The Dancer at the Brink of Heaven

By Linkama Tuchi

America is ruled by corporations made up of 17 triads called the 51. The only opposition is a motorcycle gang of misfit anarchist "The Gorgeous Song Of Shattering Glass". This opposition is gradually losing ground to the corporation and nearly neutral in their efforts . That is until they become allies with a trio of aliens resembling octopi who have come to help save the earth, which they consider to be a divine entity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linkama Tuchi
• Release date: Jan 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311927101

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE BIG MEET

From above, if mechanical flight were still allowed this close to High Caesarea, it would appear a multi colored snake was wending its way across the desert landscape. The Sun catching its colors in brilliant flashes as it rose and fell across hill and valley. A closer look reveals a line of motorcycles traveling to the west.

They are the biker gang, The Gorgeous Song of Shattering Glass. . The bikes themselves are converted from cement mixers from the 21st century, they

have retained the barrel, removed the cab, extended the front frame into an arrangement echoing the original configuration of the motorcycles of the 20th century. The barrel of each bike is decorated and colored by the whim of its owner, thus creating a chaotic visual whenever they ride together. The advent of anti gravity and gyros enabling the rider to maneuver and ride as did the original machines of that earlier age. Under law, all two wheel vehicles are prohibited, so these machines have three or more wheels in a line. The barrels serve any of a multitude of functions; home, shelter (temporary), cargo carrier, especially contraband. The last is most pertinent to our story. The bikers, also called Spigrats, are the unrecognized ambassadors between the ruling powers of North America, the China North America, the Indian Nation, and the remaining half of the United States. Canada still exists, but it is only a remnant of its former self. It now consist of Ontario, Quebec and New Brunswick. It remains neutral, being hemmed in by such powerful neighbors, never officially recognizing the existence of the other. Mexico of course is allied with, and incorporated into Indian Nation.

Or more properly named Aztec Nation as befits its ancestral origins.

The United States, in a fit of angry self-interest, has annexed Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, Greenland, all of the Caribbean and perhaps Brazil, which is supposedly an ally. It is now a vertical nation as opposed to a horizontal one. An upright posture, better suited to its perceived self-image. The official rational, of course, is that a state of war exists between the United States and the allied forces of China North America and Indian Nation. The fact that the US refuses to recognize their existence, or the fact that they lost the war to them does not enter into their perception of reality.

It has been some centuries since the end of the war. The Shatterglass are all veterans of that conflict, today they are on a journey to meet with officials of the Chinese empire, to gain their contracts for the coming decade.

The bikes of this era run on a number of fuels. The Glasses fuel of choice is hydrogen, allowing the machines to travel in complete silence, an option avoided at every opportunity. Here in the lands between the United State and China North America is a chance to open up the motor sounds so beloved by the Spigrats. The air vibrates with the atavistic sound of the motorcycles of an earlier time, completely artificial but sought at every available chance.

The group enters a sudden storm. Timk turns his head to the left, pressing his jaw into his collar bone, he clicks on the rain extension of his armor. The invisible helmet rises up a foot and extends its front above his forehead into a cowcatcher shape to send the rain off to each side of his head. At the same time he raises his left hand in a circular motion with thumb and index finger forming a V. The bikes behind him all go to city mode on their mufflers, the sudden silence washes over them like the rain itself. Tim turns his head to face Burl riding alongside of him.

Love the drumming sound of the rain on my helmet. I think it's one of the things I'll most miss when I'm dead.

Burl responds Fuck that shit, yer as nuts as I am, there's gotta be better things to miss. He is laughing though as he says this.

The storm having past and believing they have gone through the last checkpoint of Indian territory, a far enough distance so they can open up their mufflers to country mode, they are again engulfed in an envelope of sound. Within a mile however, they are surprised to see a flashing signal on a mobile tripod floating a few feet in the air, ordering them to stop for inspection.

Shit fuck, they got us on a nonscheduled check

says Tim, into the mike that keeps him in constant touch with the others. They all gear down and come to a clattering stop, right in front of a trio of Indian Nation warriors. One holds a ceremonial spear, a badge of office and wears a gorget denoting his rank. The other two hold a form of archaic machine guns. The two leaders know each other.

