The Merman and the Moon Forgotten

Four • Prometheus 10,000





Colorado City, Colorado

Same time.





I’m serious. You were babbling on about Huron and some Rones. They’re evil or something,” Tim said, trying to keep pace with Nick up the canyon steps.

Swish. The shed door automatically opened.

Nick sighed. “OK, fine. I keep hearing this, I don’t know, voice. Something about a city—I don’t know.”

Tim stopped. “It’s true. You’re insane. Just took a while to go full blown.”

Nick stepped through the shed door.

Beep, beep.

Welcome Nick Lyons, the computer recognition system fired up. Just above the shed door was a cylinder-shaped sensor programmed to recognize and introduce every person that stepped through the doorway. Except this particular one added its own flair.

Nick, the computer recognition system announced. The believer of all things. Once, when Nick was five years old, he believed with all of his heart that people could fly. More specifically, he believed Tim could fly. So there he was, twelve stories high, holding a very scared Tim. That’s when Sonya Lyons let out a maternal shriek and lunged for Nick. “In-the-Nick-of-time” became a popular catch phrase in the Lyons’ home.

“I hate that thing,” Tim groaned. “Turn it off.”

“Can’t. Daniel hid the shut off switch.”

Nick’s uber intelligent friend, Daniel, had taken the standard computer introduction systems found in most suburban houses and demonized it. Somehow he tapped into everyone’s social utility sites, email accounts and the FBI system to give what he called a full and honest representation of the individual.

“Bet you can turn it down.” Tim leapt to the workbench and swept his hand around the edges.

Swish . . . swish. The door slid open.

Entering Caroline Wendell. One of the three Wendell sisters hailing from the refugee camp, continued the computer recognition system.

“He-llo,” Caroline greeted them in a breathy tone. She wore her usual print flower dress and horn-rimmed glasses, which was steamed up by a ceramic bowl teetering in her clutches. “I made food for the after party. Mashed potatoes.”

People only like Caroline because she can cook, from scratch, said the computer introduction system.

“I wish we could shut that off, Nikolas,” Caroline said.

A rare commodity in this century. And for only a fourteen-year-old, she is a fantastic cook. Chocolate chip cookies after school, pie on Sundays, and a large bird called turkey for Thanksgiving. If boys won’t fancy her for her looks, they’ll fancy her for her key lime pie.

“The English accent just makes it more insulting,” Caroline said.

Swish . . . swish.

Entering Brandy Wendell.

“It’s so making my hair limp.” Brandy held a large, metal platter covered in aluminum foil. “Caroline? Where do you want your murdered cow?”

Brandy couldn’t be more different. Being the youngest sister, she hates to cook. Brandy claims that it keeps her from her number one love: looking cute. In defense, Brandy also explains that cooking keeps her from talking with her friends, all 372 of them to be exact. Some people collect stamps; Brandy collects people.

“Caroline,” said Brandy. “Your roast?”

“You made a roast?” Tim said to Caroline.

“Yes, I did, Tim. It’s a recipe I’ve wanted to try out for a while.” Caroline shoved a non-functioning radio aside and set down the mashed potatoes.

“For an after party?” said Tim.

Brandy called out, “Caroline? The murdered cow?”

“Next to the other thingamajig.” Caroline took off her glasses to wipe them.

“Microwave,” Nick offered.

“Oh. Is that a microwave? Neat,” Caroline said.

“Oh. My. Gawsh. The smell of animal death—it’s so in my sweater.” Brandy plopped the roast down next to the microwave and quickly unbuttoned her cardigan. “OK. Angora. Six thousand dollars off the rack—not that I actually paid for it.”

“Where you get your clothes is a mystery,” said Caroline. “We live in a refugee camp, you know.”

“Daniel,” said Brandy.

“Where does he get your clothes?”

“He has his sources,” said Brandy. “It’s all I can get out of that boy. Anyway, it’s not like I ask where you get all your roast beef and pies.”

“Pies!” Caroline put her hand to forehead. “Oh, dear. I forgot the pies.”

