They’ve just finished a new, non-burning clone of Commander Beard when the ship begins whooping with red alerts.
“State the nature of this emergency!” snaps Captain Spaceship, hand on his laser.
“Status quo field’s down, Captain,” crackles Lieutenant Ethnic over the comm.
“Are you saying things on ship could change?”
“In some cases,” says the Lieutenant grimly, “they might change and not change back.”
“Shit!” Â Captain Spaceship grips his laser a little too hard and accidentally slices off most of the new Commander. “Whoops! Shit! Get it back online, shit!”
So they fix it with technology and everything is fine again.
Deanne is in her forty-ninth trimester and that, like she, doesn’t sit right.
“You’re still not going to induce?” she says, wincing. Her back always hurts. Her feet are water balloons.
“Haven’t missed your due date yet,” smiles the doctor, who isn’t a guy like you’re thinking.
“And why won’t you tell me what that–”
“Patriot Act,” the doctor says.
Deanne’s done the math herself, but numbers collapse under the sheer fact of her belly. Exercise. She tries to make herself climb stairs; she knows it won’t help. Her body is a prison. She wishes somebody would tell her the charges.
What would happen in Nuremberg? They would learn from Drosselmeier’s cousin that Krakatuk had been in his home all along–sold to him, long before, by a laughing man who wanted only one coin of a specific year. It does no good to puzzle over such things. He could have been anyone.
What matters, my darlings, is that the new year has broken, and this story is done. The tale of the Nutcracker and his princesses is for another time. Into your pajamas, tapers lit; and if I read the stars aright, my old friend your godfather will be here by morning.
Saturday, January 1, 2011