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Pterosaur Rescue
Garth discovers eggs beneath a strange dying animal. Is it bird or reptile? And why has it entered his world?
Chapter 1
“Tel called us out of darkness and gave us Telba, the green planet. He took us from death and gave us life.” Prophet Wal, on the arrival
“Come on, you’ll miss it!”
Garth Vieta struggled across the desert mountains after his father, Wirth. Trekking these high wastes wasn’t his idea of fun. He’d never have come out here on his own. But his dad had made it sound noble—like a pilgrimage. He’d told Garth that they’d see traces of the former Telba—where majestic rivers once flowed, large desert plains where fields used to blossom, and mighty forests where animals danced and played. But Garth only saw desert. Orange desert, tan desert, pink desert, and grey desert. But lots and lots of desert. Garth wanted to call it quits and head home.
“I’m coming,” he huffed. “What’s the hurry?” It’ll be another beautiful valley, he thought. More sun glinting off the rocks on the sides of the cliffs. His dad got excited about every valley view.
Instead, Garth saw more than a valley. As his gaze followed his dad’s arm, Garth could see a bright light stretching from the cliff to the valley floor. It hung suspended for a moment. Then the light spread evenly across the valley like shutters being pulled aside. Through the large square of light, Garth could see another valley--deeper, golden and lined with an emerald green river. In the other valley, a giant creature flew easy circles. Searching for something, he thought. For a moment, it appeared to be a hawk or an eagle. But the color? A barely blue sheen reflected off its head and wings. And rather than being covered in feathers, it had skin that seemed to be stretched over the bones of its body.
“What is that?” Garth whispered, afraid to scare or attract whatever it was.
“I don’t want to guess,” said Wirth. “Holy Tel,” he mumbled, not meaning Garth to hear, “is this the end?”
As they watched, the light began to close and disappear. With one beat of its wings, the creature made it to their side of the light before the vision vanished. And there it remained. Still circling, still searching.
Guzzy Goofball and the Homeschool Play from Outer Space
Guzman Reginald Guferntible IV, otherwise known as Guzzy Goofball to his friends, is signed up for a one week homeschool drama co-op this summer. Will he and his best friend, Shriek (a.k.a. Shelly Bartle) survive or will it be another classic Guzzy disaster?
Chapter 2—To Mom or not to Mom
Mom took Shriek and I over the next day to register. Mrs. Bartle had planned to watch the twins until Shriek’s brother Eddie woke up covered in a rash. As the home doctor in addition to the home teacher and all-around fix-it-woman, she guessed chickenpox. Having already survived four cases of it, we didn’t want to argue with her. So Mom, gushing non-stop about her son following in her footsteps, bundled up the twins and took them with us. Not wishing to break a commandment, I smiled and kept my lips shut. Shriek nodded a lot and uh-hummed.
The co-op was going to meet in a local church. Not our church, but a good one. Some of the kids in our homeschool group went there.
It was a big church compared to ours. I’d heard they had over a thousand members, but not from any reliable source so it was just a guess. After we pulled up in front, Mom unloaded the stroller and proceeded to buckle in the already complaining twins. Jonny had a ball in his chubby hands and Jake wanted it. So as she pushed them towards the entrance, continually oohing and aahing about my potential, they got louder and louder.
Long Road had a good-sized sanctuary, plus an auditorium/gymnasium with a stage that they used for youth church and Upward Bound basketball tournaments. That’s where we would be taking our summer co-op. In front of the stage, they had a long table set up with a sign hanging from it that said, “Drama Co-op Registration”. And in smaller letters underneath, “4th-6th grade (ages 9-12) only please.” Since homeschool can often have blurred grades, I’m sure they did that to deter over-achieving 3rd graders or 6th grade teenagers.
