C:\Users\John\Downloads\J\John Gregory Betancourt - Alien Still Life.pdb

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John Gregory Betancourt - Alien

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07/01/2008

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07/01/2008

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INTRODUCTION

This short story was revised and expanded in collaboration with Linda
E.Bushyager and eventually became the novelPacifica , published byWildside
Press in 2002. Please see:Pacifica at theWildside Press web site for more
information on the book. Electronic editions ofPacifica are also available
atFictionwise andPalm Digital Media . -- John Gregory Betancourt

ALIEN STILL LIFE

byJohn Gregory Betancourt

She swirled up toCris in a knot of friends and hangers-on, her skin chocolate
and azure, her hair a shimmering bow done in soft shades of orange.
Herholodress coiled around her like a writhing snake, revealed dark thighs and
the occasional smooth curve of breast, butMarica was like that andCris
expected it of her. It was part of her charm, part of her power, all of which
drew him inexorably closer,a moth to her flame. After all, what did he, mere
painter, mereartist , know of fashion? Only her eyes seemed normal tonight,
that pale piercing shade of blue he'd always found so distracting.

"Crispindarling ," she said, and when she smiled her teeth were dark as her
skin, crawling with geometric designs.

"Marica, dear," he said. "I wasn't expecting you. I thought you found my
openings too tame."

"Wifely duty," she said, and a titter came from her coterie.Cris glared and
they shut up. They too sported wore holographic clothes and wild chromatic
hair designs. He remembered none of their names; they were justglitterfolk ,
likeMarica . They came and went and others would replace them tomorrow.

He forced a smile."Of course, your portrait. I'd forgotten it's on exhibit."
She hadn't been his wife in months, not since he'd finished painting her. That
portrait hung on the far wall, a masterful study in oil andhololaserwork ,
five meters high and ten wide:Marica , naked on a beach, with gulls constantly
wheeling overhead, the interplay of shadows on her face the piece's focal
point. It was his greatest work thus far. Something aboutMarica inspired him
as no other woman ever had. Or, he thought, ever would again.

A lull in talk around them brought the gulls' raucous voices to his ears.
AfterMarica abandoned him, he'd dubbed in crow caws. It made an interesting
contrast to his usual hyper-realism.

She pressed something into his hand. "I'm having a party later tonight.

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Come?"

"I don't know . . ."

Her lipspursed, a mock kiss. "I'll send someone to pick you up, dear. Ta."
And off she swept, followed by herglitterdressed friends, a quick circuit of
the room then away.

Criswatched silently. He doubted she'd even remember having asked him in an
hour . . . but that was the way she'd always been. He'd known their time would
be limited when he'd proposed in January. Still, their three months together
(he'd dawdled over her portrait) had been more than most of her lovers
enjoyed.

He glanced at the card. Someone (surely notMarica ) had neatly
inkedALIENATIONin all caps.

He crumpled it up. Then something made him smooth it out and read that single
word again. With a sigh he put the card in his breast pocket, next to his
heart, and tried to force her from his thoughts for the rest of the evening.

"Something to drink, master?"

It was a squat emerald-colored alien with flesh like gelatin and dozens of
waving green tentacles, each holding a half-filled champagne glass.Cris
couldn't see where its voice came from. One tentacle uncoiled toward him,
andCris took the offered glass with a nod and a muttered, "Thanks."

Sipping, he put on his charm and began to mingle with the patrons. It was
expected. Withmegamoney everywhere, some alien, most human, there was no
telling where his next sale or commission would come from.

An old lady with blue-and-gold striped hair and too manytatoos forCris's
taste, hanging on two right arms of anAuctoran hominid in a pale gray tunic,
cornered him by hisholostatue of starships crashing into the sun. "You're a
genius," she cooed, "the last artist left who actuallyfeels the human
condition." TheAuctoran just nodded, the coiled ropes of reddish-brown flesh
on the sides of its head swaying.

"Thank you,"Cris murmured. She nattered on and on and on. "You're too kind."
His gaze kept straying back to the door, to where he'd last seenMarica , and
he felt a strange, empty sort of longing inside.

* * *

ToCris's surprise, when his opening ended two hours later and he wandered
slightly drunk, slightly melancholy out onto the rooftop parking lot for a
breath of fresh air, theglitterfolk were waiting. They had a huge newaircar
taking up half a dozen spaces, and the raucous, somehowcrowlike noise of the
party inside settled heavily on him. Theaircar itself rippled underholos ,
looking first like some ancient Greek temple, then a seagoing luxury yacht,
then back again in a looped cycle.

