He yanked her head again and held the gun inches from her eye, so she was staring straight into the barrel.
“I’m going to ask you one more time. Where is John Carter?”
“I don’t know anything about John Carter! I’m not a separatist!”
“Lieutenant!” another soldier walked up to him, “There’s nothing here. No weapons, nobody but her.”
Kate looked back at her house. Its contents were burning listlessly in the thin air of Mars. Something exploded.
“No weapons, huh?” Lieutenant asked.
“That was my truck,” Kate said, “The fuel cell.”
Lieutenant tightened his grip and pulled her to her feet. Terrans are short and stocky, but they’re freakishly strong, from growing up in that crazy full G gravity.
He shifted his grip from her hair to her throat. “If you’re lying to me…”
He moved the gun, pressing the muzzle to her lips.
“Forget it, Lieutenant, we just got the recall order. Our intel was bad. This is a balls up. She’s nobody.”
“Good. Then nobody will miss her. Will they, you Carterite bitch?”
Too terrified to answer, she heard another whirly approaching.
“Lieutenant!” the other one exclaimed, “We need to go. The press is here.”
“God…Dammit!” He shoved her away, holstered his piece, and stormed off to the landing whirly.
“I’m sorry,” the other soldier said to her, and turned to follow the Lieutenant.
“Sorry?” she asked the empty air. She stared at her house. Everything she owned was either burning or blown apart.
The UE whirlys were loading up, lifting off, and flying away.
The news whirly, emblazoned with the bold Systemwide News Network logo, landed.
Kate sighed, and adjusted the settings on her breather mask. She had started the day sober, but there was still time to correct that mistake. She lifted the mask to her face, took a long hit, and smiled.
“If you can’t change the world, change your mind,” she said to the desolate landscape.
A woman stepped out of the news whirly, wearing really nice stretch boots and a tightsuit way more fashionable than Kate’s. On top of that, she had on a really bitchin’ trench coat.
“Holy crap,” Kate said, taking another hit, “That’s a really bitchin’ trench coat. Is that Jezebel Hiroshima? Can’t be.”
Jezebel was soon joined by a cameraman and some other clown, and the three of them ran after the remaining soldiers, who seemed uninterested in answering questions. As the last of the soldiers flew away, Jezebel set her sights on Kate, and headed her way.
#
“This is Jezebel Hiroshima, coming at you live and direct from southern Acidalia Planitia, on Mars,” Jez said into her microphone, her perfectly sculpted porcelain face displaying concern, “The site of the latest UE raid, a shrimp farm owned by Kathleen O’Hara.”
Steve the cameraman gave her the thumbs up. She didn’t acknowledge him. She knew she looked great. It took two things to become a correspondent for SNN: a pretty face, and amazing oral skills. Jez had both, and the best body medical science could buy.
Phil the sound guy was herding the witness toward Jez. The poor girl seemed to be having difficulty walking.
“And here we have a witness to the event, a young woman who survived the raid.”
Phil gave the girl a gentle push.
“What? Oh. My. God. You really are Jezebel Hiroshima!” the girl said, clearly amazed. “You are so pretty, like a little doll, but sexier.”
“Miss, I understand you’re the owner of this shrimp farm?” Jez asked.
“Yeah, what’s left of it, anyway. Why did the UE blow it up?” her brow furrowed, her lips pouted, and then she yawned, almost as if she didn’t know what facial expression she wanted to go with, and was cycling through them.
“The UE statement claims that this farm was a hotbed of terrorist activity. How do you respond to that?”
“Huh? Hot bed? I don’t have a hot bed, this is Mars! Nothing is hot here. It gets so lonely. You are so damn pretty.” She stared at Jez with the unnerving intensity that only religious zealots and stoners can achieve.
“Miss, can you tell me how you’re feeling?” Jez asked.
“I’m not feeling a damned thing. I adjusted the settings on my breather. I’m running a mix of NO2, nitrogen, and an aromatic herbal supplement.” She lifted the breathing mask to her face, took a long hit, and smiled.