Hello Tim says Ox Dog

" It's always a pleasure to see you, but you know we got noise restrictions in our territory, why the fuck you run'n so loud,

I'm gonna have to fine your motorcycle asses. "

Laughing, Tim replies Aw come on dog, it's the open road, gotta feel the wind and the sound. Ain't much road left for us no more.

You can make all the noise you want back in the U S, here we got respect for the earth, not like you barbarian assholes.

That’s just it. The govment got such tight hold on everything, the only time we can cut loose is when we travel to the meets.

Ox Dog throws back his head in a barking laugh, his long black hair is suspended behind him in an anti-gravity ball so it loops down and rises up in a sphere just above his head, the hair remains in a constant position relative to his head.

If you lack freedom Tim, get the fuck out of the rotten states of America, they never did us any good. He nods’.

Why we got the fuck out. You know you'd be welcome, got no more blood rule to filter people out. Any good pagan like yourself would be more than welcome. Beside you being good people, the more numbers we got is that much more force to go against any U S invasion. We all know it’s only a matter of time.

.

No dog, we got too much family back home, too many relations spread out across the states. If we tried to leave half of us would be cut down before we made it half way out. Those shits of the 51 got us where they want us and ain't let'n go.

Well I gots' to fine you anyway Tim, this stop is on record, no way I could cancel it. I do have some leeway on the amount, so I will however only charge you a quarter of the required fine.

Ox gestures with a nod of his head and Tim holds out

his left forearm, rotating it slightly to clear his strigal from interfering with the signal. Ox Dog passes a recorder wand across it, it beeps twice.

Done he says.

I can reduce your fine because I nailed a bunch of those rat fuckin' Christian Vine Heads yesterday for the same damn offense. I shudder when I see those cruciform shapes of their converted tow trucks comin' over the rise.

Fuck. Says Tim,

Vine Heads already come by? Why the fuck you don't shoot them with those damn old guns of yours.

Guns? He replies.

What guns, you mean our symbolic spears?

Gesturing with a nod at the two soldiers behind him.

Spears? how the fucks they spears? That thing you carry on your back is a true spear, useless as it is. I mean those machine guns you guys carry instead of some decent sonic or laser shit.

No, they're spears. If you think about it Tim, the bullet is just the point of a spear or arrow. It just travels across space without a shaft. Or on a shaft of air. Don't need air shafts in the open desert. He smiles at his own joke.

Anyway you crazy spigrats, on your way. I got more speed traps to set, there's plenty folks travelin' to the big meet to deal with the Chinese. I'll see you at the cup of drink in a bit, just cause our countries are enemies, don't mean we got to be. An keep the sound down. I ain't sayin' there's more stops ahead, ain't sayin there ain't.

Tim grins and starts up again, in town mode of course, he gives a combined wave of salutation to the Indian trio and a command to follow to the hundreds of bikes that make up the group.

The roads of this new era are made of a material that is seemingly indestructible, combined with the anti-gravity technology of the permitted vehicles that use them, they last forever. The spigrats are among the very few of the populace not an official part of the government, who are allowed on them at all.

The other users are the cars of the ruling class of course, and the transport trucks of their commerce. Those cars just mentioned are more akin to mobile palaces, some three to five hundred feet long. This size requires the roads be of very gentle curve and incline. It is considered too uneconomical to tunnel through obstructions so the road loops and falls in a graceful manner belying its utilitarian usage.

Tim travels with a grin so wide it threatens to split his face horizontally, and given the fact that his jaw is the widest part of his face in any case, the effect can be unsettling.

He can't articulate it, but he loves the sensuous curve of the road hugging the rise and fall of the earth it defines. He is enveloped by a hologram as he rides. The singing sensation of the hour seems to embrace him in a curve across his face, Flushwater Jack and his group are so real, he seems to be a part of them. The few directly in front of him slightly transparent so he can see the road. Hardly necessary given all the automatic aids pertaining to driving these days, but a good precaution nonetheless.

In this particular season his hair and beard are tied with an assortment of braids and ribbons, all of different lengths. This is a look considered entirely masculine in this age, they wave erratically and stream behind in a non-stop blast of wind. He rides with his armor turned off of course so he can feel the wind in his face. Burl; the originator of the Glasses is riding alongside Tim. Painted in large letters on the barrel of his bike is his logo, ‘shit like a king; fly like an eagle '.

The logo on Tim's is more utilitarian, it simply reads Shatterglass 7, his title as leader.