The door swung open and Jade Moon, one of the few ofMarica's friendsCris
remembered (more for her green-dyed face than anything else), took his arm and
pulled him in.

"I feel alienated," she announced proudly.

"Good for you,"Cris said. He pushed deeper into the chandeliered main

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room.Holoed geometric designs flickered everywhere, blinding, revealing,
blinding. Icons of dead performers projected themselves atop men and women by
turn. He wandered through theMarilyns , theElvises , the Ted Turners,the
NathanBlakes . He didn't seeMarica anywhere, so he moved into the next room.
Here dancers swayed, beckoning, undulating to the pulsing beat of glaze-rock.
Colored lights blinded, then revealed, as a haze ofdrugmists drifted through
the air. He breathed too deeply; his vision began to swim and dizziness
threatened to topple his sense of balance. He found no sign ofMarica here,
either, so he pushed through the electricsoundguard into the driver's
compartment, sparks of static electricity ghosting over the folds of his
clothes.

Alone,Marica stood next to the driver's seat, looking out across the city's
lights. She turned when he cleared his throat, and he saw she'd been crying.

"What's wrong?" he asked. There was a lump in his throat. He could feel his
heart beating faster.

"We're so alone in the world." She stepped close and leaned her head against
his shoulder.

He hesitated a second, then pulled her tight, hugging her like she'd never
left, never annulled their marriage, never abandoned him. God, it felt good.
For a second the months were reeling back and she was his again and they were
in love, just the two of them together against the world.

Then, remembering the pain of loss as she grew bored and drifted away, he
forced himself back, holding her at arm's length. His hands were shaking ever
so faintly, and nothing he could do could control them.

"No,Marica ," he whispered. "Not again. Not this time."

She sagged. Trembling, he let her collapse at his feet. Softly she began to
sob.

Crisbit his lip, torn a million ways inside. He didn't know what to
do.Alienation. It was just anotherglitterfad , ultimately meaningless. And, he
reminded himself, sure to pass.But for now she needs me. For now . . .

He couldn't help himself. He knelt and hugged her, and once more his heart
surged inside him and he experienced that strange joy, that strange
fulfillment, he only found at her side.

"Drive us?" she asked.

"What happened toKyan ?"

"Brainblotted."She pulled back a little. "We locked him in the closet till he
recovers. Nobody else wanted to drive, so we waited for you. You'll do it,
won't you?"

"Do you want to go home?"

She shook her head, gesturing vaguely west, toward the spaceport. "Please?"

He bent to kiss her, but she pushed him away, laughing."Just friends."

"I need to paint you."

"You already did."

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"I need to do it again.For me, not the gallery this time. So I can remember
you."

"Just friends," she repeated.

"I'll kill myself!" he swore. "I can't live without you!Marica, please!"

"No,Cris . I'm sorry . . . it's over."

It felt like nails being driven into his coffin. Angrily he thought,It'slike
we never had anything between us. He ignored the dark impulses within, the
little voice that said,Hit her, make her pay, she's killing you inside.

Instead, he slid into the driver's seat and buckled the harness across his
chest. Digital readouts appeared on his retinas: a haze of numbers and view
options. Everything checked; they were ready to go.

"Alienation,"Marica was whispering as she gazed out the viewport and hugged
herself. She said it over and over again like a mantra: "Alienation,
alienation, alienation."

* * *

She steered him not to the spaceport, but to the warehouse district. This
late, it lay empty, a ghost-town of towering old brick buildings. They roared
down deserted streets seemingly at random. ThenMarica flicked on theaircar's
underbelly lights. Pavement leapt to life: scurrying rats, bits of trash, dust
and dirt and decades' accumulated grime.

Crisbegan powering down, assuming she wanted to land, butMarica shook her
head. "Keep going," she said.

Then it hit him. "You're looking for aliens," he said.

She smiled, eyes scanning the street ahead. Sometimes,Cris knew,illegals
stowed away on freighters and made their way to Earth. The police made
periodic sweeps through the spaceport and its outlying sectors,rounding them
up, but invariably a small number slipped past.

"There!" she said, pointing.Cris caught a glimpse of something like a small,
hairless bear ducking into an alley.

"Land,"Marica said. "That's the one I want."

Crisfelt confused, out of step. "Why?" he had to ask.

"It's coming to the party."