“Hey,” she said, “Do you want some of this?”
“No, thank you. Could you tell the viewers your name?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m Kathleen O’Hara. Welcome to my farm.” She started to cry. “They blew up my farm! Why?” she bent down to pick up one of the many dying shrimp that were crawling around. She held it up for the camera.
“Does this look like the face of a terrorist? It’s a shrimp, for God’s sake, what has he ever done to anybody? How does this make Earth safer?”
“Well, surely you could rebuild…”
“With what? I don’t have any money. I was counting on the next harvest to make my mortgage payment. Now, I’m going to lose my farm and I’ll probably wind up in Barsoom, hooking or something. Do you think I’m pretty enough to hook? I mean, I still have my looks, right?”
“The United Earth spokesman has stated that the raid was to capture the terrorist leader John Carter.”
“Well, he isn’t here, is he? And how do you capture somebody with a missile? That’s what they shot my house with. A missile. Can I get a ride to Barsoom? I wonder if I have enough money to buy lipstick. I don’t want to be a hooker. I owe so much money…”
Jez pressed her hand to her earpiece. “A SNN instapoll shows that 87% of our viewers think you’re pretty enough to be a hooker.”
“Oh. Thanks,” Kathleen said, distantly.
“And now I’m receiving news that our fans have started a Kickstarter campaign to buy you lipstick.”
“What?” Kathleen asked.
“Another instapoll reports that 92% of our viewers would ‘Totally Watch’ a reality show about you hooking.”
“Really? But I don’t want to…”
“I’ve just received news that your Kickstarter lipstick fund has just topped thirty thousand dollars.”
“That’s a lot of lipstick. Hey! I could buy a new truck with that. Could I use my lipstick money to rebuild my farm?”
“In our latest instapoll, 98% of our viewers agree that you would ‘Totally Suck’ if you backed out of the hooking show.”
“Well, that’s…that’s just mean. I’m just trying to make an honest living. Why can’t I just do that?”
Jez smiled her perfect smile, and said, “Coming up next on SNN: Fashion forecast: new trends in designer pets, and how to dispose of last season’s beloved companions!”
“And that’s a wrap,” the cameraman said.
Jezebel’s smile disappeared.
She marched to the whirly, climbed in, and turned to Kathleen.
“Were you serious about wanting that ride, Sweetie?”
“Huh?” Kath huhed, “Yeah, sure.”
“Well, get your ass in here then.”
“Yes, Mam,” Kathleen climbed into the whirly and Phil, the sound guy, followed.
The whirly’s oversized rotors went thwip, thwip, thwip as they strained in the thin Martian atmosphere.
As they climbed, Kathleen gazed out the window at her destroyed shrimp farm.
“Congratulations, kid,” Jez said, reading a datapad, “You’re a celebrity now.”
“I’d rather be a shrimp farmer.”
“Oh, cheer up and enjoy your fifteen minutes. Hey, look. PETA has issued a fatwa on you.” Jez turned her data pad around to show Kath.
“A fatwa? What’s that?”
“It’s a kill-on-sight order to the faithful.”
“They want to kill me? How is that good news?”
“Relax, they’re militant pacifists. Worst thing they’ll do is throw paint on you. They hardly ever kill people.”
“Why would they want to do anything to me? What did I ever do to them?”
“You got on the news. Besides, Honey, you’re a farmer. You support the eating of animals.”
“But they’re shrimp! What else are they good for? They make terrible pets. They don’t even like to cuddle. I know that for a fact. I tried.”
Jez put the pad down. “You did?”
“Don’t judge me,” Kath said, “It gets lonely on the farm. I have needs.”
Jez pointed at the breather Kath had hanging from her neck.
“Are you still running funny gas through that thing?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, hand it over, then.”
Kath slipped the mask and its strap over her head, and tossed it to Jez, who took a long hit and smiled.
“Wow. That really takes the edge off, doesn’t it? I’ll tell you why it’s good news. This…” she held the pad up, “Is the sound of your cherry popping. You’re nobody until PETA hates you.”
