Microwave Explosionearliest post first | most recent post first
"Omaha Base, this is the Microwave Explosion. We are on approach."
"Roger that, Microwave Explosion. Be advised, the Scarecrow Concern is having a barn raising right along your trajectory. Tack 7 degrees west and join airlane C, do you copy?"
"Roger, Omaha Base, changing trajectory to airlane C now, over."
It's a full moon, and the skies are clear over Omaha. Real rustic kinda place. A little bit country. Nothing like Poughkeepsie. In the fields to the east I see bonfires, shadows dancing, and a huge wooden barn rising above the fields and slowly rotating. It glows green.
"Microwave Explosion we're going to need you to maintain a holding pattern for a little bit, do you copy?"
"You bet, Omaha Base. We've got nothing but time up here. Enjoying the view, over."
"Thanks for your understanding, Microwave Explosion. It's Coven Con IX coming up this weekend, and we've had tour groups from all over coming in non-stop. We've got to get a few of them taken care of, over."
Larry and I watch rank after rank of witches on broomsticks, flying formation and landing. Quite poorly, I might add. Either they were mighty tired, or they'd been having a few stiff ones at every layover from there to Phoenix.
"Thank you for your patience, Microwave Explosion. You are free to touch down. Dirigible pod E, mooring post 2, over."
"Copy that, Omaha Base. Bringing her in now."
The airfield is full of interesting characters. Eccentric barnstormers, sturdy mail carriers, sleek high-end passenger ships and the occasional military. Omaha certainly is hopping.
The ground crew pulls us in and we latch on to mooring post 2 with a satisfying clank.
It had been a long time since I'd set foot in the House of Foo.
Well, a House of Foo franchise, that is. There was no House of Foo HQ, not for a long while. Maybe not ever.
The House of Foo was originally a company based in Shanghai. At least that much is believed. But House of Foo itself was a made up name. They thought it would sell better to the west if it seemed like the kind of made up Chinese name they were used to hearing, and not some boring, real life, hard to pronounce Chinese name.
So from the very beginning, the House of Foo was a shell company. One that manufactured and exported the finest parlor magic apparatus ever made. The Glissering Manacles. The Ashra Wig. Aerial Fishing. The Zig Zag Roller. And it was the finest parlor magic because it was designed by truly brilliant magicians. Ones that had mastered the engineering it takes to truly and literally bend the reality we live inside of. Magicians like Radium Girl, and Aunt Matilda, and the Aztec Lady.
And my mentor, Black Hermione. I hoped she was still where I could find her.
"So, we're still headed west, 'captain.'" I can hear the Queen of the Hudson rolling her eyes even before she turns around. "Care to get any more specific?"
"Omaha," I tell her, leaning back in the chair. "We're headed to Omaha."
I wouldn't let @Larry Fantasio know it, but I was happy to be in the air again. At the helm again. Stealing a ship again.
Queen of the Hudson wasn't my only Queen gig. It's a job I specialize in. A niche market.
Pirate Queen, Queen of the Underworld, Queen of the Night. Mattress Queen, Burrito Queen, Dairy Queen. Everybody seems to fall for a queen, and I've got the moves down.
As for Pirate Queen, that's how I ended up in Poughkeepsie. A cargo ship full of magical supplies (enchanted scarves, wooden eggs, full fingertip sets, rabbit food) had come into my possession and I was coming to town to unload the merchandise to a shady shell company run by the Magician's Union but it was a set up. They took the goods and set themselves up tight with the CGA. I jumped bail and found a new group of eager subjects--the Twigs.
But now Larry's seen an end to that with his cockeyed schemes.
"Keep heading west," he says.
It's been a long time since I've chased the sunset from the air. And it feels good to be home.
"You are an idiot!" the Queen screams at me. Again.
"Please, please, keep your voice down.The CGA has voice recognition running everywhere near the airfield. They could have the boys from the Magician's Union on us in no time."
The Queen has no response. She knows that would be worse than whatever I have in store for her.
"What DO you have in store for me, Mr. @Larry Fantasio, magic apparatus repairman, and idiot?"
The Queen of the Hudson and I go way back. I've been cleaning her clock for years, repairing broken tricks, buffing her cups and balls.
"I never told you what I did before I came to Poughkeepsie."
"And I never told you what I was going to do with the Chinese Lightning Box. How I was going to save the world, Put it back like it was."
"Well, about that. Actually, I did know what you were going to do. And I saw what happened when you did. And trust me, it wasn't like it was."
"What are you talking about?"
"I got my Magical Apparatus Repairman Certification at House of Foo."
"That's a lie. They don't exist any more. They've been out of business for a hundred years."
"They just went underground. Things were getting too hot. And they were developing tricks too dangerous for anyone to ever own. Like the Specularii Psychomanteum."
"Some kind of mirror, I assume? A beam-splitter?"
"Exactly. And it tells the future. Or, futures, plural, actually."
"And it told you...?"
"I'll explain later. Right now we need to steal this airship."
And there, floating above us, nose connected to its mooring mast, was the Microwave Explosion.
