Milky Way Marmalade Read online

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  Zumaya Publications

  www.zumayapublications.com

  Copyright ©2003 by Michael DiCerto

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Milky Way Marmalade is a time/space adventure, a Spiritual journey, and a tongue-in-cheek satire bringing truth to the basics. And bringing the basics to the surface, revealing the Truth of the Universe. It's a chase of good versus evil with humor. It's impossible to narrow down to one Genre. It's a must-read. Trust me on this one. Milky Way Marmalade will have you laughing out loud. And pondering the possibilities.

  Walter Ihlefield

  GottaWriteNetwork

  Milky Way Marmalade is a quirky, funny tale from someone who is both a little twisted and extremely talented."

  Bruce Von Stiers.

  With a unique, refreshing plotline that immediately captures the imagination, Milky Way Marmalade stands in a league of its own. Talent of this caliber will not go unnoticed.

  Lynette Marie eBook Reviews Weekly

  If you read and enjoyed Douglas Adams but felt that it was a little too sane and well grounded in reality then you might find yourself in for a treat.

  Eternal Night

  The Moby Dick was cruising at a comfortable clip, and Caffrey's feet were up as he played air drums along with Keith Moon. Yin disrupted his bliss.

  "Ahhh ... folks. What, pray tell, is that?"

  A spiraling tube of blue energy was winding its way from a singularity in space and moving toward The Moby Dick at an alarming rate of speed.

  "I am afraid we will not be able to outrun it!” Angie cried.

  "Some sort of wormhole, I suppose,” said Caffrey.

  "A wormhole of the usual sort requires energy exceeding Planck levels. The Moby Dick is picking up only a mild static, no more than would be produced by rubbing a foot on a shag carpet,” Poe 33 announced.

  Caffrey gave the android a strange glance as he tried to guess where in the endless light years of adventuring he would have come across shag carpeting.

  "What is this if not some sort of black hole?"

  "It is a mylaxic eel,” Poe 33 explained.

  "Never heard of it,” Yin admitted.

  "Me neither. Angie-girl, you find anything in your zoological files on mylaxic eels?"

  "Just a moment, my sweet leather volume. Yes. Found. Mylaxic eel: an extremely rare member of the genus Electrophorus electricus gigantus, found only in comet-rich regions of the Plethorian Sector. Its unique digestive system links two distinct points in time and space, illustrating in astronomical grandeur the philosophy of never defecating where one resides."

  "I could have told you that,” Poe 33 mumbled.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  MILKY WAY MARMALADE

  ISBN 1-894869-21-3

  Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Zumaya Publications 2003

  Look for us online at www.zumayapublications.com

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  DiCerto, Michael.

  Milky Way marmalade / Michael DiCerto.

  ISBN 1-894942-21-3

  I. Title.

  PS3604.I23M54 2003 813'.6 C2003-910468-0

  Dedication

  To my Father, Dominick, who filled my world with spirit and wonder.

  To my Mother, Dolores, who filled my world with her strength.

  To musicians, with their longhaired souls, who filled my world with endless joy.

  And to my wife, Suzy, who is my world.

  FOREWORD

  Books from and about every walk of life, from James Joyce to James Patterson, might get the characters right, the emotions right, the plot, the place, the architecture right—but they almost never get the music right. Or care.

  Milky Way Marmalade is the music. It's life, music, and desire, all unfolding with a freaky-deaky beat poet sensibility. The characters are out where the buses don't run, but, then again, in 3265, the bus schedule can be unreliable at best. We fly through the galaxy, through thousands of years in existence, with a Rosetta Stone juke box as our guide, hoping to fight the ultimate evil, hoping to connect to the ultimate good—and laughing along the way...

  Rock Music has always been one of my best friends; I can't even begin to count how many lonely miles Bob Dylan has traveled with me. How many mind-numbing traffic jams I've survived because the Grateful Dead soothed my nerves or the Beatles fed my mind. Thirty-some-odd years since its creation, classic rock continues to live, thrive and accompany lonely travelers on their journeys. It will be ever thus 1200 years from now.

  The truths of the Universe might be in the Bible—or in “Layla,” or in Milky Way Marmalade—it's up to you, and it's well-worth the intergalactic, alien gourmet delicacy trip to find out!

  —Ken Dashow, Q104.3

  INTRODUCTION

  A MESSAGE FROM THE WISEST SUBSTANCE IN THE UNIVERSE

  The universe, I once noted, is not only stranger than you can imagine, it secretly dresses in studded-leather feetie pajamas and spiked fuchsia pasties. The fact is the oddness of the universe is a part of its very essence. If looked upon as a whole from some far-out, Godlike point of view it would appear quite dull. Normal. Beautiful, perhaps, but predictable in its patterns of stars formed into disks of galaxies that in their totality make up the realm oft referred to as “the Cosmos.” The untrained eye must peer deeper into its heart to truly appreciate its bizarre reality.

  I should know, for I am a reflection of that reality.