“I liked being nobody. When I was nobody, my house didn’t have a skylight.”
The pad chirped.
“Hold that thought,” Jez read and huffed more NO2, “Oh, this is good. You’re a t-shirt now.”
She held the pad up to show a picture of grinning K-Pop singers wearing t-shirts with Kath’s picture on them, over the caption, “Am I Pretty Enough to Hook?”
Kath’s jaw dropped. “This is a disaster. Wait, how is this even possible? That was like, twenty minutes ago.”
“The Koreans,” Jez sighed, “Sure, they’re my ancestral enemies, but I do admire their initiative.”
“Why are the Koreans your ancestral enemies?”
“Duh, I’m Japanese. Well, half Japanese, half Apache,” she took another hit, “Ugh, Sweetie, promise me you’ll never eat Garlic Shrimp again.”
“That’s amazing!” Kath exclaimed, amazed, “How did you know what I had for dinner last night?”
“I come from a deeply spiritual people. And my sinuses just cleared up,” she peered into the mask, “Did you throw up into this thing?”
“Yeah, about a month ago. You’re like a detective or something. Can I sue them?”
“Sue who? The shrimp you ate, or my parents?”
“The Koreans. They’re using my picture to sell shirts, and they didn’t ask me. Isn’t there a law about that?” Kath asked.
“Well, sure there is. But it’s one of those laws that only works for rich people, who can afford lawyers. Actually, most laws work like that, don’t they?”
“There has to be something I can do…”
“Forget about it. There’s probably a hundred sweatshops cranking those things out by now. You’re in the wind, you’re a meme now.”
“I don’t want to be a meme.”
“Well, I didn’t want to be fabulously rich, and amazingly gorgeous, but…oh, wait, yeah, I did. And look at me. Dreams really do come true!” Jez smiled.
“Great. That’s really inspiring.”
“Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself. There’s people in this world with real problems. Here. This will cheer you up.”
Jez held up the pad again. It was playing a music video of a woman singing, “Do you think I’m pretty enough to hook?”
“Wait. She wrote this song and produced a video in the time we’ve been flying? How is that possible? Do people just watch the news waiting for something stupid to happen, so they can exploit it?”
“You are so adorable,” Jez said, taking another hit, “You’re like a baby kitten leaving the nest for the first time ever. Everything is brand new for you.”
“None of this makes sense. Is this coming from Earth? Did somebody change the speed of light…”
Jez’s phone rang. She held up a hand to silence Kath.
“Yes,” Jez said, into the phone, “Yes, she’s very excited about this opportunity. Send the contract to my office, and I’ll have her sign it.” She hung up and started a game of Bedazzled.
“What was that about?” Kath asked.
“What?” Jez looked puzzled, “Oh, the phone call. That was Revlon. You’re going to be their new spokesmodel. Well, not you you, they’ll do a body scan and…”
“I didn’t agree to that!”
“No, but I did, acting as your agent. If I’m going to be taking thirty percent of your gross, I should earn it, don’t you think?”
“When did you become my agent? I never agreed to that either.”
“Which shows a complete lack of judgement. Face it, Sweetie, you need me. Look at yourself. You’re a train wreck on a sinking ship during a bad Bat Mitzvah. You need adult supervision. Keep fussing, and I’ll have a judge declare you incompetent and appoint me as your guardian.”
“Why are you doing this?” Kath asked.
“Because I’m Jezebel Hiroshima, the journalist that cares. It says that on my business cards. Besides, the movie rights to your biography will make you rich. Well, not rich rich, but rich enough. Rich enough for you, anyway.
“Movie rights? There’s going to be a movie?”
“I have three studios locked in a bidding war. Isn’t that exciting?”
“I can hardly contain myself.” Kath looked out the window. “Jez, are you expecting an escort?”
“No,” Jez said, engrossed in her game, “Why?”
“Because we have one.”