Mom marched up with the enthusiasm of a kid racing for the ice cream truck on a hot summer day, oblivious to the twins’ battle. As we neared the stage, Jake successfully got the ball out of Jonny’s hands; unfortunately for me, he didn’t get the red prize into his own. Instead, the ball dropped to the floor where my heel met its slippery circumference. Immediately, my foot followed the rolling path until my leg executed a splendid axe kick. Too bad I hadn’t been planning on that move. The rest of me followed the kick and I landed splendidly on my hind quarters. In true Goofball style, the ball’s path did not end there. The propulsion of the kick sent the ball hurtling toward the stage. It bounced neatly from there and landed with a splash inside the coffee cup of the woman sitting behind the table and waiting to register us.
Mom didn’t notice my spill either. Or pretended not to. You’d think after ten years of such events she’d be able to accept that these bizarre occurrences just seemed to happen to her firstborn. She pushed the stroller up to the side of the table, accepted the recalcitrant ball and pulled out a baby wipe to clean it in one fluid move. Then, she handed it back to the stroller’s occupants. Jonny grabbed it. “I’d like to register these two. Shelly Bartle and my son, Guzman Guferntible.” She turned to look at us. “Get up off the floor, Guzzy,” she mouthed. “Both just finished 5th grade. Shelly is 11 and Guzman turns 11 next month.” I got up as the twins’ battle began anew.
The woman, still patting up coffee splashes, asked, “Can you spell those names for me?” Mom complied, going over the spelling of Guferntible three times—each time a bit louder to reach over the twins’ noises. “My maiden name was Smith,” she giggled, handing her new friend a baby wipe. “It took me two years to learn how to spell my married name easily—let alone write it!”
The woman gave the obligatory chuckle that remark required as she accepted the gift and continued to blot. Mom, undeterred, went on. “I always wondered if the last name difficulties ended my drama career.”
In spite of the mess we caused, and the twins’ ever-increasing din, the woman brightened. “Drama career?”
“I don’t mean to brag,” Mom said humbly, “but I played Juliet in high school. Several other minor roles, too. Was a theatre major in college until I met my husband. Then, our goal was to get out of college and into real jobs as soon as possible. So I abandoned the theatre,” she sighed dramatically and with amazing volume and projection here, on cue, “in favor of more traditional dreams.” Then Mom patted my head and stared angelically at the twins. Since their war had scaled up to mini fists and near-tantrum screams, this look made her acting ability (or insanity) evident to all present.
The woman looked impressed. She stood and extended her hand to Mom. “Mrs. Guf…”
“Guferntible,” Mom kindly filled in. “Or the neighborhood kids usually call me Mrs. G. But my first name is Ann.”
The woman’s relief to have a name she could wrap lips around was palpable. “Ann. I’m Sophie Tulle, the teacher for the co-op week, and I have been looking for someone with your kind of background. I really need someone to help me with our experiment. Perhaps you could be my assistant?”
Mom batted her eyes eloquently and then glanced down at the escalated warfare. “I would love to, but I have the twins to take care of.”
Mrs. Tulle nodded. “Their presence would certainly be a distraction… But perhaps…”
I prayed for another impossibility. I didn’t like the way this was heading. Part of the reason I signed up for this, much as I love her and the twins, as much as I prefer the homeschool way of life to the school lives of my friends from the neighborhood and church, was to get a break from Mom.
But it was not to be. At least not completely.
“Yes?” Mom leaned in eagerly.
“Perhaps you could handle the set and costumes? You could work on them while your toddlers napped and come in the first day or so to get measurements—bringing your little ones, of course.”
Mom beamed. In fact, if her beam got any brighter, we could use it to guide ships into the closest harbor, 50 miles away. Then she curtseyed. “At your service.”
I looked at Shriek in agony. So much for a week away from the twins.
Standard Rescue
I saw my dead face beneath the water.
“I was the hit?” I asked. Then I crumpled.
Fortunately, Sean caught me. In spite of my ever-increasing stomach, my darling’s quite good at catching me.
“Dearheart. Julie,” he said, waking me. “We have to get to work.”
