Michael Siemsen - Exigency

“Enough. Stop.” Unhkte waved an arm. Tom paused the Livetrans playback. Unhkte turned to the council. “You see?”

“This is reproduction,” Fetz said to Tom. “Answer Unhkte’s question. How are Threck born?”

“Apologies,” Tom said. “I thought you wished to test our knowledge of your physiology. Birth occurs submerged in saturated soil after roughly eighty days’ gestation when the egg is—”

“No more,” Unhkte stopped him again. “They know nothing of Threck. Let it be, and let us adjourn.”

“No,” Amoss said, and then shouted, “Setkee!” Young Threck appeared from the stairway that led to the uppermost floors. “Restrain the Syons People and take them to holding room.”

“What’s going on?” Tom demanded as tentacles constricted around his arms, holding them tight to his body. He could no longer gesture to plead with the council. “Need explain. Tell what want know. Will explain anything.”

“Get it off me, Tom!” Angela cried.

A small Threck’s body lay flat against Angela’s back and its arms and legs wrapped two or three times around her. The same was true of the one on Tom’s back. Other Setkee pushed them along toward the stairwell as the council members huddled close to each other.

Livetrans only picked up a few snippets.

LIVETRANS: Cannot trust.

LIVETRANS: Find others.

LIVETRANS: Execute.

In the “holding” room, Angela gazed upward, fascinated by the door.

An hour earlier, upon arriving at the end of a long subterranean hall, they perceived a sloped stone wall that, if climbed up, would lead only to smacking one’s head on the jagged rock ceiling. It wasn’t a wall, though, but a rectangular slab of granite, anchored at its middle to the bedrock on both sides. Scaling the 45 surface—bound by tentacles, and with a few other escorts—the top end of the slab had gradually dropped while the end behind them rose, like a trapdoor for a giant snail. Revealed below, a small, bowl-shaped cave with a shallow puddle at its bottom. Their captors released them and scurried out before the massive gate sealed Tom and Angela in the dark.

Now, Tom lay cradled in the curvature of the wall, scratching an itchy head as Angela studied the “door” through various optics. Their helmets lay on the ground beside the puddle.

“I can’t find any records of this exact design,” Angela marveled. “Of course, the idea of a gate rotating on a single axle has been around forever, but the concept of body weight as the powering force… I mean, in this application, I suppose it’s sort of the obvious, sole option, based upon the cave’s purpose. You know, this is the kind of stuff you see in history and wonder how the hell people missed the connections. A Threck engineer doesn’t just glance at this thing and go ‘hey, whoa, our cart wheels are stupid!’ and introduce a proper wheel and axle.” She glanced back at the quiet Tom. “Are you still moping?”

“It’s not moping when your life is in actual danger. In such cases, it’s called ‘appropriate distress.’”

She splashed through the puddle and flopped down next to him, slapping his knee. “Moping.”

He looked at her through thermag, her smiling face a mix of blues and whites. “I seriously don’t get how you’re so upbeat right now, appreciating the engineering of our jail cell. They could just leave us to die in here. Move on with city life. Dissect our corpses when they get around to it. That’s not some pessimistic worst-case scenario. It’s highly probable. I screwed us.”

“And that’s the real issue here, I think.” She nudged his shoulder with hers. “ Some body feels like a big fat failure. All your anxiety came to fruition. You communicated ineffectively. And damn, not only are you effed, but the chick you’re totally in love with is, too. Funereal, truly.”

“Sorry, are you trying to make me feel better?”

She pushed out her lower lip and furrowed her brow. “Aw, am I making you sadder?” She sunk lower, incorporating an utterly maddening baby talk. “Does da widdle guy need mawmaw to make him feew bedder?” Tom pressed his lips together, shaking his head as he battled a creeping smile. “I’m sawwy, my widdle schnookie ookie wookems.”

“Oh man, I’m going to flick you in the eye so hard.”

“Don’t care. Made you smile. Listen to me now. I’m optimistic for several reasons. First, these are pretty reasonable, intelligent people. Sure, they literally crap through their mouths, but they can’t help that . No anus. If they had a choice in the matter, they’d use another orifice—I believe that deeply. As for us, something was misunderstood, and you’ll surely have a chance to straighten it out before we’re dragged off to some gallows, which, incidentally, would probably be another captivating example of unprecedented engineering.”

“Particularly due to their lack of necks.”

She ignored his muttering. “Second, Zisa and Pablo know where we are. They won’t just sit there laxing at the rally point, roasting… whatever , and one day wonder what happened to us. They’ll come, and they’ll come packing heat. Which brings me to C.”

“Did I miss an A and B?”

She stood up and patted the holstered MW on her thigh. “Roman octopus people have pretty lackluster arrest procedures. If we have to blast our way out of here…” She sprang into a gunslinger stance. “I’m ready for action!”

He looked up at her, acceding to her good cheer. “‘Funereal?’”

She smirked. “Thesaurus.”

“Have you noticed how we’re sort of opposites when it comes to emotional responses?”

“You’re just noticing that? Such a male.”

A resounding creak from above and bright light streamed into the cave. Tom switched back to standard optics. The top of the stone slab slowly descended with a loud crack as its axle protested the shift in weight. He grabbed both helmets, handing Angela hers.

“This thing could fall at any second,” Tom said as they both pressed their backs against the wall and squeezed into the helmets, sealing them into their neck receivers.

Angela kept talking, but in a whisper. “Nah, it’s a self-reinforcing design. See, the axle is fully encased, and the…”

She faded off when the door stopped rotating, teetering subtly at a horizontal position parallel to the tunnel floor outside, and several silhouetted Threck heads entered the meter-high space beneath. Tom’s optics exposure auto-adjusted and the figures materialized.

“Tom and Angela of Syons People,” one of the gawking Threck said. “Come out now.”

Angela’s hand drifted to her MW.

Tom touched her leg and addressed the Threck above. “I respectfully request the wise council’s time to explain any misunderstandings that may have arisen during our meeting. Our people have entirely peaceful intentions, wishing only to live in peace somewhere the Threck people find acceptable. In exchange for this generosity, we offer only the help you choose to accept.” The onlookers remained silent. “Or we can simply take our belongings, leave your land, and you need never see us again.”

There had always been a backup plan should the Threck people decline Minnie’s appeal: an uninhabited, J-shaped string of small islands to the north of Threck Country—beyond the horizon, but well within skimmer range. The only problem was fresh water. The evacuees must rely upon seawater desalinization.

“Your sole mistake,” the Threck finally said, “was in addressing the council first, and not my group.” Tom suddenly noticed the drowsy eyes and the cloak’s purple trim.