TEXT ADVENTURE #21

DIVORCÉE CANYON

by Stanley Lieber

1

Slowly, Piotr raised his eyebrows over the edge of the console.  The
disembodied face was still there, floating placidly beyond the borders
of the main screen.

“Name’s Atlas,” it stated, boisterously.  Piro received the impression
of a hand extended in friendship.  “How are you called?”

“Captain.  Né Piotr.  Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Hm.  I think I’ll call you Piro.”

“That’s… not my name.” Eyelids suddenly drawn tight.

“There’s been an update.  It is now.”

Piotr’s hand traveled, instinctively, to his holster.  Thumbed his
login.  Authentication error.

“Anyway, where’s the shitter?”

Piotr relaxed his grip on the pistol.  The deity had indeed proven
friendly.  Just wanted to unload.  He updated his address book, pushed
the backup to remote storage.  “Computer.  Guide our guest to the
head.”

After flashing a loading screen for some seconds, the RAGNAROK
complied with the order.  In the absence of a confirming bleep, Piotr
once again reclined in his seat.  He stared at his leaf.
Occasionally, he enjoyed a sip of his tea.

Ship’s guests.

2

As the RAGNAROK came to terms with its new course, Divorcée Canyon
gradually shifted into view.  A self-propelled Möbius strip modeled on
the American southwest, the station’s absurdly detailed period
furnishings commanded grudging respect even from those who found
themselves unable to stomach its symbolic payload.

“Uncanny valley,” remarked the floating head.

“Not even wrong,” replied Piro.

Product placement confirmed docking speed at regular intervals.
Government boobs.  Deep throat checking.  Mold removal.  This last
advertisement coaxed a chuckle from Atlas.  “If only,” he sighed,
sadly, and rested his chin on the floor.

On the ground, Piro stumbled briefly.  Noticing the difference in
gravity, he adjusted his Reeboks and paid closer attention to his
footing.

Atlas inspected several divorcées en route to the public facilities.
As he removed the panties from the final specimen, he shook his head
in appreciation of local craftsmanship.  “Superb elastic modulus,” he
observed as he continued to work his fingers in and out of the moist
folds beneath her clitoris.  “Responsive, too.”

Piro hit up the vending machines.  “The ship is eating,” he snapped
into his commlink.  “Roger that,” confirmed Atlas.

Slake Bottom was fifteen years gone and still there was nothing Piro
could do to rectify the situation.  Unacceptable.  Inevitable.  He
inserted the seventy dollars change.

Returned: two Rice Krispies treats.

3

Piro worked his thumbs into the tense muscle wire that threaded
through the divorcée’s neck and shoulders.

“You may require maintenance,” he said, flatly.

Atlas continued to jot down notes.  Throwing down her cigarette, the
divorcée wobbled to her feet and vacated the head.

“This place is deserted.  All that’s left are the women.”

Piro nodded, and in response Atlas looked even more upset.

“This vacation sucks.”

He kicked the trash can with his outsized chin.

4

Paper advertisements whipped through the grounds, battering store
fronts and light poles, propelled by the high winds of the circulation
system.  Compost.  Piro leaned back against a dumpster and gazed up at
the stars.

“Back when I first started out, this place was always packed with
children.” He unzipped his backpack, rummaging through his gear for a
candy bar.  “Native arcade did good business.”

“Never been here, myself.  Of course, I ‘ve heard of the place.”

“My… Slake used to bring me here, between missions.”

“The guy with the donkey head?”

Piro froze.  Eyes to the giant, floating face.

“How do you know of him?”

“Everybody knows of him.  Where I’m from.  Old family name.  Some
legal troubles, as I interpret the narrative.”

Piro unlatched his holster.

“I think you’d better elaborate.”

5

Piro killed the deity and boarded the RAGNAROK, ready to resume his
mission.  Left the corpse to blow in the wind.

Too many memories on the station.

As he punched in the latest rash of launch codes, he was delighted by
the ship’s audible response.  A familiar series of confirming bleeps
echoed through the corridors.  Something he hadn’t registered since
childhood.  The bridge seemed to glow even more pink than was normal
during the day shift.

“Mother…” he said, smoothing his hands over the armrests of his
captain’s chair.  He hadn’t really expected an answer.  He’d never
even heard the sound of her voice.

He thought he might have dozed off, tracking beyond the technical
limits of the main view screen.  He woke up with a start, knocked over
his tea.

She spoke quietly, at first.

“I know.”