MLK-51 wavers in translucent haze of slowly spiraling pineal dust, blown from central bodice plex to outer edge regalia, seeping thoughts to newly backfilled crux of wholly simplified gestation’s neural frenzy, pondering impending send-off. Strapped and loaded into Montauk Chair, he remains unusually serene, reciting prayerful interchange, relaxed a hundred floors beneath Lung Island’s lighthouse dawn.
Data drifts in ceiling airburst shades of violet and infra-amber, petrifying pseudo-smoky aural folds, pinging canticles of lullaby quotations, pulsing MLK to heightened awareness, lobotic neuronals flushed of piqued butyl swamping, amping vocal interludes to routine exhumation of soiled devotion’s perfidious embrace, injecting lost partisans from recoil spaceport blob parole to whirled official cordon, orbital now for canny legerdemain.
Returning with donuts, coffee, and extra gauze, Lieutenant Momo Montague glides from subterranean elevator into scattered backlit grain-cut prominence, joining rows of technicians in head-high bubbles, slipping silently through tribal guardian shamrock strata, inner entry guaranteed, bolstering the transit doormat’s filial presumption of imminent release.
“Perfect timing, Lieutenant,” egyptologist Emily Armature remarks, busily tapping through thousands of floating cubes, scanning the spectral conundrum feed. “Marty’s ramping up nicely; looks like he’ll hit uniqueness in… thirty seconds.”
“That’s cutting it close, even for me,” Momo laughs, donning her headset.
“… Protestants and Catholics…” MLK-51 mumbles, suddenly sweating profusely, peering into holographic Tidal Basin throngs. “I may not get there with ya!”
“Steady, Marty,” Momo intones, adjusting his neural net, tamping down locality, swabbing his furrowed brow with monogrammed handkerchief.
“Pitching up lobotics, set to transfer, triggering Graylien suction,” Emily advises. “Now in funneled pinnacle, whirling off to wormhole haven interstitial pluck.”
“I may not get there with ya!” Marty insists, wrists straining Montauk leather, pate shining liquid clarity, eyes wide dripping spacetime vortices, flecked to gravitating cylindrical mayhem.
“Faucet streaming pure ionic intent; he’s committed,” Momo’s yelling over purple windscream.
“MLK-51 ready for inject, please confirm,” Emily calmly nods to coalescing Graylien image.
“Standing by, portal occlusion dissolves in ten…” the Graylien voices via telepathic pseudo-feed, solidifying as he counts down, hovering just below the concrete ceiling, now descending, “…three…two…one… injection lock… we take control in concomitant segue, lobotic relay per Interspecies Treaty… EBGB-88 now winking into traction fuse…”
“Copy that, EBGB, releasing our local timeline,” Momo signals, stepping into Montauk Bottle, joining last technicians in lead-lined scramble for magnetic seclusion, casting the lobot to winds of hyperspatial fluency.
Marty’s body gyrates, convulsing in rhythmic collapse, subatomic annihilation, impasse profusion, warping detrital pendular havoc crashing castaway grief of intravenous mumbly-peg, tomorrow’s ventral haversack munitions pedaling upside-east, supplanting dowsed irrationals in flooding plasma juncture swirl of scenic fugue hydration pox, effusive gorgon tentacle moths to EBGB-88’s ballistic whirled tachyon girth, suspending anterior motive chomping lexical byproduct wheelbase flotilla berth, contracting andiron haul-off, gifting visitation allure to crosstalk plaudit, sundry feasts of pleated slapstick denture seize, mocking plaid landings…
Montauk Chair left sizzling in smoking heap burnt leather electronic ardor haze in cabinet demise, billowing pressure suit encasing emptied lobotic ritual, Momo chalky stagger leans to Emily’s stolid tap-thru: “EBGB-88, please confirm slingshot overture egress elapsed tower axial fluxion post.”
Static holographic mist resolves to grainy Graylien image retreat in retooled boxy hearing fall: “Transferring you to raw funicular receipt, femoral translation gratis from MLK-51 and wish you pleasant grafting hours…”
“Check and mirrored beckonings, EBGB,” Momo exhales. “Flipping to autobox relief intrinsics.”
All entrain in astral penumbral box-top bliss, relieved to hear flared crackle of newly injected leader bleat from faraway wormhole gate: “I have been to the mountaintop… and looked over the other side… I have seen the promised land! I have a dream today!”
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has appeared in many online literary journals. His most recent book, Intunesia, is available in paperback from White Sky Books at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/
. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.