"You don't even know if it's intelligent!"

"Does it matter?"

Yes,Cris wanted to say, but he didn't. That might upset her, and upsetting
her might screw up their chances of getting together again. She didn't seem to
have taken a new lover yet. He could still hope, still plan, still dream of
her.

Toggling the automatic landing sequence, he stood and offeredMarica his
elbow. She took it. Arm in arm, they passed through thesoundguard , through

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thedanceroom to the main doors.

"Alienation," she said loudly, with great affected sighs, "can make you
happy!"

Abruptly she screamed.Cris jumped, caught by surprise, and when
theglitterfolk began to applaud and gather around and pat her on the back, he
cursed them. But it wasMarica who drew his eye, and he couldn't push her from
his thoughts no matter how he tried.

* * *

Theaircar grounded with a jangle of chandeliers and a renewed popping of
champagne corks. The music started again, now weirdly atonal, full of drums
and primitive rhythms. Dancers began to gyrate.Cris glanced atMarica and found
her sheathed in a BettyBoop hologram.

The doors opened with a hiss, and a sour, vaguely chemical smell poured
in.Cris moved to the doorway and foundhimself gazing out at the wall of a
bleak gray warehouse. Streaks of light blazed across the sky as starships came
and went from the spaceport a few kilometers away. The night seemed singularly
uninviting.

Maricagave his shoulder a squeeze. "Excited?" she asked.

"I don't like it," he said. "Let's get back to your house,Marica . This isn't
fun."

She laughed and gestured grandly. "We're for alienation. That's the theme
tonight.Alienation.Alienation. So we need an alien.Right?"

Crisnodded gloomily. "I guess." It was going to be that sort of night, he
could tell, full of odd meanings, full of odd portents. Perhaps --

"Tam, David,"Marica called, and a couple ofglitterfolk with quicksilver hair
gave up the dance to join her. Faithful hounds,Cris thought.Marica passed
outlightsticks andtanglenets from a boxlabelled MEDICAL SUPPLIES, and gave all
three quick pecks on the cheek, "For luck."

Cristromped out with Tam and David on his heels. Buildings loomed as far in
each direction as he could see. There were no visible windows or doors, of
course; those lay atop roofs.

Standing a moment, getting his bearings, he waited for his eyes to adjust to
the dimness. It wasn't truly dark this close to the city; the sky glowed the
yellow-brown of an old bruise, creating a perpetual grim twilight.

He faced the alley.Get it over with. He gestured Tam left and David right.

"Circle around", he said. "I'll go straight in. We'll see if we can catch
it."

They padded away.

The beat of drums from theaircar felt like a headache coming on.

Chris sighed, rubbed his eyes, and turned up hislightstick until it cast a
brilliant blue-white glow. He clipped it to his belt. Hefting histanglenet ,
he started forward.

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The alley stank. He could smell the heaps of rotted fruits and vegetables
before he saw them. Beyond lay empty plastic packing crates, bits of smashed
machinery, and all manner of other garbage which warehouses and spaceport
alike had dumped here. His swinginglightstick created huge, darting shadows.

A giant ratchittered at him from atop a crumbling heap of bricks. It had to
be a meter long, he thought, and that wasn't counting its tail -- some weird
freak or mutation. Shivering, he flashed his light in its eyes. It scurried
away.

Ahead, a board creaked. He raised his light.

"Tam?" he called. "David?You there?"

No answer.Heart pounding, he eased forward. The stench grew worse with every
step. A carpet of rotting pulp squelched underfoot.

Then he came to a naked corpse lying face-down behind the smashed remnants of
a huge shipping crate. A pool of dark blood had congealed around the man's
body, and little clawed footprints had tracked blood across the man's back.
The air reeked with an overpowering sour-sweetness.

Shivering involuntarily,Cris rolled the man over with the toe of his shoe.
Blood had settled in the left side of the man's face, making it blotchy and
discolored. Three rows of evenly-spaced cuts . . . claw marks? . . .gouged the
chest. Most of the stomach was gone, the soft inner organs torn out and,Cris
thought,eaten . Rats certainly hadn't done that, not even giant rats.

He let the body fall and tried to keep his own stomach from heaving. This
wasn't just another alien, it was amankiller . He began to back up.

Something rattled. He whirled and found a creature like a huge, ugly gray
frog perched atop a staved-in plastic crate. It had a mouth and three holes
for nostrils, but no eyes. How had it gotten behind him?