  I am not God. Nor am I a goddess nor the Lord nor the Supreme Being. I am not the Creator. I am not the Divine Spark, nor the Ultimate Entity that runs the show. I am certainly not the Cosmic Big Kahuna.

  I am a cube of orange-colored gelatin the size of an average throw pillow.

  I know what you are thinking—Actually, let me rephrase that—I know all the possible thoughts you can think, have thought or will think: how smart and powerful can a lump of orange, gelatinous star-stuff be? Well, not very—yet infinitely so. I am the complete record of the universe—all its creatures, places, things, events and potentials in every time that will ever be and in every dimension that exists or may exist. I am the music, but I did not write the song.

  I have had many names given to me by many beings with various levels of intelligence and beliefs. From your own world they include: the universal hologram, the Philosopher's Stone, the Holy Grail, perfected bliss, the Akashic record, manna from heaven, ether (soniferous or otherwise), the Cosmic Mind, the collective unconscious, the morphogenic field, lucid dreaming, the Bread of Life, sacred geometry, novelty waves, the flower of life, teacher plants and fungi and even Reginald by a pompous but good-hearted gent of royal heritage. A popular moniker amongst powerful off-Earth circles is simply “The L'Orange."

  There are an infinite number of other names and concepts on an infinite number of other worlds, but I will leave that for you to discover.
Regardless of the label used, all are incomplete in their perception of my true nature. While I am perhaps the wisest substance in the universe (potentially), I have no true innate power other than the knowledge and wisdom that can be accessed by any object, idea or creature with a consciousness. Although I exist in physical form, I am within everything and everything is within me. I will manifest most densely where creative forces spark, and I tend to hightail it (in a quantum manner) from locales where destructive folks and their dark ideas loiter.

  I was formed in some ancient time by an unknown intelligence, unknown hands or, perhaps, an unknown machine. Perhaps I am the squishy orange turd of God? While it may seem odd that a gelatinous record of the All is unaware of its own origin, it only goes to prove my opening thesis: it is, indeed, a strange universe.

  There is, however, one thing of which I am certain. Of all the forms of matter in the universe, the one that gives the Cosmos its Technicolor sheen and adds to its fruity flavor is found scampering atop, swimming beneath and flying above the countless balls of stone orbiting countless suns.

  Life.

  The unbelievable diversity of living creatures, no matter the form, intelligence, belief structures, political systems, social strata and annoying habits, is where all the utter weirdness is found. Dip beneath the skin of these beings, take a peek into the psyche—into the circus of the ego, id and the crayon box of mental workings—and the penultimate and wondrous freak show will be experienced. If the universe is music then life is Rock ‘n’ Roll.

  And while I'm on the subject of life, let me answer one question that has haunted many a burgeoning civilization—No, Johnny, you are not alone in the universe. Not by a bloody long shot. It is a normal developmental stage in the formation of a sentient being's psyche to fear not being alone. Imagine yourself standing in a pitch-black cave where a few million bats, insects and carnivorous mammals make residence. Are you mentally prepared to light a torch?

  Unknown to most lifeforms, due to their limited perspective, is the potential of interconnectedness among the living. Even if separated by light-years of space and eons of time, the coyness of the Universal Mind may send two apparently unconnected lifeforms on a journey to a crossroad. At this crossroad seemingly impossible and completely unforeseeable synchronicities will take place. There are no truly random events.

  Although my existence includes infinite variations, I do exist in a three-dimensional form. In fact, being a physical entity, my own path has led me to interact with a plethora of intelligent beings. One such on a more intimate physical level: the Guardian Android, officially known as The Portsmith (or, albeit rather pompously, I confess, The Portsmith to the Wisest Substance in the Universe), who escorts and protects my physical presence. These androids, designed and built using strict, ultra-secret ritualistic practices by an impossibly ancient race, each serve a term of time called a Round—about a thousand Earth years.

  The story that follows deals with a Portsmith and a good-natured human who doubts my existence. It is also a treatise on music and the many, many instances of the synchronicities that sprout like magical mushrooms when the conditions are right.

  And, most importantly, it is dedicated to the most powerful force the universe has ever, or will ever, know.

  CHAPTER ONE

  MAGIC CARPET RIDE

  On a cloud of sight I drift in the night

  Anyplace it goes is right

  Goes far, flies near, to the stars away from here.

  Steppenwolf

  Caffrey Quark felt like the White Rabbit. Although he hadn't consciously made the literary connection, he was late, very late, for a very important date.

  He sat with his fingers intertwined behind his head in the cockpit of his spacecraft, The Moby Dick. He was in a traffic jam of epic proportions, and although his was the sole ship in the entire sector, he could not move. Any further travel had been made impossible by the sphere of shimmering red energy encasing the entire Freega System. He could do nothing but listen as the official announcement of the Emergency Broadcast Station, backed by cold and lifeless music, reminded him he was not going to make his appointment.

  MUSIC (myoo'zik) n. [ME. Musike—ancient ErSolOFr. Musiquei—ancientEr1SolL. Musica—ancientEr1SolGr. Musike (techne), musical (art), orig. an art of the Muses—mousa, Muse] 1. An artificial construct of electronic sounds, used to convey the attitude, theme or moral values (overtly or subliminally) of various goods and services usually broadcast between adverts and/or emergency broadcasts.

