Episode 7. The Sea Pig And the Sun: Hatching the Invaders
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Series Guide: List of All Episodes
Still wearing Wick’s blue plaid pyjamas, Qoph hops through the window into the back yard. More accurately, his shapeshifting body oozes through the screen’s grid — and the mundane cloth pajamas fall softly to the bedroom floor. Going to the window, Vi sees Qoph’s strands reassemble themselves on the lawn, like a bushel of pho noodles weaving into — a plausible simulacrum of her husband. A sly, velvety fake Wick. He roots in the compost heap and — behold, here’s that top-of-the-line white Mercedes that Vi always wanted. Except, as mentioned, it’s three inches long. And it’s a disguised and scaled-down giant sea pig.
She swells to full car size. She’s a convertible today, with red leather seats and a buffed walnut steering wheel. Qoph vaults in, and Waama levitates the thing to the other side of the house, presumably landing in the driveway.
“We should make signs for her sides,” goes Vi. “Saying Friends of the Library. That way it makes sense for us to be in the parade.”
“No need to make signs,” says Koral dismissively. “Just ask Waama. Whatever makes you happy, Vi.”
“What exactly are you guys made of?”
“Didn’t we already explain this?” says Koral. “Several times? Waama is a natural computation inside a sea pig, which she uses as a body. Qoph and I are processes living in clones of you two. Grown from cells in your bodies.”
“Not real clones,” protests Wick. “You’re changing your shapes all the time.”
“If you ever take the stick out of your ass you can shapeshift too,” says Koral.
“I did shapeshift,” says Vi. “I was a wasp yesterday.”
“Did you like having sex with Qoph?” Wick rudely asks.
“Oh, be like that,” goes Vi. “The sex was…different. Borderline hideous. But weirdly, I liked it. How about you with hottie meat-blanket Koral?”
“Not unpleasant,” Wick gingerly says. “I wouldn’t rule out a repeat.”
“You wouldn’t, eh?” goes Vi, flaring up. “You do grasp that Koral and I are pregnant — thanks to yesterday’s romps?”
“Gravid with fifty eggs apiece,” says Qoph, walking in through the bedroom door. “Hosts for incoming emes. Labor day!”
“The eggs will be very small,” Koral reassures Vi. “And I might birth mine in a non-standard way.”
In other words, Vi’s on her own. Screw them all. To put them off balance, she begins heavily flirting with Qoph. “I’ll dress you for the parade,” she tells Qoph, patting him on the cheek. “I’ll put you in such the cute outfit. And Koral, we’ll pull together a killer look for you.”
“I could grow my own clothes,” says Koral, not really trusting Vi.
“Oh, do let me help,” says Vi. “We’re beyond being catty, aren’t we? But please, I do need to know what the hell is going on. Why do the emes want to infest miniature copies of fake humans?”
“It’s all about Waama’s trip to the Sun,” says Koral. “We’ll have human and meatie pairs. They’ll bounce vibes back and forth. It’ll produce a certain kind of energy.”
“Why the Sun?” says Wick, totally not getting it.
Koral shrugs. “Big, bright, vibrant. God-like. Very impressive to an eyeless sea pig who spent her life in the darkness of the ocean abyss. Have you ever seen images of solar flares? Or of sunspots? Unbelievably rich natural computations. Not necessarily for me — but Waama has a thing.”
“You guys,” says Vi shaking his head. “Endless layers of jive. Waama herself is not a sea pig, right? She’s just been living in one, and who knows why.”
“You’d have to ask Waama about the details,” says Koral. She pauses, then does her giggle. “Except — thing is — Waama isn’t talking anymore. Not till she’s on the Sun. She’s saving herself for the big time.”
“Moving right along,” says Wick. “Another question. How come the eggs for these hundred incoming emes had to be made by us having sex with you and Qoph? For making your meatie copies of Vi and me, you just took random isolated body cells from us.”
“We needed a way to get started,” says Qoph. “And those cells weren’t exactly random. They were from your sex organs.”
“It did feel like sex,” says Vi.
“Sex is the traditional form of first contact,” goes Koral.
Half an hour later, they’re in the Mercedes, creeping along Main Street with Qoph and Vi in the front seat, Qoph at the wheel. Koral and Wick are in back, with Wick holding his pod of smeel.
Koral wears dramatic red lipstick and a strapless silver gown that Wick and Vi’s daughter used for her prom. For his part, Qoph looks sharp in a white button-down shirt with a dark silk jacket and black jeans. California formal. Wick wears a rust-red short-sleeve shirt with fish on it, plus jeans and sandals. Vi’s in gold earrings and a candy-striped cotton dress with a billowing skirt.
They’re right beside the little downtown park, a grassy square by the post office, with a couple of redwoods, a misty fountain, and an antique iron bell from who knows where.