Thin, almost skeletal arms flexed. Bits of some red, stringy material hung
from its maw, and dried blood,human bloodCris was certain, splotched its
hairless chest and arms. It had no genitals.

Hetensed, hand on thetanglenet's trigger. Run!something inside him cried, but
he kept still as a marble sculpture. If he turned his back on this thing, he
knew it would attack.

The alien shifted, the crate creaking.Cris searched its face for eyes -- how
did it see? --and found nothing remotely human in the empty gray ridges above
its mouth.

The tufts of hair atop its head began to writhe. A feral almost-growl rolled
from deep in its chest. Bolder now, it hopped to the ground, rose on two legs,
and took a step toward him. Claws like ebon knives slid from its fingertips.

Crisflung thetanglenet as it sprang, and the world became a frantic blur of
movement as thetanglenet spread out, seeking movement. Its probes caught the
alien full-on, wrapping itmummylike in webbed strands, and the more the
creature struggled, the tighter it grew. Seconds later the creature lay
trussed too tightly to move.

Criscaught his breath. Cautiously he moved forward, squatted, and looked the
thing in the face. The tufts on its head hid four pencil-thin eyestalks, he
discovered. It was watching him.

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"Do you speak English?" he asked.

Its body began to melt. He could think of no other way to describe it. One
second its flesh was firm, and the next it was liquid, flowing against
gravity, rippling, changing.

SuddenlyCris found himself looking at the huge rat he'd seen earlier. He
leaped back with a cry of alarm.

The creature's transformation had taken less than a minute. Now its powerful
hind legs heaved against thetanglenet , stretching it. Teeth bit atdurasteel
webbing; claws sawed at individual strands. But the net held, drawing even
tighter.

And abruptly the rat lost its form. Its fur melted; its bones shifted. And
then a naked man lay in thetanglenet : he was perhaps thirty-five, a touch of
gray at his temples, eyes dark,skin sallow.

Obscurely terrified, yet too fascinated to run,Cris took a step back. That
face -- he knew it. It belonged to the dead man behind him.

He turned to run, but the creature called, "Wait . .. "

Crishesitated. "You can talk?"

"So easy . . ." The thing's voice was cool, fluid, somehow beautiful.

Crisshivered. "What are you?"

It gave a series of clicks. "Your language has no word." Then, slowly, almost
reluctantly it seemed toCris , it added, "I . . . in one of your machines was
caught, packed among . . . sugar-reeds. Two days ago . . . I have freed
myself."

"You murdered a man!"

"Your language was needed. No harm was meant. Let me go.The word . . .
please?"

"You tried to kill me!"

"No, only talk. Let us . . . bargain, yes? Our thought-streams, so different
. . . I . . . master the humanness. Help me . . . I help you.Bargain?"

Crisgave a snort. "You can't possibly help me," he said, thinking ofMarica .

"Try?" it urged.

"I want-- " He broke off. "I want --" Finally , voice rising in desperation,
he said, "I want my wife again. I need to paint her picture for the rest of my
life. I need her, and nothing you can do can help me."

"If you need form, I -- will provide. Bring -- I must see."

"You can take her form?" he asked, hardly daring to believe.

"Change . . . so easy . . . yes."

"Then -- I agree."Cris stood, feeling light-headed. It seemed impossible . .

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. he couldn't let himself hope, not yet.Marica had shattered his dreams too
often. For all he knew, the alien might turn on him when he let itloose,
murder him as it had murdered the other man.But for the chance to paintMarica
again . . . for that he would risk everything.

He deactivated thetanglenet and held his breath. The alien stood, touching
its human arms and legs, probing its ears and nose and mouth wonderingly.

"So different . . ." it said. "Flat . . ."

Crisdid his best to explain aboutMarica , about theglitterfolk , about their
party and their alienation kick. The alien said, "Yes," several times as if it
understood.

WhenCris finished, the alien resumed its natural form. They needed that, he
knew, to get close toMarica . The alien needed to see her, to study her.

"Ready?" he asked.

It made a clicking noise in its chest, under its skin, and followed him when
he moved cautiously toward the mouth of the alley.Cris could barely contain
the euphoria that threatened to overwhelm him.

When they reached theaircar , Tam and David were waiting. They hadn't
followed orders. Turning, they scrambled inside, calling, "We got the alien!"

AndMarica , beaming, appeared in the hatch to welcomeCris like a homecoming
hero.Holos played over her body, and she flickered between Elvis and Marilyn
Monroe.