“OK. Nick,” Brandy said. “I expect a full on promotion to your little inner sanctum here. Spent all morning getting the word out for your show. Most of them said ‘no’ to the show ‘cause of the last incident, but ‘yes’ to the after party.”

“What will I do? I need those pies,” Caroline said.

Brandy rolled her eyes. “Call Haley and tell her to bring them already.”

“Demonstration,” Nick said.

“What?” Brandy said.

“It’s not a show,” Nick corrected Brandy, pointing to the machine. “This is a scientific demonstration.”

“Yeah,” Brandy said. “When towers of smoke and flame are involved, it’s a show.”

Clop . . . clop . . . clop, came the sounds of a wooden stick hitting concrete.

Swish . . . swish.

And now, all the way from the refugee camp, half-brothers Daniel and Xanthus Kobayashi, the computer introduction system continued its exposé.

Two boys stood in the doorway. One had Japanese features and leaned on a cane; the other was dumpy and looked to be half-African, half-Japanese.

Nineteen-year-old Daniel Kobayashi is not much taller than a hobbit and intelligent beyond his years. By the early age of ten, he had made the front cover of Japan’s holopaper, ‘I’. They named him “Child Genius of The Year” for discovering the very first non-metal magnet. That was until the genetic plague killed his mother, crippled him, and left him utterly hairless, which makes him more goblin than hobbit, I suppose.

Xanthus, Daniel’s half-brother, is thirteen years old. Xanthus explains to everyone that he received his name from a visit in the night by an African tribal leader indigenous to the Sub-Saharan, known for his powerful magic and warrior-like skills. This would be true if by “African tribal leader” he means ‘I live in my own fantasy world because I can’t cope with life at the refugee camp.’ Xanthus’ pitiful faux hawk, his earring of a silver woman, and mismatched black outfit make for an awkward compilation.

Xanthus found a lone barstool, flipped down a plastic band that had been resting on his head and announced, “Gotta beat this level, Nick. Let me know when you make ecological history.” With that, he was lost to the virtual reality world of Magicgeddon.

“Nick,” Daniel nodded.

“Daniel,” Nick nodded in return.

Daniel turned an inspecting eye to the room. Nerves crept up Nick’s back as he watched the boy genius limp to the machine and inspect the Prometheus 10,000 like some five star general of science, if those even existed.

“Hmm,” Daniel said to himself and moved to the edges of the room, where three fishbowls were placed on wooden chairs. Each bowl had a piece of charred cardboard taped to it, with the scribbled numbers #17, #18, and #19. The bowls were filled with sooty water.

Daniel traced a figure eight in bowl #17, and then tasted the black water.

A fish eye rose to the surface.

“So, yeah,” Nick said. “We couldn’t experiment on ourselves.”

Daniel said nothing. He swished the water with his pinky finger. Another eye rose to the top, but this one was attached to a fish paddling desperately.

“Mom and Dad have like a hundred of those fish. They won’t miss a few.”

Daniel still said nothing.

“Well,” Daniel finally spoke, “experimentation is the heart of the scientific method.”

Nick’s shoulders dropped. The boy genius approved.

Swish . . . swish.

Entering the oldest of the Wendell sisters, Haley Wendell—

“I’ve got pies,” said Haley. She stood in full karategi, holding two pies like a waitress at a small town diner.

“Thank goodness, Haley,” Caroline clapped.

“Haley?” Tim did a 180o, the motherboard sailing from his hand.

“Tim!” Nick lunged for the motherboard.

“My match went a little long. Sorry, Nick,” Haley explained. “Then Caroline was all manic about her pies.”

Sixteen years old, the computer introductory system continued, enchanting blond hair and deep green eyes. Haley’s name is on the lips of every boy at the refugee camp, without any aid on her part. In fact, it takes a brave boy to ask her on a date, knowing that Haley has responded with more than a ‘no’.

Haley inhaled deeply and turned around. She spotted two old-fashioned milk crates underneath the work bench.

She verbally assaults would-be suitors, leaving only a scarred psyche for collection. Over Christmas break, Weaver High School’s basketball team, who had won 4 state championships in a row, made a bet as to whom she would say “yes” to first on the team. Every one of them stepped up and took their turn. She told them exactly what she thought.