The Colony hadn’t wanted me on this rescue. I argued—stubbornly. “Sean and I are the best rescuers, Myrtle. I may be six months along, but I can still carry my weight. I’ll soon be out of commission, but I can do this job.”
“OK, Julie,” she conceded. “But be careful.” She held up a hand to stop my assurances. “This is not a standard rescue.”
Sean and I descended to the clone, my doppelganger. Even the rounding stomach and my favorite waterproof lipstick—Fire Engine Red—were accurate. For over four years, our misguided Good Samaritan created increasingly accurate RACs—Reduced Acuity Clones. I blinked as I watched the water from the stream gurgle over my vacant azure eyes.
“Julie?”
“Yeah?”
“We could go back, send another team.”
“No. She might not have enough time.”
We climbed down into the stream. I engaged physical autopilot while my mind raced. I slipped trying to unhook the body’s blouse from a rock. Sean’s eyes panicked as he pulled me up from the water, but the baby and I were ok. Why had they wanted me killed? The legs were banged and scratched from the trip around the park. A formal hit at the courthouse for me? Why?
Finally, we freed her. Sean and I hoisted the RAC and carried it fifteen paces downstream. Then I clamped the legs into a vice with my left arm while Sean settled the head on his shoulder. As we headed up the bank, the derriere would rest on my upper back. Every movement timed. We built five minutes extra into our routine, but my little fainting episode had used most of that. Breathing hard, I contracted my muscles as Sean took the last step up. Then, we ran. Twenty dangerous yards to the closest dropdoor. We lifted the concealed manhole and sent the body into waiting arms.
The water should have kept it cool enough. Our scientists would be able to regenerate. I wondered if they’d change the face. I’d rather not adjust to having a twin.
“Julie?”
I grabbed his hand and we ran for the trees. The park sparkled in spring. Unfortunately, the fragrant blooms did not camouflage our presence as well as leaves. The baby kicked—hard. Mom, it said, you’ve been doing too much. I agreed. Next time, I’d listen. We had to hide for ten minutes until the guard passed and we could get to a walk-in door.
Sean climbed into our tree. I turned and got ready for him to help me up.
“Julie?” It wasn’t Sean. “Julie Standish?”
I turned to find the man who signed the death warrants.
“Mayor Gravitt!” I punctuated the greeting with my biggest smile. “It’s Julie McDougal now.” Perhaps my wet clothes could work in my favor. “And forever.”
He cleared his throat. Superstition ate at him like maggots on a corpse. “You know we don’t recognize ceremonies conducted by your little group.”
Even with all the proper paperwork, I thought.
He eyed my growing belly. “You never showed for any of the three abortion appointments we scheduled.”
I had avoided being topside on those days. A girl I knew had been forced at gunpoint into the clinic. The horror changed her.
“No, and I never will now, will I?”
He crumpled. I imagined I did a fair Jonah imitation—the reeds in my hair an extra touch. “Why not?”
“You saw me die, didn’t you?” He witnessed most hits.
“You’re a g-ghost?”
I wanted to respond truthfully, yet convince him. “I am a person of the Holy Ghost.” Knowing nothing of our faith, the word “ghost” in any sentence might persuade him.
It did. He stumbled away complaining about being haunted.
I sighed with relief, preparing again to climb and hide.
“Bravo!” The owner of another voice strode towards us; the shadows gave way to features. Jason Gravitt. Mayor’s son, Chief Executioner, and the man the Mind picked as my genetic match and mate.
I forced myself not to look at Sean. If he could escape, hope remained for us both.
“Jason! How nice to see you!”
He shook his head. “Don’t try that with me, Julie. I’m not my father.” He looked through the flowers as he pulled a regulation vaporgun from his coat. “Sean,” he said, waving the gun in my husband’s direction, “get down from there. Let’s all go someplace less public and talk.”
We had no choice. We moved.
