EBGB-88
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/whiteskybooks
. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.
