PHANTASMAGORICAL
FREDA PAYNE
I can't take nothing from this flybook
home, and the air in this sky here is
dead. I've got another 14 million miles
to go, in light-year terms, and all I'm
doing is falling through dead space.
No propulsion but my own compulsion.
I've become a muscle man during this
flight, lifting tons of nothing, and doing
it right. Problems? Sure a few: I no
longer can recall where from I started
out. Was that Alaxar 203? Or Mantine?
Distant places only star maps know.
I come in, remember, to everything
here from the exact opposite direction
of everything you've known. You all
are self-centered creatures, let me add.
Not really in the center of anything, some
feeble race of knock-offs on an old and
discarded rock, among others long ago
cast-off from various speeding locations.
You've made up a lot about yourselves.
Central casting is draped in violet, and
the three-ringed sign was never Ballantine.
We let you get away with that one, but
it was all too close to a deeper reality we
didn't want you near : Trinity. You
even named a bomb site over it, and
unwittingly so. Now I'm sent, this
horribly long distance (again, your
terms; we have none of that), to either
wise you up or take you out. I can
return from where I've come. But you
folks will never get out of here alive.
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