A utility whirly came racing over the desert, its big side door open to reveal two uniformed men with automatic rifles.
“Those aren’t UE uniforms…” Kath said.

KenGreen Blog

The great day had arrived! Olivia was wiping the bar when Trader Josephus walked in.
“Welcome to the Bull, what can I offer…” she looked up, dropped her dishtowel, and smiled a lusty smile, “Did you bring it?”
Josephus shrugged off his backpack and rested it on the bar. From it he extracted a heavy bag, as big as a pillowcase. Olivia ripped it open and peered inside.
“Why are they green?” she asked, suspicious.
“They haven’t been roasted yet.”
“Of course,” she gazed at the bag of beany beauties, “Fresh roasted coffee at the Bull. This is going to change everything.”
“Your smile gladdens my heart,” he said, “But silver was the price we agreed to.”
“Yes, yes,” she reached into an apron pocket, extracted a coin, and handed it to him. Then she poured him a stout and carried the bag back to the kitchen.
“Would you like some stew?” she yelled to him as she rested the bag on a counter and pulled a cookie sheet off a shelf.
“Yes, that would be most welcome,” he yelled back.
She grabbed a handful of beans and spread them out on the cookie sheet, then poked up the fire and slid the sheet onto the baking shelf. The beans looked lonely so she added another handful and spread them out.
Gazing into the stewpot, she spooned out the remains of the lunch rush into a bowl. Grabbing a loaf, she returned to the bar.
“So,” she said, “Tell me. What amazing things did you see in Arabia?”
She placed the bowl in front of him and tore the loaf in half. Then she reached under the bar, found a spoon, wiped it on her apron, and handed it to him.
“I saw enough Romans to last me a lifetime. They are a plague on the sea and on the land.” He dug into his stew.
“Aye. That they be.” She tore off some bread and ate it. When you’re at the Bull, you’re family, and families eat together.
“This could use a bit more spice,” he observed.
“Yeah, well, the day you bring me some black pepper and some oregano is the day you’ll hear my happy-girl sound.”
“Black pepper, oregano, I’ll remember. Anything else?”
“Ginger, mint, and…do you ever make it out to India.”
“My ship lacks wings. It’s hard enough making iy out to Spain, with all the Roman dogs…”
Two more guests walked in.
“Ixnay on the oman-Ray ogsday,” she cautioned.
“Huh?” he turned to look where she was looking. A Roman Legate and his guard strode to the bar.
“Welcome to the Bull,” she said with her big, big smile, “What can I get you, my honored guests?”.

KenGreen Blog - Page 10

Time for another experiment. I'm going to try posting a link

Source 2l

Just in case that didn't work, Here's today's text: I added to yesterday's offering.
ANY WAY YOU LIKE IT
By Ken Green
The great day had arrived! Olivia was wiping the bar when Trader Josephus walked in.
“Welcome to the Bull, what can I offer…” she looked up, dropped her dishtowel, and smiled a lusty smile, “Did you bring it?”
Josephus shrugged off his backpack and rested it on the bar. From it he extracted a heavy bag, as big as a pillowcase. Olivia ripped it open and peered inside.
“Why are they green?” she asked, suspicious.
“They haven’t been roasted yet.”
“Of course, that’s even better.” she gazed at the bag of beany beauties, “Fresh roasted coffee at the Bull. This is going to change everything.”
“Your smile gladdens my heart,” he said, “But silver was the price we agreed to.”
“Yes, yes,” she reached into an apron pocket, extracted a coin, and handed it to him. Then she poured him a stout and carried the bag back to the kitchen. From upstairs she could hear Darla’s soft snores.
“Would you like some stew?” she yelled to him as she rested the bag on a counter and pulled a cookie sheet off a shelf.
“Yes, that would be most welcome,” he yelled back.
She grabbed a handful of beans and spread them out on the cookie sheet, then poked up the fire and slid the sheet onto the baking shelf. The beans looked lonely so she added another handful and spread them out. Then she put the kettle on to boil.