Haley stacked the crates.

Not only did the basketball team not win state championship that year, the point guard asked to be transferred to another school because, and I quote from his Friendbook account, ‘I have serious questions about my own ability to dribble a ball, defend the basket, or lift a fork and put it in my mouth.’

Haley climbed the crates until she was eye level with the computer introductory system. She locked onto Daniel with her steely blue eyes.

Now only nerds and misfits dare to ask her on a date, as they are already accustomed to verbal assaults in a public environment. But, do not be fooled by her aloof countenance. She is madly in love with—

“Haa!” Haley executed a perfect half crescent kick.

The now smoking computer system swung over the door frame by a red wire.

CREZAKKK!

The box fell, shooting out a bed of sparks.

Haley jumped down with her eyes still locked on Daniel. “Put it back up and you’ll be trading that cane in for a breath-operated wheelchair.”

“Hi, Haley!” Tim’s voice cracked. “How are you? How’s life? Win any state championships? I bet you beat up all those girls. You’re like a queen . . . of kung fu. A—a kung fu queen. Queen fu. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.” Tim’s smile could swallow the Mississippi river.

“Hey, Tim,” said Haley.

“Great. Thanks for asking, Haley. Um, yeah . . .” Tim’s eyes danced around, desperate to hold onto the anemic conversation. “I hit a girl.”

“You hit a girl?” Haley squared with Tim.

“I mean . . . um, yeah, um.” Tim looked around the room for help. “But it was a tie. You know. Tim: 2. Rocky the She-Bully: 2.” Tim raised his hands, pretending to do a victory dance.

“So, you couldn’t win a fight with a girl?” Haley’s eyebrow rose.

“No!” Tim’s voice cracked again. “I could have—just trying—just didn’t want to make her look bad.”

“Congratulations,” Haley said.

“Thanks!” His voice cracked a third time. Puberty wasn’t taking any prisoners.

“That’s not what—”

“I submit to you—” Nick cut off the inevitable verbal carnage. “—I submit to you the first ever, solar battery projector. Please distribute the protective eyewear, Tim.”

Tim dropped his screwdriver, pulled out a small box, and quickly opened it. The contents looked more like a collection of swimming goggles than protective eyewear.

“Now, it’s common knowledge that Earth’s climate has been altered over the last couple of hundred years, leaving us with a never ending overcast and a lack of proper UV radiation. Uncool, I know. Don’t forget the helmets, Tim.”

Tim had already shoved a Weaver football helmet over his head and passed around an army bag.

“Aren’t these the missing helmets from Weaver High?” Brandy whispered to Caroline.

“Dude,” Xanthus laughed, “what do we need helmets for?”

Tim looked at Xanthus. His smile disappeared and he shoved on the helmet.

“Currently,” said Nick, “UV lights have been used to compensate for the lack of sunlight, but they’re really expensive to maintain and, you know, suck a lot of power. There’s no other machine that can capture the diffused solar light and re-project it out, until today. As the god, Prometheus, brought fire to man, I bring sunlight to Colorado City. The Prometheus ten-thousand!”

Nick shifted to the left, holding his hand out proudly.

“Woohoo!” They clapped.

Nick bowed proudly. “Let the demonstration commence!” He snapped on rubber gloves and donned a welder’s mask. Nick made a quick hop, grabbed two hand grips and turned the machine toward a glass bowl.

“You’ve boiled all of your other test cases?” Brandy said.

“Not really.” Nick’s eyes were pointing to the corner of the room. No one had noticed a fourth bowl with the number 20 scribbled on the front. Now that the machine was pointing in the fish’s direction, it zigged and zagged desperately. It recalled previous experiments involving the untimely death of its brethren.

“Not again,” Brandy said. “That’s just evil.”

“Are we ready, Tim?” Nick said.

“Sure,” Tim said slowly.

“All right, Tim. Now, I think we made a mistake in the field array calibration last time. Needs to be a little more focused.” Nick reached around the machine to an odd assortment of knobs. He turned a large, silver one, then reached up and pulled a rope. A hole appeared from the roof, sending a grey light over the machine.