Beyond the trees, we passed a walk-in door. I shot Sean a question with my eyes. One armed man, two trained rescuers…
Jason saw the glance. “Don’t think it, Julie. I know you have a door here. Would I walk this way if my men weren’t trained on you right now? I do not underestimate you.” To my surprise, his voice softened for a moment. Reaching the courthouse, he shoved us toward a wall. Past the wall cloak we could see a hidden door. Jason typed some codes and pushed us through.
“You have my property,” he said.
Sean read my mind and did the talking. Marriage is like that sometimes. “What property? Search us. We don’t steal.”
“You don’t?” A short laugh erupted like cannon fire. He pushed a button and the blank wall disappeared. Instead, bodies hooked to wires and tubes suspended in mid-air. I saw Sean, Myrtle, most of the Colony.
I couldn’t breathe.
“If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it,” Sean said. “The Executioner is our Good Samaritan.”
I curled into Sean, too surprised to speak. Then I saw an RAC down the line identical to the man holding the gun. “You, too?”
Jason shrugged. “You never know. Those who control my father might find out what I do down here.”
“What? Why?” After years of training, I could still be reduced to a blithering idiot.
“Dearheart, perhaps he’s a Colony sympathizer?”
“Yes. You have as many rights as we do…or should. The longer you stick to your beliefs, the more laws the Council makes against you. I’m not sure I buy into Destination Gene Pool, though I would have enjoyed experimenting with you, Julie.” I tried to ignore the way he smiled at me.
I wound my way past the inanimate bodies. “But life, Jason? You’re playing God and leaving us to clean up and reclaim them.”
“I constructed reduced acuity clones.” Jason set his gun down on a desk and picked up a pad. “I never activate one before death day. If you couldn’t reach a clone in time, it wouldn’t have had full awareness. You couldn’t really call it dead.”
Sean stepped in. “We appreciate what you’ve been trying to do, Jason. We do. But your methods go against our covenant.” Sean caressed my belly. “We prefer to live and die the old-fashioned way.”
A claxon sounded.
Jason picked up his gun. “You had to say, “die,” didn’t you? Someone’s found my entrance within the courthouse.” He moved to the control panel. “We have three, maybe four minutes. I’ll activate our RACs as decoys and we’ll slip out the back way to the park.” He hurried on. “But for Julie…” He paced. “I know; I’ll take a quick holo-vid of her. Sean, go out and alert the Colony. We’ll be right behind you.”
The baby kicked. Jason saw it. Pain contorted his face for a moment. Not long, but enough time for me to understand. “No. I’ll stay or die with my husband.”
“Dearheart?”
“He set the alarm.” Everything made sense. “When did the Good Samaritan start helping us? A few months after we married five years ago.”
Sean, standing behind Jason, continued. “Time to create the first RAC and issue your father’s death warrant.” He nodded at me to keep talking.
“As both Good Samaritan and Executioner, you had us wrapped up. You’d declare the death sentence, then release the appropriate RAC to meet its fate. You knew our covenant. You knew we see life as sacred and would rescue a murdered clone.” Sean drew closer to Jason.
“You have no proof.”
“Perhaps I should go out that door?” I pointed. “We’ve been set up. My guess is your henchmen are still there. Once Sean escaped, he’d be dead.”
“And I’d have you. Your womb should carry my child!”
Sean wrenched the gun from Jason’s hand and knocked the pad to the floor. Then the darling used his boot heel to grind it to smithereens. Who knows what other commands were on that pad?
As my husband trained the weapon on Jason’s head, something in Jason’s desperation kicked my compassion into gear. “Jason, the Mind may say I’m yours, but you can’t have me. I don’t love you. We don’t have the same faith.”
“We could.”
“True,” agreed Sean. “You could have the same faith as we do. God gives equal opportunity.”
“But not Julie.”
“No,” said Sean. “Not Julie.”
Hopelessness erupted from Jason. He wrenched free from Sean and ran out the park door. We heard a single ray blast.
“A standard hit,” Sean said.
I looked back at Jason’s RAC. “Then we have a rescue.”