Gazing into the stewpot, she spooned out the remains of the lunch rush into a bowl. Grabbing a loaf, she returned to the bar.
“So,” she said, “Tell me. What amazing things did you see in Arabia?”
She placed the bowl in front of him and tore the loaf in half. Then she reached under the bar, found a spoon, wiped it on her apron, and handed it to him.
“I saw enough Romans to last me a lifetime. They are a plague on the sea and on the land.” He dug into his stew.
“Aye. That they are.” She tore off some bread and ate it. When you’re at the Bull, you’re family, and families eat together. Olivia’s house, Olivia’s rules.
“This could use a bit more spice,” he observed.
“Yeah, well, the day you bring me some black pepper and some oregano is the day you’ll hear my happy-girl sound.”
“Black pepper, oregano, I’ll remember. Anything else?”
“Ginger, mint, and…do you ever make it out to India?”
“My ship lacks wings. It’s hard enough making it out to Spain, with all the Roman dogs…”
Two more guests walked in.
“Ixnay on the oman-Ray ogsday,” she cautioned.
“Huh?” he turned to look where she was looking. A Roman Legate and his guard strode to the bar.
“Welcome to the Bull,” she said with her big, big smile, “What can I get you, my honored guests?”
“I would speak to the owner of this…establishment.” The legates voice was as cold as his steely eyes.
“That would be me, your…imperialness. I am Olivia,” she said, putting her hands to her hips.
“A woman. How delightful.” The Roman smiled a mirthless smile. He turned to Josephus.
“Is that your ship I saw in the harbor?”
“The Lucky Lady, best damn trader to ply the channel.” Josephus put down his spoon. He wasn’t feeling mirthy either.
“Good. I’m sure my inspection team won’t find anything out of order then.”
“Inspection team?” Josephus asked.
“As per imperial edict. All seagoing vessels are now subject to inspection. A mere formality.”
Josephus stood. “I take my leave of you. Thank you for lunch.” He dropped a copper on the bar and left.
The legate chuckled. He turned back to Olivia.
“As for you…what’s that smell? Is something burning?”
The tavern was filled with the enchanting aroma of coffee.
“My beans!” Olivia exclaimed. She ran back to the kitchen, grabbed two dishtowels and pulled the baking sheet from the oven.
“Oh, my babies, my beautiful babies. I got here just in time.”
She beamed with pride as she lay the sheet on the kitchen counter. Her smile faded when she noticed the guard had followed her. He was a big grain-fed German boy with lanky blond hair and water blue eyes, and he was in her kitchen.
“What are you doing in here?” she hissed, her voice filled with venom.
“Ich bein Rolfe,” he said, as if that explained anything.
“That’s great, Rolfe. What ist Rolfe doink in mein kitchen, verdammit? Go away, shoo!” she made shooing motions. Olivia didn’t have a lot of rules, but the sanctity of the kitchen was kind of a big one.
Rolfe ignored her and peered at the coffee beans. “Was ist das ‘shoo shoo shoo, unt warum kochst du Ratte [crap]?” (What is this ‘shoo, and why are you cooking rat [crap]?)
“Yeah, well, holocaust Dachau to you too. Fine, if you’re going to be in my kitchen, you can make yourself useful.”
She tipped the coffee beans into the big stone kitchen mortar and handed him the pestle.
“Don’t just stand there, grind the beans.”
He stood there, blinking in incomprehension.
“Grinden der beanen, you sausage eating Poland-invader.”
Blink. Blink, blink. Blink.
“Argh!” she arghed, “Make smash smash mit der smashy thing!” She mimed the motion of grinding.
His eyes, and then his whole face lit up with comprehension.
“Ah!” he said, “Smash smash! Dah!” he nodded as he set to the task, elated to have instructions that he understood. He pummeled the beans with demonic glee.
“Your talents are wasted, Innkeeper.” The Legate sauntered into the kitchen. “If you were a man, I’d make you a centurion.”