Tim is singing along with the group, which surrounds him in a real time holli, one of the women singers’ steps forward and runs a hand through his beard with a warm smile.

Alligator Alligator His face is all mouth

.

His mouth is all teeth and he don't ever pout

You wipe your ass with paper and you hear yourself shout

Don't put no avocado sauce on my sweet potatoes

As he sings, Tim is Sackjammin, doing the leg lifting sideways stomp that accompanies the song, the machine is mostly on automatic so he knows nothing can go wrong.

So of course it does.

Each line of the song rises in loudness, the last being sung at full volume. At the word shout, there is a loud bang. The bike seems to twist in a motion that defies physics. The bike and its rider are air born, passing over the few riders who are ahead of him. As he is traveling inverted through the air, Tim twist his head at an angle so his jaw pushes the control embedded in his shoulder, turning on his armor. This crash occurs at a bend in the road, so Timk goes through a slight dune covered with scrub and disappears from sight. The bikes behind him all come screeching to a halt, going from a river of color to a multi-hued pond.

Burl leaps off his bike, his six hundred plus pounds light as a teenager due to anti grav implants,

Since he likes to ride naked, the sun glints off his silver tattooed ass as he scrambles up the rise. During the protracted battle of Denver, both sides released an unknown quantity of toxic gasses and chemicals in a rising panic of the size and scope of the battle. Apparently, one of the consequences of this toxic mix, to those who survived it, was to grant immortality. As best scientist can estimate, the five to six million survivors are likely to live at least forty thousand years.

Another effect is to alter the body types of these blessed recipients. Timk is one of those turned into a statuesque physique, termed the Greek God look. He had been close to this description in civilian life, so the effect in his case is one of enhancement more than alteration.

Burl into one of the huge refrigerator types. His shape, though massive, is not the full roundish shape most humans attain when overweight. Instead the effect is a squarish slab sided aspect, usually referred to as the refrigerator look, or the vertical cow, the flesh being firm and well muscled rather than rolling fat. Either type is also apt to add a foot or two in height. These affects are seen in both genders.

Jesus fuck mother Christ. He shouts,

I never seen anything like that. I hope to fuck his armor is on, if it ain't, there's no more Timk. Burl is the first to reach Tim, tangled in the wreckage of his bike, the others just behind. They pull him free and prop him against a boulder.

I think he's alive. Says Whatchagotta,

I can see him breahtin’, he's good.

What the fuck you mean good, he looks deader than dogshit, and that's pretty dead.

Whose got a Heineken, that'll fix him up good, Heineken's the sacred drink.

You dumbass shit, he's got his armor on, how the fuck could he drink it when he's out.

Turn it off', turn it off, don't nobody got his emergency code?

I do, I do but I can't think what the fuck it is.

Burl your mind's so scrambled you can't remember how to breath with out a clock taped to your ass.

Get Marquessa, she got his code.

A number of the Glasses shout, Yeah, yeah get Marquessa.

She does, it is utilized and they soon have him stretched out in comfort, apparently unhurt, but still unconscious.

A number of government cars have pulled up behind the glasses bikes, which are spread out across the road, blocking passage. These cars are three hundred feet long and as stated earlier, are more akin to rolling palaces. The first car is a military one, holding an escort of soldiers. The second car holds the important cargo. As the side of it slides open, a laughing drunken party spills out on the road, a cloud of intoxicating vapors exit with them. A tall elegant woman holds up one hand and the group goes silent.

What causes this disruption of our journey?

One of the bikers gestures at the line of litter and footprints traveling up the face of the dune. These people are members of the Fifty One, along with their near underlings and hopefuls, the corporate rulers of the United States. They also are on a journey to High Caesarea to meet the rulers of China NA, a clandestine meeting of course, as there is no official recognition between the two. The leader of this delegation is Bannerleaf Di Quagmo, she is 3/ 15 / 51, third of the fifteenth triad that rules America. She is bringing with her a wild traveling party of those desperate to attain upward mobility into the rarefied ranks of power. As always, she is accompanied by a plethora of aids, slaves, underlings, servants and soldiers. The soldiers confront the bikers still on the road, demanding they clear the way, they begin to do so. Even though the bikers are armored, they know better than to confront these men at this time.

