At best, my Mark 12 Temporal Teleporter had maybe one last jump in it. Any means of controlling my destination’s location or time was lost long ago. But my space shuttle’s equally wonky steering was currently spiraling me into a gas giant
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“Look! It’s Spark Spaulding!”
Lachlan looked instead at his little sister, since one of his life goals was to avoid a repeat of last year’s “look, a flying corgi” humiliation. Angelica’s face beamed “ga-ga fangirl,” so he scanned Marine’s crowded open-air market.
My client looked like the world had been wiping the floor with her. She lay back in the containment pod and closed her eyes.
“Ma’am, you have to spin the wheel first,” I told her.
She leaned over to give the roulette a
Sixteen floors up the sheer glass face of Pitfall Industries’ main tower, I cling to Sticky Kitten’s back as she climbs. Suction fluid seeps through the sapphire Spandex of her skin-tight super suit, adhering me to her and her forearms and shins to the building. My purple cape snaps in the wind against
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Before his world flip-flopped, Lachlan Lendur was having a pretty good day.
He delivered a cacophonous shuttle-load of House Azure design assistants and their paraphernalia to the Jade Fashion Expo. He flew toward home in blissful quiet along Azure’s sunny coastline. He watched cat vids. Then the shuttle ruined his morning by rolling belly-up.
“Ah, so this is what that girl meant by ‘Wandering Library.’” I study the dark appaloosa—from the tome-shaped bags hanging from his sides to the book-thieving mud devouring his feet.
Rescuing a horse is one thing, but reading materials?
I stay far away from the thick goop. The earth still squishes beneath my
“Kytt! Wake up!”
A sharp slap of pain explodes across my cheek. My eyes shoot open, and I bolt into a sitting position.
“What happened?” I massage a throbbing spot on the back of my head. “My glasses! Where are my glasses?” Panic sets in; I’m as good as dead without my glasses.
Doc Sklodowski’s forehead furrowed as he examined me in Martian General Hospital’s clinic. “I’ve never seen anything like this on a scalp—or anywhere outside of a photo. Are those bruises what they look like, Mr. Enza? They can’t be.”
I winced as my head throbbed. “Oh, yes they can. Let me tell you
“What are you doing?” whispers Joe.
“Sleeping. Until you kicked me.”
“You’re a messed up sleeper, then.”
“Huh?”
“You keep playing footsie and stuff.”
“Gross. I’d never play footsie with a dude. Go back to sleep.”
“What kind of socks are you wearing?”
“Socks? Are you stoned? It’s like forty degrees in here.
“Lendur!”
Captain Donahue, the drill sergeant grandma commanding House Azure’s shuttle fleet, blew into the pilots’ ready room like a southern hurricane.
Lachlan set down his dripping mug and gave her a jaunty salute, left hand behind his back to hide the coffee-stained sleeve. He hated that his boss’s voice made him jump like
“Supercomputer, notify me when the donuts are delivered!”
I licked my lips as the computer chimed affirmation. Orientation Day was the best. Donuts were ordered for the new recruits, and old hats reaped the benefits. For now, though, I withdrew a file from its stack and skimmed the title.
“Monologue Prompts: In the Event
“Yo, Enzo! Is it done yet?” The beleaguered customer yelled down through the grate. The man’s week-old musk permeated every inch of his grimy home—even saturating into the floorboards.
“It’s Enza,” Joe Enza whispered under his breath.
Everyone always confuses it. Joe screwed the cap back on the tritium diffuser as he squatted
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