  This was the unfortunate definition on which Caffrey's ears had been raised, and he'd grown to despise the very notion of music. He rubbed his temples and stared out at the seemingly infinite net of energy that would hamper his journey to the forested world of Careem 6. Vivid thoughts of taking large sledgehammers to the satanic equipment producing such rubbish filled his imagination. A sudden burst of static added a bit of character to the musical sterility, and a voice filled the cabin.

  "Be advised that due to an Anomalous Planetary Event, spacecraft without official personnel, insignias or external advert billboards will not be allowed into the Freega System until further announcement. Please enjoy our continuous play of ‘The Flight of the Ravaged Ignorants Interlude,’ courtesy of Orington Munitions Corporation."

  The voice faded; and the computer-generated music continued, failing miserably in its attempt at symphonic beauty.

  "Another A.P.E.?” Caffrey wondered aloud, turning the volume of the radio down to zero.

  "It's becoming an odd trend, my beleaguered banana muffin,” observed Angie, the in-dash computer assistant with a voice as smooth as a mercury milkshake.

  "Angie, you know how punctual the black-winged trinka is. I have exactly thirteen hours to reach Careem 6, hike six kilometers through impossible-to-land-in swamps then climb a kilometer and a half to the edge of a steaming pit and catch the bloody trinka before its post-coital suicide."

  "Actually, you have fifteen hours. The black-winged trinka sings its pre-death songs to its mate for two hours before it leaps into the pit. So romantic,” Angie sighed.

  Caffrey shrugged and scanned the shimmering black heavens before him.

  "What the hell is going on out there? Anything on the local channels?"

  "Negative."

  "Damn. Do you know how much a black-winged trinka goes for?"

  "Anything caught by you, my love, is priceless."

  "Twenty thousand glid. Twenty-five, if it still has all six of its penises."

  "Quarky!” Angie scolded, managing an auditory blush.

  "Check G.S."

  "Aye-aye, honey-pot dumpling,” Angie said, responding with one of her ten million pre-programmed cute and oft excessively sugary monikers.

  She searched Galax-Skein, the ever-growing database that had permeated and branched across the Cosmos for eons. In seconds she had an answer.

  "There are rumors all over the local chat channels that the world of Careem 6 is going through difficult times."

  "Difficult times?"

  "The specifics are being argued vehemently. Everything from angry spirits, corrupt official activity to inter-dimensional terrorists. In any event, the one thing they do agree on is this: Careem 6 is missing."

  "Missing...” Caffrey bemoaned. “This is getting a bit tired. Three planets in three weeks."

  The exotic meat collecting business relied on place and time. It relied on punctuality and an encyclopedic knowledge of galactic fauna and their individual mating, scavenging, migrating, hibernating, hunting and dying habits. But perhaps most importantly, success in the business relied upon the planet containing the exotic edible to have the decency to be there when one arrived.

  Caffrey had inherited, rather reluctantly, his father's moderately valuable Supper's Ready meat collecting business. His parents, who had decided to run off for an indefinite second honeymoon ten years previous, had had enough of the dead meat trade.

  Caffrey was easily bored with mundane routine. T
o assure each hunting expedition would be unpredictable, he added the word exotic to the company logo and set his sights on some of the more peculiar examples of the Milky Way's cornucopia of edible creatures. He knew he could make a bundle selling to an endless stream of obscenely rich, impossibly powerful, embarrassingly pretentious and esoterically psychotic clientele, who were sexually aroused by ingesting creatures from the twisted side of nature's imagination. Caffrey wasn't one to toy with semantics—his business card bragged he was “the prime purveyor of exotic meat delivered fresh from the stars to the stars"—but he was feeling more and more nauseous in his killer role as each day passed.

  "Set a course for Geraplond, Angie-girl. There's a spotted glumox there with my name on it. I'll have to convince the Duke of Bron Yraur that black-winged trinkas are passé. He'll buy it. Bloody poser."

  "Course set for Geraplond, sweet tush."

  The Moby Dick turned and set off to the bizarre jungle planet and home of the deadly glumox.

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  The bartender working the late shift at Marti Oh's Pub wiped down the bar top. It wasn't in need of cleansing, for there had been no patrons since the day shift of the local Star-Transport engine plant had downed their last potables and headed home. It was simple boredom, and he scrubbed at a stain that had never lifted from the fine grain surface and probably never would.

  The barman cast a pity-filled glance at the android who sat alone, watching his every move with an odd smirk. The artificial being's skin was soft and almost flesh-like. He was unclothed but devoid of any exposed sex organs, rendering the term naked inappropriate. The top of his head had a slightly raised, horseshoe-shaped ridge of sorts that gave the android the illusion of male-pattern baldness. His knuckles, elbows and knees were quite evident and appeared solid and powerful. His facial features were arranged in a perpetual smirk that hinted of great arrogance—yet a certain amount of sincere charm as well.