Di Quagmo makes a gesture to stay. The party group begins to mill about, disappointed they are not included. As she begins to walk up the dune, curious to the cause of this breach of road ethics, a mass of her helpers scramble after her. They know they are not part of those ordered to stay behind. A few are pushing carts containing anything she might desire at a moment’s notice. If something bad were to befall her their lives would be short, their agony long. In point of fact, the same could be true if she merely encountered a displeasure. All these attendants wear the drab tunics of the lower classes, or slaves decorated only with the color bands of their status, as useful to their owners or masters.

Attend me.

This to a turbaned slave who walks backward to one side of her. At her order he begins to speak in low tones. He is her mirror.

"Oh most beauteous one, soft as the breezes of heaven is your skin, the patterns of your vitiligo shimmer to delight the eyes lucky enough to envision you. The clothing you have chosen, clings in erotic delight to add mystery to every aspect of your being.

Where you choose to reveal yourself, as in your left tit, it is a masterpiece of feminine beauty, it swells and sways as the motion of the eternal sea. The cut away folds across your hips reveal tantalizing glimpses of your magnificent cunt, in all words, the highest of the females of this Earth." He leans back slightly and raises both palms out to his shoulders in a physical expression of his voiced wonderment.

Your jewelry floats , falls and rotates about your person with the grace, charm and wit that only you could accomplish, the soft metallic song of their gentle clash are as auditory flowers.

His next breath is held unspoke. She has, with a subtle gesture, signaled enough.

Eyeing the wreck of his shattered bike, she nods in understanding. She has reached where Tim is lying, naked, his head propt against a small rock. The long rays of the afternoon sun glint and dance on the barely perceived wires of his armor just beneath his skin. Standing above him, she bends over to run her hand through his beard.

"I approve of this handsome beast. I will buy him.

Who holds ownership of him? "

We don't own people here. We're spigrats, the last free people of America. We don't sell en we don't own.

It is Eight Pound Henry who has spoken, as he does so he whips off the bandanna that covers his forehead, and leans his upper torso in a twist to face her. Tattooed in large letters is the phrase ' FUCK YOU ' across his forehead, as he always states,

You only get one chance to make a first impression.

As he speaks he of course turns his head to look directly at Di Quagmo. She could not miss him if she tried. Her face begins to scowl, then relaxes, the cloud of anger just beginning to form, dissipates.

A number of soldiers step forward, weapons drawn. She holds them back with a gesture.

Spigrats, yes. The flunkies we use to further our ends with the Chinese. Know this my fine rat, I am Di Quagmo of the Fifty One. Take a care jail trash. Your disrespect is foul to my senses, were I to choose to do so, I could have you and every member of your tribe dismembered and boiled into soup, to be fed to the unsuccessful. Those hordes that we feed in the kitchens of our generosity.

Oh great one, spare us your wrath.

It is Flemish Alice who has spoken, one hand holding the arm of Eight Pound Henry; as she speaks, she bows slightly forward,

My friend has spoke in a disrespectful manner it is true, but only under the stress of our good friend being injured, also he is our seven, our leader, we have no power to sell him, even if it were our way. We beg you to overlook this breach of manners on our part.

Di Quagmo has no real anger at the members of the Shatterglass and is willing to be placated by Alice's apology. The mottled skin of her face, is spotted by the reflection and shadow behind her slowly falling and drifting jewelry. She pauses in feigned consideration.

You have spoken well my child, I will spare you all. Not least that I wish you good trade with the Chinese. I am not one of the fifty one who support the CR, I do not wish to see a revival of the Christians. But you had best hold tight rein on that fool who spoke to me in such a manner. I will keep close watch on your group, keep well, and keep true, any disloyalty to America will bring you to a dismal end.

With this she turns in dismissal, returning to the road and her waiting vehicles. Her clothing clings tight in some areas, i.e. around her left bicep, in others it balloons out in flowing patterns.

The seat of her pants are cut away, the mounds of her bare ass flex and relax, rolling together like a pair of bowling balls in an invisible sack. Eight Pound Henry stares after her in disbelief; and appraisal.

"Disloyalty? We're the most disloyal assholes on the fuck'n planet, where she'd get her fuck'n info? Hey, I just got the answer of that famous old Zen Koan,

' What is the sound of one hand clapping? '

A spanking. I wonder where I got that inspiration."

He is laughing loud as he says this.