"Ugly," she said, appraising the alien. "But he'll do."

"You can always give him a bath,"Cris said.

She giggled. "Let's go to my place!More champagne!"

Jade Moon brought a tray of glasses, and everyone took one, even the alien,
though it didn't seem to know what to do with it.

MaricapulledCris into the pilot's compartment. The alien followed like a
trained dog. WhileCris strapped in,Marica sealed them off from the rest of
theaircar , turned on the lights, and gave the alien her full attention.

"He'll do," she said. "Oh yes, he'll do fine. Is he friendly?"

"Yes,"Cris said, immersed in the computer read-outs. He powered up
therepellers , checked everything, and lifted smoothly. The computer reported
light traffic on the course he programmed, so he switched to autopilot.

When he disengaged from the computer, he foundMarica lying on the floor with
the alien hunched over her, its arm buried to the elbow in her mouth.Marica
had a weird, glazed look on her face. Lumps like kittens crawling through a
garden hose were traveling from her body inside the alien's arm.

"No!"Cris screamed.

His stomach churned; his heart pounded like a hammer. Frantic, he tore the
pilot's harness away and launched himself at the creature. Everything seemed
to be moving at different speeds, the alien in slow motion, himself slower
still, and yet his mind raced ahead like a runaway train. He called himself

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all the vile things in the world, a stupid, dreaming fuckup too stupid to know
right from wrong, love from a hole in the ground.

The alien batted him away him with its free hand.Cris felt like he'd slammed
into adurasteel wall. Rebounding, he struck his head on the pilot's seat, and
everything went dark.

* * *

The next thing he knew,Marica was calling his name. He smelled her perfume
and smiled.

Then he sat up, head aching, and sawMarica . Then beyondMarica he saw a
withered husk of a body. Pale, piercing blue eyes gleamed in that shriveled
head. It took him a moment to realize what it meant.

"Are you all right?" theMarica next to him asked.

No!something inside him screamed. He tried to crawl to her.She can't be dead
--

"Easy." The alienMarica pushed him back. "I didn't mean to harm you. But you
would have stopped my --" More clicks.

Cristried to speak, couldn't. His hands clenched and unclenched
spasmodically, and then words he'd never voiced while she was alive all came
flooding out:

"I loved her. How could you? You promised!"

"I promised you her image." The alienstood, spread its arms,Marica's arms. It
had donned herholobelt ; geometric designs rippled across its human skin in
odd patterns. "So?"

Crissobbed, feeling all chopped up inside, but couldn't take his eyes off the
alien's beautiful face.

It smiled asMarica would have smiled. "I understand you more now. She was a
creature of wealth and power, but fickle in her tastes. If you are curious,
she liked you in her way.But there was not what you would call love."

"I knew that," he said bitterly. He turned so the creature couldn't see his
face, wouldn't see the loss and fear and hurt all jumbled up inside.

"Then why are you so concerned?"

Criswent to the pilot's seat and sat mechanically, refusing to speak,
refusing to look atMarica's body or her alien double. His eyes brimmed with
tears. Blinking, he gazed into the night. Pain filledhim, an ache he thought
would never go away. It hurt so much he longed to curl up and die.

"I only want to go home," the creature said. Its own homesickness carried
through the filter of an alien body. The creature squeezed his shoulder.
"Crispin "

He wrenched away. "Don't touch me!"

"I can be her for you, the way you wanted. It's all here inside me."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He pressed his eyes shut. "It wouldn't be the

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same."

"How?"

"I'd know." He looked at her -- and the thing that had become her. The alien
smiled withMarica's quirky smile.

The autopilot beeped.Cris glanced at the controls. They'd reachedMarica's
estate; he must have been unconscious longer than he'd thought.Long enough for
an alien to suck out her soul.

When they landed, he fled on foot. The alien called to him inMarica's voice,
but he didn't look back.

* * *

Marica'sface haunted him every inch of the way home. He saw her in
reflections, in the play of neon on glass, in the smoke and clouds and exhaust
fumes. Her laugh sounded in the whine ofrepeller fields; her voice spoke
through muted music.

Two hours later, when he stumbled into his studio, he came face to face with
an unfinished canvas. He had the background done, a bleak wintry field with
bales of hay stacked at one end. It needed a figure to be complete --Marica's
figure.