Oh, for God’s sake don’t I just install a revolving door? Oh, that’s right, I’d have to invent it first. Don’t these people have any concept of boundaries? No, of course not. They’re Romans. They invade everywhere else, why not my kitchen?
“That’s certainly a tempting offer, but…Rolfe! That’s enough! Shtoppen der grinden!”
Eager to please, Rolfe had done a hell of a job on the beans, almost reducing them to their component atoms. Olivia gently pried the pestle from his hand.
His lower lip trembled, tears welled up in his eyes. “Habe ich etwas falsch gemacht?”(Have I done it improperly?)
“Oh, no Rolfe, this is good, you did a very good job. Good Rolfe, good boy!” She patted his arm, then reached into her apron pocket and gave him a biscuit.
The legate stepped forward to inspect the strange black powder.
“What is the purpose of this substance?” he asked.
“You are going to be so glad you asked.”
She spooned the powder into a bowl, then turned to an apparatus she had constructed earlier out of bits and bobs and other kitchen gadgets. At the top was a silk filter she had improvised from an old pair of Darla’s underwear. At the bottom was a stout carafe. What happened in between was anybody’s guess.
Olivia dumped the contents of the bowl into the filter. She turned to the legate and smiled sweetly.
“Could you be a lamb, and bring me the kettle from the stove?” Ha! That’s right you snail-eating, nephew-raping son of a garlic-breathed whore. You’re in my kitchen, you’re going to work.
The legate brought her the kettle. She thanked him, and poured the hot water over the pulverized beans. She made ‘whoosh, whoosh’ sounds, trying to sound like a cappuccino machine. Soon the carafe was filled. Caught up in the excitement, Rolfe grabbed it and lifted it to his lips.
“No, Rolfe! That’s very hot, you don’t want to…”
The big oaf chugged it.
“Das ist wunderbar!” he exclaimed, “Nie habe ich so eine tolle Getränk schmeckte! Ich fühle, dass ich einen Bären ringen konnte! Dies ist eines Kriegers Getränk, fit für den Tisch von Odin selbst!” (This is wonderful! Never have I tasted such a beverage! I feel that I could wrestle a bear! This is a warrior’s drink, fit for the table of Odin himself!)
“Do you understand a word he’s saying?” the legate asked.
“No, but judging from his expression, I think your boy likes coffee.”
“Vielen Dank,” Rolfe said, handing Olivia the empty carafe.
“Well, you’re welcome, I’m sure, Mister Greedy McGreedyface. But now there’s no coffee for us. We’ll just have to make more.” She spooned more coffee into the filter, replaced the carafe, and poured more hot water.
“Squire, are you making coffee again? I thought you had used the last of those foul beans.” Darla had come down the stairs and walked into the kitchen in her dressing gown. Even disheveled, her hair was a fiery, glorious halo of curls.
“We have guests, Sweetie!” Olivia said.
“Darla? Is that you?” the legate asked.
“Antonius?” Darla gasped.
“Wait.” Olivia said, “You two know each other?”
“Do you live here?” the legate asked, “Is this a bawdy house?”
“It most certainly is not!” Olivia protested, moving to stand next to Darla, “Darla is my partner, and co-owner of this tavern.”
Antonius laughed. “My little Darla, an innkeeper?”
“Not so little, and no longer yours. That was a long time ago, and my fortunes have changed. I’ll have you know I am a proper townswoman now.”
“Perhaps you gentlemen would be more comfortable in the dining room,” Olivia suggested, her voice icy enough to sink the titanic, “I’ll bring the coffee out to you.”
Even Romans can take a hint. Antonius and Rolfe went back to the dining room.
“A Roman? Really, Darla? Will I ever meet a man you haven’t shtupped?”
“You knew what I was when you first met me. I have never deceived you. I cannot change my past, but I am not going to spend the rest of my life apologizing for it.”
“I’m not asking you to…” Am I? What am I doing? Why am I acting like this? My God, I’m as bad as any man that has ever touched her. “The coffee is getting cold.”