“I will now take the diffused UV radiation in the atmosphere,” Nick explained, “store it in the machine, and concentrate it on our test subject.”

Tim bent down to a battery, with a pair of positive and negative cables sitting next to it. He attached the cables, took a deep breath, then pushed the battery cables into two holes on the side of the Prometheus 10,000.

Sknazz. Pop.

The machine’s insides began to glow.

“Success!” Nick did an air punch.

“Really?” Brandy said. “It works?”

“Of course,” said Nick.

Tim stood up, his face slightly pale. “If by work you mean it didn’t blow up in your face, making your nose hair sprinkle out like ground pepper, then sure, it works.”

“Muzzle your non-believing tongue, infidel!” Nick raised his hand.

Tim rolled his eyes.

“Now then. Our recorder please.”

Tim ran over and adjusted an old DV-recorder mounted on a tripod.

“Commencing countdown,” Nick called out. “10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1!”

Everyone slowly backed toward the wall while Nick kept his face smashed in the scope. Suddenly, the machine went dark. One could hear a knob click. The room swelled with light.

“That it, bro?” said Xanthus.

Nick tightened the grips until his knuckles turned white, then planted his left foot behind him like a runner at the starting line. Tim grabbed one of the firmer poles on the wall.

“Not quite. Now, we have to see if the machine can reproject the solar li—”

Crack-pop!

There was a blast of yellow light. A girl screamed. Nick gripped the machine as it began to shake and roar. The fish wiggled furiously.

“I think it’s working!” Nick looked back at Tim to give him a thumbs up, but Tim, his friends, and the entire shed were gone. Instead he felt cobblestones under his feet and the shimmer of a gas lamp next to a gate. Nick heard her again.

Keep them from my gates, Nikolas. The Rones bring death to your city. They will destroy her citizens; they will destroy me. Please, Steward. Come home, Nikolas. Nikolas. Nikolas . . .

“Nick!” Tim screamed. The vision oiled away and was replaced with Tim waving his hands frantically. “Are you listening, Nick? Hey, you ‘tard! The beam’s too focused. It’s cutting through the bowl!”

Nick turned to see a white-hot beam, no bigger than a pencil, shoot straight through the fishbowl. Small waterfalls began spitting out of the holes.

“No, no, no, no, no, no.” Nick flipped up his welder’s mask and yanked open a panel. “Don’t worry. I got this.”

The fish paused for a second, staring at the growing hole. With a new hope, it swam toward the escape route. Nick fiddled with several knobs and then turned a blue one.

The fish pushed through the hole.

Nick turned the knob twice. The light changed from a beam to a yellow glow. The fish kicked up and arched with a graceful twist. Now encased in the soft, yellow glow of Prometheus 10,000, it flipped its torso skyward.

“Hah!” Nick twisted a smaller knob.

The fish reached the top of its dive, hovering, posing . . .

A snowy substance fell to the ground.

Tim ripped off the Weaver football helmet. “Turn it off, Nick!”

Nick reached for the orange power cord and tore it from the wall.

Brandy squealed with arms outstretched, “A tan. Bronze!”

“Nick!” Haley pointed. Where there was once a water bowl, wooden chair, and a gold fish making its great escape, now swirled a cloud of white ash. And behind the ash, a perfectly cut hole in the shed. And behind the hole, a stunning view of Hiker’s Canyon.

On fire.

“Ah! My roast, Nick!” Caroline ran with outstretched arms to the roast beef fueled bonfire.

The football helmet fell from Tim’s hand. “We—are—so—dead.”

“Post an update for me on Friendbook. I didn’t bring my tablet,” Brandy yelled into her cell. “Tell everyone the party is cancelled. . . . Yeah, again. . . . No. Just some trees this time. I know. I know. They’re still living creatures. . . .”

ZZZZzzzzz.

Firedrones zoomed across with their anti-fire hoses at the ready. Prometheus 10,000 exploded into a bloom of sparks and smoke. Teenage refugees ran around the canyon in horror and pandemonium. Caroline smacked at her roast, angrily. But Nick didn’t notice any of this. All he could think about was the woman-voice in his head crying out about Huron.

And she called him steward.