Ahead of them are a couple of cars with local politicos, celebs, and high rollers. Vi notices Soxx Whitsett up there. The artist who was at the beach when Qoph and Koral showed up. Figures she’d be in one of the lead cars. She sells her large, abstract landscapes all over the peninsula. Vi sees no sign of Soxx double, but even so she wonders about the woman she saw with Soxx on the bluffs.
The Los Perros High band is at the head of the parade, led by the cheer squad. But now they’re at a standstill. A country cow has galumphed up from the rear of the parade, and the cow has a prob with a tall girl who’s imitating the moos with her trombone. The cow lowers her head and bellows, ready to charge. A tentative tuba goes oomp. A Kiwanis club clown in a go-kart calms the cow with a head of lettuce from the deli.
“Vi!” calls a woman spectator. It’s Soxx Whitsett — lean, hip, and charismatic, in solid, sporty clothes. But, wait, Vi can still see a version of Soxx in the car up ahead, so — shit, the emes did get to Sox.
“What’s going on here?” Soxx asks Wick and Vi. “Why do you have doubles?”
Vi’s not sure where things stand. By way of stalling she tells a lie.
“These two are our twins,” Vi tells Soxx. “And they’re married to each other, just like us. Soxx, meet Qoph and Koral.
“This is way beyond any bullshit I’ve ever slung,” says Soxx, laughing.
“Thing is,” Wick smoothly adds, “we’ve been ashamed of our twins for all these years.”
“They were right-wing realtors in Orange County,” adds Vi. “But now they’re public housing activists.” It’s fun to be feeding Soxx a line of jive. She likes this kind of thing.
“Quite the turnaround,” says Soxx, obviously getting the picture.
“Happened yesterday,” goes Wick. “At the beach.”
“Me too.” says Soxx, ready to open up. “See my twin in the car up ahead? She calls herself Lilith. Says she lived in a deep-sea crab that was friends with a — sea pig? I was painting on the bluff by Seabright Beach. I was into an intense art space, opening my mind to the muse. And I was in this virtual art studio, but the other artists were, like, streams and clouds and shaking leaves. And then — whoa — I get an orgasmic whole-body flash, and a tiny person runs down my leg and it gets big. My twin. Lilith.”
“I saw you,” says Vi.
“Do you like your twins?” asks Soxx.
“We swapped partners,” says Wick.
“Up for an six-way orgy?” goes Koral. “With Lilith in the mix?”
The band-leader’s whistle blasts, and the Mercedes is inching forward again. Soxx walks off laughing. An heavy pang hits Vi’s midriff — and her labor begins. Right here, right now, in front of everyone. She slumps back. Her hands tremble. She edges up the hem of her red-striped tent skirt.
In the back seat, Koral rises to her feet. The accommodating Mercedes extrudes a grip for her to hold.
“La!” sings Koral, homing in on a pitch. “La, la, la!”
Vi sees something tumble out of Koral’s mouth. A tiny human with an eme inside. It lands in the street and scuttles off. Another one flies past. Another and another. Koral is performing a song, synched to the band’s pumping melody.
“Welcome to paaa-radise,” sing-shouts Koral, hoarse and tuneful. The Los Perros High band is rad enough to be playing a golden oldie by Bay Area pop punkers Green Day. Tiny eme-people fly from Koral’s mouth like specks of spit.
A heavy contraction hits Vi. She draws up her knees and pushes. Good thing she’s not wearing panties. From beneath her striped skirt, a herd of critters emerges, several dozen of them on the floor mats of the car, clambering up the panels of the doors, leaping onto the road, fanning out, joining forces with offspring.
The startled crowd churns; people cry out in dismay.
“Zonk them with the smeel pod,” Qoph yells to Wick. “Open it up.”
Wick untightens the pod’s vent. A shimmering rainbow-edged-ham-tobacco-perfume mist spreads from the Mercedes like smoke from a burning jalopy, or like the downdraft from a whole-hog BBQ stoked by cigars and ambergris. The crowd enters a spaced-out timed-out trance and — lo, it was good.
Each of the hundred little newly-hatched eme-hosting critters selects a target. The targets include the musicians in the band, the Los Perros VIPs, the cheer squad, and some of the spectators.
These selected humans glow and shudder as the emes vibe their minds. The emes shape their little bodies into miniature copies of their targets. They perch upon their hosts’ shoulders like puppets or dolls, gesticulating and calling out. Some of these “mini-me” critters scrabble into a pocket, or burrow into their host’s poufy hair.
“Keep the smeel coming,” Qoph reminds Wick. “Don’t hold back. That little pod is never gonna run dry.”
The air ripples with grids of lens effects. People play with their personal size scales, puffing up and shrinking down. It’s a crazy scene, but nobody’s turning violent. People are having fun getting to know their emes.
With his powers of vibe, Wick picks up scraps of the emes’ life stories. Seems like they’re all based on natural processes in Santa Cruz. Minds embedded in intricate ambient computations.
