THE WARP

    “Makes them seem smaller eh?” hissed Breinz. “Well now, that would depend on the problem, wouldn’t it?”
 
   “In the best of cases, that is, worst of cases,” Exodus corrected himself. “It can make one forget one’s own hardships and make one grateful a moment. For there are many who have it much worse off.”

   “Thank you Exodus,” said Vesper, receiving his top-up. “You are a friend crowned with wisdom. Please accept my confidence as a tip.”

   Breinz’s uninhibited gaze stayed locked on the cyborg. “With your hand on your heart, if you can find anything so small, are you suggesting I have cause to be grateful? For what may I ask? Being alive? You over-grown freak! You call this existence? A 'forgettable hardship'?”

   Exodus frowned in search of a suitable response.

   "Between us, no," said Vesper. He emptied his shot and stood up on weak legs. “Your case, Olga, we shall leave as one of Fate’s cruel twists. If you’ll excuse me, I shall withdraw from this stimulating atmosphere of bitterness to perform an action that simply won’t hold further delay.”

   The other two watched him make his wobbly path to a steel door at the other end of the room.

   Breinz called out after him. “You miss the bowl you wipe it up!”

   A resounding burp reverberated from the tiled quarters as the swing door closed.

   “I hate that man,” Olga Breinz muttered. “A hypocrite of the worst kind.”

   Exodus looked at her and innocently considered the likelihood of this being true. Then wiped the bar with his rag. “I think Vesper is a nice man. A friendly and caring soul he is. He cares about us. Has it crossed your mind that he’s our only returning customer? That says a whole lot. The man has integrity! And he drinks a whole lot while he’s here. That says a whole lot about his job too. He takes it seriously!”

   Breinz swung her eyes back to Exodus. Like poisonous darts about to strike.

   “And I hate you too,” she rasped. “Always have. How’s that for integrity?”

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THE WARP

Vesper put an effort into raising his foggy head. His eyes had begun rolling about like marbles in an eggcup but he succeeded in bringing Breinz into his field of view.

   “Every time,” he began by way of reply, “I ask myself this. Why do I even bother coming here, to be the subject of derision, by those I thought were my friends?”

   “Sweetheart,” came the raspy reply. “There’s nowhere else you can slowly drown yourself, where the listener has no choice but to stay and put up with your pitiful drivel.”

   “If you feel that way, why don’t you have Exodus carry you into the backroom? It’s cold in there, your soul might feel right at home.”

   He slid his empty glass over the bar. Exodus took it and turned his bulk to look at Breinz, and decided to speak up.

   “You mean you don’t like listening to Vesper? I do. Listening to other people’s problems is interesting. Makes your own problems seem smaller.”

   With a squeak of elderly mechanics Breinz turned her contraption of a head and faced the cyborg. Exodus Tonn was an enormous man even before the explosion on Delta Four. Now, with more or less half his physical being replaced with robotics he looked more imposing than ever. On his back he carried a gun which Vesper had begun to suspect was permanently attached to his body. Wiring and heavy cables protruding from it disappeared under the waist of his khaki field jacket and didn’t come out anywhere. A gun of this size would normally sit on a vehicle with at least four wheels.

Whenever Exodus turned his back to prepare a customer's next drink, as he now did, Vesper always fancied the weapon smiling at him with a mocking sort of confidence oozing out of its massive shape and dull metal finish.

“Hello kid,” it seemed to say. “I sink buildings.”

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THE WARP

A sleek, late-model four-seater spaceship was moored and docked to The Warp. If there are such things as back streets in space this must have been one of the worst, because the station looked just right for it. The spaceship did not. It did neither party any good for it to be parked there.

The contrast was such a blaring signal that it made the eyes sting and the watchful mind, that naturally engages when entering back streets, ring with observations like ‘despair’, or ‘crime’. Or, ‘somewhere, somehow, someone’s paying for this.’

From an ancient, steel-grilled loudspeaker a voice rattled forth with a sound as might be achieved after two hundred years of chain-smoking.

   “Ha!” it began. “I’d say all the little problems and self-occupied frustrations of his parish members have finally broken him!”

Above the loudspeaker were two bloodshot eyes the size of golf balls. They had no sockets but hung free, mounted on thick optical cables of metal coiled with strips of flesh and nerves. The whites were more of a yellowish color. Without lids or any other expressive devices that normally surround eyes, this naked pair simply glared wildly. Above the crude mechanism of the eyes and the loudspeaker was a fishbowl containing green liquid and a human brain.

This head, if you can call it that, was mounted on a telescopic arm protruding from a wooden box that hummed. Slim hoses ran along the arm, transporting bubbling liquids to the brain. Dials and switches riddled the front of the box and cracked leather carrying straps hung on the sides.

By any and all reasoning Colonel Olga Breinz should have been dead. But here she was, the last vital parts of her, brain and eyes, preserved and kept in a vague state of aliveness.

   “Or is our over-paid servant of dreamers just having another bad day?”   

Changes...

Folks, 'Times they are a'changin', as Uncle Bob sang. The world is, and so is this site. Bear with me as we work our way through all the various bits and pieces. Thanks for your patience. J