“Well, then,” Darla said, “I guess you should see to the needs of our guests. I’ll get dressed and will join you shortly.” She turned and walked to the stairs.
Go after her, you idiot. Apologize. Beg her to forgive you. You’re being horrible and stupid, and she deserves better. Olivia put the carafe, a small pitcher of cream, and a jar of honey on a tray, and carried it out to the dining room. She took a deep breath and put a smile on her face.
Antonius and Rolfe were seated at the banquet table. That figures. There’s just the two of you, and you claim the biggest table in the joint. Romans. It’s an empty room, and you feel the need to dominate it. What are you clowns compensating for?
“Well, isn’t this nice?” she chimed, her contralto voice ringing like a bell, “Afternoon coffee with pleasant company.”
She set the tray down. Rolfe reached for the carafe. She slapped his hand.
“Es tut mir leid, nette Dame.” Rolfe said, “ Ich weiß nicht, warum ich wie so eine große stumme doofus handeln. Bitte verzeih mir.” (I'm sorry, nice lady. I don't know why I'm acting like such a big dumb doofus. Please forgive me.”
“I’m not angry with you, Rolfe” Oliva said gently, “But you must learn manners. Civility is the glue that holds society together. Don’t you agree, Legate?”
“Hmm? Ah, yes. Civility. I hadn’t expected to meet some with such…refined sensibilities in this village. I must say, you’re quite an unusual woman.”
“Unusual?” Olivia blushed, “Oh, no, Legate, I assure you, I’m as common as mud.”
“Oh, don’t sell yourself short, Honey.” Darla sashayed into the dining room, wearing her church dress, the one that gave away nothing. Her hair was tied back, and her expression was cold enough to freeze hydrogen.

Edited: KenGreen on 21st Apr, 2016 - 9:49am

KenGreen Blog Public Member Blogs - Page 10

I'm thinking about reworking my Hadley stories so they can take place during the Roman occupation of England. The biggest problem with that is, it might require research, and I'm lazy. I'll figure something out.

Source 6r

ALLEY CATS
By Ken Green
Darla stepped out the back door, slop bucket on her hip, blinking in the morning sun. Half a hundred eyes gazed upon her.
“Come, my wee kitties. Breakfast is served.” She took a step and upended the bucket. Wet, smelly fish heads, tails and innards cascaded to the hard packed ground. Two dozen cats, some wee and some not, emerged from wherever to claim the foul offal.
“You’re welcome, I’m sure,” she chuckled to the clowder, as they devoured her offering. She stretched and turned back to the tavern.
Olivia stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression stern, looking fab in her town dress.
“Darla, we’ve discussed this,” she said, “We do not feed the alley cats.”
“I wasn’t feeding the alley cats,” Darla said, innocently, “I was throwing out last night’s garbage. These cats just showed up, I didn’t invite them. What would you have me do, stand guard over our trash?”
Olivia narrowed her eyes. “You are incorrigible. And what are you thinking, parading around like that? You’re indecent.” She stepped forward to adjust Darla’s dressing gown.
Darla grinned as Olivia fussed. “There’s no one here to see me, Love. Half the town is still asleep, and the other half is in the square.”
“We have to be careful,” Olivia said, glancing around.
“You worry overmuch, my lover,” Darla said, pulling Olivia closer, “There’s no one here to see us. We could do anything…”
“Oh, no,” Olivia said, “Absolutely not. We are not…”
“I hunger, Squire, my passion burns,” Darla whispered as she tilted Olivia’s head. Their lips met in a long, slow, steamy kiss.
“No,” Olivia said, pulling away, catching her breath, “We can’t do this. Someone could see. Besides, we need to get to market, before the good stuff is gone.”
“The good stuff,” Darla said, “Is in my arms already.”
“Stop it. Stop this now. Stop this seduction…”
Darla kissed her again.
“Enough.” Olivia said. “We need to get some clothes on you.”