He seized a brush and tried sketchingMarica from memory, but his vision of
her had all gone sour and he couldn't seem to catch the curve of her cheek or
the swanlike arch of her neck.Gone.Like he'd forgotten her.Like he'd never
drawn her before.

He hurled his brush away in disgust, smashed that canvas in a blind
frenzy,then scattered all the others stacked against the wall. God, why didn't
the pain go away?

Conscience,he thought suddenly. He needed to purge himself. Isn't that what
you did? Cleansed your soul, purified your flesh,scoured the ashes of your
mind?

He crossed to thevidphone and made the call he should've made the moment he'd
seen the alien.

"Police," said a bored-looking man in black uniform.

"I . . . I want to report a murder,"Cris said.

That got the man's attention. He touched buttons, read informationCris
couldn't see. "You're CrispinSzand ?"

"Yes."

"Officers have been dispatched. You know this conversation is being taped?"

"Yes."Numbly.

"And anything you say can be used in a court as evidence?"

"Yes." And on and on they went through the routine.

Minutes later the doorbell rang. "That's them now," the man said. "Let them

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in."

Crisrose and opened the door. Two women in blue uniforms were waiting, one a
striking blonde, the other dark.

They introduced themselves and showed their badges. "You reported a murder?"
the dark-haired one asked.

"Yes. Come in."

Then listened quite patiently while he babbled his story, but he could tell
they didn't believe him. One look around his studio, at the paint-splattered
walls, at the canvases he'd destroyed in his fury, made it clear he'd gone
insane. His pants had garbage stains from the alley, his shirt had paint all
over it, and he hadn't shaved or showered or combed his hair.

"I'm sorry," he said then, spreading his hands. "I know how this must sound.
But if you'll call her house, you'll see. Thatthing will answer."

"Sir . . ."

But he insisted, and finally they gave in. The alienMarica answered on the
second ring.

"Are youMaricaDonetti ?" the blonde officer asked.

"Yes, of course. Is something wrong?"

"Do you know a CrispinSzand ?"

"He's my ex. Why?"

"I think it's getting clearer." She explainedCris's wild accusations.

The alien laughed asMarica would have laughed and denied everything asMarica
would have denied it. Who could believe such an impossible story?Cris found he
couldn't blame the police for their skepticism. It did sound crazy, even to
him. He only wished none of it had happened.

"Crispin is a great artist," the alienMarica explained, "and he suffers
strange outbursts and odd delusions at times. That's what makes him agenius,
isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am," the blonde said.

So they arrestedCris instead.

Figures,Cristhought as they led him away.And justice triumphs once more.

* * *

They let him go that afternoon with stern warnings about what happened to
citizens who filed false reports. He agreed to leaveMarica strictly alone and
considered himself lucky. If they had discovered the alien, he would certainly
have been an accessory to murder or something like that. Perhaps this was best
in the end.

Over the next few months he found he'd lost the will to paint. He lived off
sales of his finished works. With the supply cut off, prices began to climb.
Rumors spread that he was burned out, or dying, or insane. Someone ferreted

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out the story of his arrest and that seemed confirmation enough for most.

Crismade enough to live comfortably. He took to spending all his time
scanning theNewsNets for articles about the alien. Being (as she was) queen of
theglitterfolk ,Marica had a certain following, and her every notorious move
made the social files.

Slowly,Cris noticed, the alien was easingMarica from the public eye. She
became a recluse, then an ardent investor in space. "GlitterqueenComesOf Age,"
read the last article he saw about her.

She'd used most of her fortune to buy a frontier planet whose main export
seemed to be sugar-reed. She'd even booked passage out there to inspect her
new purchase, in a move that surprised everyone butCris .

Criswent down to the spaceport the day of her departure.Marica wore simple
robes now, not the outlandish costumes that had made her such a rage
amongglitterfolk , and none of her old friends had turned out to see her off.
She boarded the starship alone, with only the crew around her, and that was
the end of it all.

They flamed off not long after.Cris stared until he couldn't see their ship's
tail of fire anymore, and a long time after.

He felt hollow inside, like he'd lost more than he knew. But he also felt a
curious sort of relief, a great burden lifted from his soul.Free, he
decided.I'm free of her.

For a time he wondered how much ofMarica the alien would take back to its
world . . . and whether it could free itself from her grip. Even in
death,Marica had power.

But now, when he closed his eyes, he didn't see her face anymore. And maybe,
he thought, just maybe he could learn to be happy again.

THE END

Visit John Gregory Betancourt's web page.

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