The Queen is gone.
Long live the Queen? She apparently had no heirs. Princess or prince. So the twigs line the halls of the reed-covered lodge, by the little-water place, waiting.
Some say she was in her chambers, with the Chinese Lightning Box, alone. When her attendants brought themselves to open her door, no queen, no box.
Some say she left to walk the woods outside the reed-covered lodge, box tucked under her arm. But none dare search for her there on account of the bulls from the Magician's Union on the prowl.
Some say she was hungry for a late night snack and never returned. (The fate of the Chinese Lightning Box is not explained in that version of the story.)
But oh how the twigs loved their queen. It was she that gathered them and gave them hope. It was she who clothed and fed and educated them. It was she who taught them to hack the databanks of the Cloning Governance Administration and escape the oppression of the Magician's Union with her tricks.
What will they do? Who will lead them? They wait, staring aimlessly, waiting for her throne to be filled again.
Hey! What's everybody looking at me like that for?
Me and da boys arrive and we find dis mess. Who's ever seen such a mess? Broken glass, broken wood, broken ornamental casing and lacquer all over the place? It's a cryin' shame, I tell ya.
And it's gonna be a real cryin' shame for whoever done dis. Ya see, we got a hot tip we was gonna find da Chinese Lightning Box here, but turns out somebody's busted it up. Busted up one of the most powerful eldritch tools ever to be manufactured by House of Foo, Inc. And dat stuff ain't easy to come by anymore.
Lemme make it clear the Cryptic Order's REAL unhappy about dis. Anybody who knows somthin' and ain't tellin's gonna wind up in the same state as the perpetrators, you hear me? Like in the Chinese Water Torture Cell, except you ain't got no key, see?
Marshal of the Inside Sentinel
Magician's Union, Poughkeepsie Branch
The box is wide open, and branches crawl through it.
Mirrored infinity box. (This has got to be the most haunted building in town, just on account of the mirrors. A barber shop, a salon, and the big pane glass mirrors reflect each other up into a loop, into the nautilus shell, getting more narrow by degree, as it curls up and up),
the path from the reed-covered lodge leads away, away from the little-water place, up and over the wood, a crazy funhouse hallway, twisting and turning and walled in cheap carnival glass,
but now the branches are breaking through, shattering glass and wrestling with the frames, pulling them apart and stretching stretching stretching them like an accordion, out out out and never in, farther and farther and turning and pulling the path, stretching mirrors. Now great writhing roots crash through the floors and pull the box apart.
My beautiful Chinese Lightning Box. Now in pieces on the forest floor.
What have you done, @Larry Fantasio?
Beyond the reed-covered lodge, by the little-water place, there's a wood. Some would say a sadly shrinking wood, diminished by the encroachment of sidewalk and asphalt, and run off and old tires and the occasional discarded washing machine. But in the draw is a copse where all the rivulets cross, and a wild heart still beats in the heart of those woods, tiny now, not much larger than two elephants. And this heart beats, and can be driven to beat wildly with the right encouragement.
It is to this beat I apply my magician's tools: the wand and the top hat, cups and staves and pentacles and rings. That bit of forest has enough frustration in it to break through the bonds of this cardboard sky and tunnel a path to the reed-covered lodge, to open the way for the Queen of the Hudson.
And her box.
The term "twig" was originally used derisively, but has been adopted by my people. Of course I never heard it back on the Microwave Explosion, but none of me knew what was even going on back then! Nobody did. It was suddenly just "we're the Melvins!" and we started coming out of the woodwork.
But here they have a name for it: twigs. Little branches. Guess they've been growing them in Poughkeepsie for a long time. Enough to have a whole Cloning Governance Administration to keep 'em in check. And beaten down.
Still, it's been great to be accepted into a community of clones, even if I'm the only one of me.
"And this is the box?" I ask.
Melvin 117 has it buried in his arms.
"Uh... yes! Yes your... uh, majesty."
He looks around like he's not sure what to do, then holds it before me, squinting, like I might breathe fire.
"Bring it to me."
He looks around again, then walks up the steps of my dais.
The Twigs in my court stand and reach for their weapons. Denizens of the shanty towns around Poughkeepsie Field, homeless from the city, others that got lucky and found their ways up the social ladder but still remember where they came from. The clone population grows daily, thanks to the combined efforts of the Cloning Governance Administration and the Magician's Union. An endless supply of workers and little people to keep the companies going serves them both. Clones who want to be free.
I lift my hand, and they stand down. Melvin 117 hands me the box.
It wasn't always like this. Why am I the only one that remembers?
One ship -- the Microwave Explosion -- and one expired delivery of biofilm. That's all it took. That's the danger of biofilm -- it's not a localized medium. It's BIOFILM. It's all connected. Once one frame exploded, the whole movie went up. Clones everywhere. Forever.
Why am I the only one who remembers?
Because I've seen myself at the other end of the box.
I saw myself as Queen.
I can lead us all out of here. I can lead us all back to before it began.
Because now I have the box.