Luke’s six-fingered hand trembled as he poured foamed milk with precision into the inky black liquid—each muscle begging to be the first to perform the long-awaited act. He had only read about making an espresso macchiato in his Human Studies courses, but now he was here on Earth, hiding his Civaran hand beneath caffeine-resistant gloves,
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I didn’t know what hit me.
Only moments before I had been reveling in the frost crunching beneath my sneakers and admiring Earth’s rising sun. Technically I wasn’t doing anything that was prohibited. It just never occurred to my superiors that any Civaran would willingly venture into freezing temperatures. As a reptilian, I’m cold blooded, so this was imprudent at best.
The wooden attic floorboards cradled the dying body of Mr. Evergreen.
“What happened, sir?” I set down my candle and wicker basket, palms sweating. Long shadows raced across the floorboards, the light illuminating a knife. The smell of moth balls and old cedar flooded my senses as I knelt. This was not an accident.
It is a little-known fact that the universe runs not on love, money, or the speed-of-light, but on appointments. Missed ones, mostly. Civilizations have collapsed because a royal overslept, galaxies have failed to form because a bureaucrat’s lunch ran long, and a million-year war was fought because someone misplaced a tea invitation.
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“My, my, you have aged. Haven’t you, old friend?” Dorian whispered through his electronic voice box. He paced the control room overlooking Alice and the Timekeepers clashing with his stony, anthropomorphic titan down in the cavern. Alice piloted her 1910s diesel mecha, as always.
She was not the young Victorian blonde that he, the dashing Dorian Gray,
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