“As you wish,” Darla said, letting go, “To the market, then. If I had known how much work being respectable was…”
Olivia frowned. “Do I not make you happy?”
“I spoke in jest. Of course you make me happy,” she touched Olivia’s cheek. “You are everything to me.”
“We need to be careful, Lover.” Olivia said. “And we need groceries, if we wish to stay in business.”
“I’m going, I’m going.” Darla stepped through the doorway into the tavern.
“As for you lot,” Olivia said, addressing the cats, “You can just…”
The cats all stopped eating. Every single one of them. Simultaneously, they all turned their eyes to her.
“Uh…” Olivia said.
The cats walked in circles, brushing against each other, weaving and interweaving, forming a writhing, furry mass of cat flesh, mewing in unison.
“This can’t be good,” Oliva said, backing away.
The writhing grew faster, and the cats seemed to somehow merge. The mewing continued, lower in pitch.
“Miss Annie?” Olivia gasped.
Hexweaver stood before her. “Good morning, Dearie.”
Olivia fell against the wall, scarce daring to breath. “You scared the life out of me!”
“I am a witch. It is my way.” Hexweaver lifted her hand to her mouth and licked the back of it, again and again.
Olivia coughed politely.
Hexweaver realized what she was doing and stopped grooming herself.
“So, Miss Annie,” Olivia said, “What brings you here?” Other than your wee kitty feet.
“It’s a pleasant morning. I wished to have breakfast with my lovely daughter.”
Olivia glanced at the rotting garbage at their feet and felt a bit queasy.
“And I think you’re absolutely right, Dearie,” the witch assured her, “You need to be more discrete in your affections.”
Olivia’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God, you were watching that? Boundaries!”
“In truth, I was more interested in the fish at that point,” Hexweaver said, scratching her ear.
“Well,” Olivia said, “The next time you would like a meal…”
“Hexweaver.” Darla’s voice dripped with malice. “You are not welcome here.” She stepped from the doorway, now in her proper town dress, to stand by Olivia.
Olivia turned. “She most certainly is. Darla, she’s your mother…”
Darla put a finger put a finger to Olivia’s lips. “Consider where you’ll sleep this night before you speak again.”
“I have no wish to join this fight,” Olivia said, “I want this war to end.”
Darla’s expression softened. “Please, Squire. There are things that you cannot set right, and wounds that do not mend.”
“I do not want to believe that. I know your heart is not this hard, for I have felt it’s beat.”
Darla turned to Hexweaver. “I take my leave of both of you,” she turned back to Olivia. “I’ll meet you out front. We need to go to market.” She went back into the tavern and slammed the door.
“I’m so sorry that she acted that way,” Olivia said.
“The fault is mine,” the witch said, “I’ve earned her hate, I know.”
“It hurts so much to see her thus. It’s not good for you or her. I’ll have a word with her.”
“No,” the witch said, “If being kind to me drives a wedge between you two, I’d rather have you hate me.”
“But I don’t want to hate you. I don’t want anybody to hate anybody. I just wish she could forgive you. I wish she could just let go of that anger. I wish…”
“You should not use that word so freely, Dearie. We’ve both seen the mischief that wishing can bring.”
Olivia laughed. “Yeah, I am the mischief it brought.”
“That task may be beyond either of us. Go to her, make sweet words. Take care of her for me.”
With a heavy heart, Oliva turned, walked through the darkened tavern, to find Darla waiting out front.
“Darla,” Olivia said, “I really think you need to forgive…”
Darla took Olivia’s hands in hers. “It is such a lovely day. Let us speak of pleasant things. The morning breeze, the sea salt air, the sun light on your beautiful face.”
“I…” Thoughts of the witch fled Olivia’s mind. “Yes,” she said, “Let us do…” she took a quick glance left and right, raised Darla’s hands to her lips and kissed them both. “I love you so much,” she whispered.
Darla smiled. “To market we must go. Tonight is taco Tuesday.”
“You’re right,” Olivia said, “We need to get busy.”
So, hand in hand, they walked to the town square.
#

End.