Stephen Burns - Bug Trap

“Then why did you do it that way?” Again sounding confused rather than accusing. Because I was confused. According to what she’d told Poppa Poppy, the Bugs gave her the juice to do damn near anything she wanted. Yet she had done very close to nothing.

She glanced my way, and I could see that she was working hard to keep her irritation in check. “So what should I have done, kid?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t know the full range of what you can do, or even what you are in all this. Are you like a cop or something?”

“Or something,” she said with a mordant laugh. “That’s me.”

“It sounds like the, uh, aliens give you a lot of leeway.”

“They do. Maybe too much.”

“What you told Poppa Poppy. You really did survive a bomb and kill the bomber, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. The exertion cost so much blood I almost didn’t make it.” Another grim laugh. “But it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“And the threats you made. You could crush Poppa Poppy like a bug, couldn’t you?”

A slow nod. “Without even working up a sweat.”

“You could have taken those kids away, placed them somewhere else. Exiled that peckerhead minister with a snap of your fingers.”

“I came closer to it than they’ll ever know.”

Suspicion confirmed. Which left me with a question that had to be asked. I did my best to pose it in a way that wouldn’t get me hurt.

“Now don’t take this wrong,” I began. “I’m not pointing any fingers or making any sort of judgments. I’m new here, and I’m just trying to figure out how things work. But if you could do those things, and wanted to do those things, then why didn’t you do them?”

She shook her head. “Figure it out, kid.” She raised her voice. “Transport.”

A door appeared in front of us.

“Come on,” she said.

I followed her through it, wondering what I was missing.

Stepping through a door in one place and coming out somewhere miles away was giving my sense of reality a wedgie. In spite of that existential crack-bind I couldn’t help thinking that one of the doors would sure have come in handy when I’d had the cops and Chrome Lords hunting me down.

The sense of dislocation I felt every time was partially due to having not even a crumpled gum wrapper of an idea what it was like in the Hoop. I was flying blind.

This time we emerged on the top of a high, wide plateau. Once again there was a settlement, a mix of white round buildings and others made from natural materials, what had to be at least three hundred of them widely scattered and separated by trees and gardens.

Forest surrounded the plateau, fading into flatlands and the bare white stuff that the Hoop was made from. For the first time I was able to see one end of a segment. The white glowing ceiling and soft white walls came together in a flat blank surface maybe a mile away.

The view would have been scenic, and the feeling of the place idyllic, except that there was a wood and white-stuff wall running all the way around the rim of the plateau, and there were people in wood and bamboo armor guarding that wall.

“This isn’t another war game, is it?” I said. The tension in the air was palpable; the faces I saw were lined with worry.

Trub shook her head. “Nope. Come on. We’re going to talk to the Mayor of High Vista.”

“That’s what they call this place?”

“Yeah,” she said, starting toward where the biggest cluster of men and women were at the wall, near a big gate.

The view was amazing. “It fits.”

The mayor was a tall black man in jeans, short-sleeved white shirt, and rubber clogs. He was near the gate, arms resting on the wall, gazing down at what lay below.

“How are you doing, Homer?” Trub called as we approached.

He turned toward us, and his craggy face lit with a smile. It was the smile of a man who was very tired and more than a little relieved. “We’re hanging in there, Miss Trouble,” he said in a thick southern drawl. “For now, anyway.”

The light dawned on a small thing: Trouble. Of course. That’s where Trub came from.

“Cyrus and his boys getting ready for another attack?”

“They sure are. Take a look at what they’ve whomped up this time.”

Trub went to the wall and peered over. I did the same.

Near the base of the plateau, maybe two hundred feet down, were a couple dozen people in their own homemade armor, armed with spears, clubs, and longbows. In the midst of this odd attack force stood a medieval siege engine. A wooden catapult over thirty feet tall.

Trub let out a low whistle. “That’s new.”

“And worrisome,” Homer agreed. “We’re thinking Cyrus found himself some sort of expert in old-time weapons to help build that thing. They dragged it out this morning and have been fussin’ with it ever since. I’m thinking they’re close to using it on us and causing some real damage.”

I had to agree with his prediction. The catapult had a sinister air, like the Spanish Inquisition’s version of a howitzer. I wasn’t an expert on such weapons but did know they’d been popular for hundreds of years. That suggested they were probably pretty useful to their owners.

“Why are they attacking this place?” I said, directing my question at Trub.

“Because—” She paused, cocking her head. A deep frown appeared. “On it,” she said.

“On what?” I asked.

“Emergency.” She laid her real hand on Homer’s arm. “Would you please fill Glyph here in on your problems? I’ve got a hot situation to deal with. I’ll be back before Cyrus and his tribe get their shit together.”

“I surely hope so,” he said. “I called for help ‘cause I believe we’re surely gonna need it.”

“Trust me.” She raised her voice. “Transport.” A door appeared. She stepped through it and was gone, the door disappearing after her.

Homer gave me a curious look. “I never knew Miss Trouble to be much for partners.”

“I’m not sure what I am,” I said, “But I know I’m not a partner. I ran into her when I first got here. She took me in tow, and it’s been a bit of a whirlwind ever since.”

Homer laughed and nodded. “That’s our Miss Trouble for sure, a whirlwind on the hoof. So you’re just out?”

“I got here only a few hours ago.” Though it felt like days. Time flies when you’re totally confused.

“So how much do you know about how this place works?”

“Next to nothing.”

“Know what a wishing well is?”

I shrugged. “A waste of change?”

Homer shook his head, grin widening. “Not here on the Hoop it ain’t. Come on, I’ll show you.”

I followed him to an open area in the middle of the plateau. In the center of this plaza stood a waist-high white cylinder roughly ten feet across. It was made of the same white stuff used to build seemingly every part of the Hoop. When we reached the artifact a noticeably attractive Latina woman was at the far side, staring at the blank white top of the column, her lips moving silently.

“Is she praying?” I asked quietly.

“In a way,” Homer said with a chuckle. “Watch.”

A ripple appeared in the flat hard surface of the squat column, the solid stuff acting like it was turning liquid. Something began pushing its way up through, finally emerging to sit atop the once again solid surface.

“That’s a copy of The Cat In The Hat,” I said, stating the obvious.

“One of my personal favorites,” Homer said with an approving nod. “Read it to my kids a hunnerd times. She’s got two little ones she wants to distract, and the Cat can do it.” The woman picked up the book, flashed us a shy but brilliant smile, then headed toward one of the houses.