One of Di Quagmo's soldiers looks back and scowls at Eight Pound for staring at the rolling buttocks of his leader, but as she herself is indifferent to the eyes of the lower classes, has no option to speak and can say nothing.

Alice answers

You don't want to slap that ass Jackson, yeah you don't, and quit stare'n and cool the bullshit you asshole, you'll get us all killed, that fuck'n bitch's one of most powerful assholes on this dirtbag world. She's not spoutn' crap. She is one dangerous mother fucker. If she wanted to, she could do the shit she says and more. My guess is, of the few people above her in power, one of them wants us to succeed, if only to keep somebody else off balance, these power dog assholes got more games than you could imagine in a gallon of Heineken.

Yeah, with whiskey chaser agrees Eight Pound.

CHAPTER TWO

A DIFFERENT MEET

Timk has regained consciousness, a few medicinal beers and an explanation of the meeting with Di Quagmo has him shaking his head in wonder.

I’m glad I missed that one. She sounds like the Queen of Turds and damnation. Though her ass sounds like a sight worth seeing.

Alice laughs,

"as usual Tim, you got the right perception of the situation. Guess that why you're the seven.''

No says Tim,

you guys did great, especially you Alice, I am grateful, if we celebrated Christmas, I'd get you a present.

Alice laughs,

fuck you asshole, you can me one when we celebrate Imaltimic.

Tim laughs also,

"you got it Alice,.

But now to business, we got to get to the big meet. If we ain't there the Vine Heads’ll get the best contracts. They been squeez'n us to the wall, if they get the best of this round, we'll be in the pit for the next decade. I'm gonna send you guys on ahead, Burl and me will stay to get my bike run'n.

Between the two of us there's nothing we can't fix. "

What about if you can't fix it. What do you want us to do?

This from Marquessa the southbound.

We won't be but a couple days behind you. If something really goes shit fuck, we got you to stand in, you're second in command of the glasses, you know everything we need, and shit knows you talk a lot better than me, cuter too when you think of it. That can't hurt.

Yeah, I'm a beauty, no surprise there, but you're the one that shit head wanted to own, she must of seen you as pretty.

Ugh, bode, don’t make me shudder. I'm glad I missed that shit. No Marq, I want you there, you could be our spokesman with no trouble. I know you don't like it, but you'd do great.

He takes off the massive signet ring with the Glasses insignia on it and hands it to her.

If you need to OK any agreements, this will make it official. Anyway it's just a backup plan. We won't be more than two days behind you.

Burl and Tim watch as the group rides into the west.

Alright, let's get to work on this shit and make it good.

Five days have passed. Timk is sitting dejected, having made no headway in repairing his ride. Some time has gone by when he realizes Burl is gone, he gets up and wanders over the short rise of the dune. There's Burl, sitting in a small steam, a few feet wide. He's got a dozen or so small birds flitting around him, landing on his arms and head, looking a moment and jumping off again only to return. He is laughing a deep grumble, reminiscent of that old time and long gone image of Father Christmas.

Hey Tim, come on in, it’s a great way to cool off

he is distracted a few moments by the antics of the birds flitting about him,

bode, I love these little ducks.

Tim laughs, shaking his head, as he joins him.

Those ain't ducks Burl, they're sparrows, or whatever the fuck passes for sparrows in this god fuck'in desert.

They sit quietly a while till Burl begins to ask a question about Tim's ride but suddenly cuts off his speech and goes silent.

His face taking on somber look of concentration and some puzzled concern, somethin's commin Tim, somethin's commin.

He is looking downstream to his left, nothing is there but rolling sand, gravel and scrub plants none more than three to four feet high.

No, there is something, a vague twisting shape, approaching. An amorphous shimmering, defying a definitive shape. Till it gets closer that is.

Uh Burl, I ain't been taken any woo wax, have I? Tell me I don't see a ten foot octopus walk'n this way.

Burl laughs,

No I see him too Tim, but I get a good feel'n off him, and the little ducks ain't worried.

Tim has gotten up in a low crouch, his hand reaches out for a length of two by four lying on the ground,

" forgive me Burl if I ain't convinced your little ducks

know what the fuck is what. "

The creature is in range, it is something resembling an octopus, but not quite. It seems to have an infinity of arms and nothing that looks like eyes. Tim's shoulder tenses, he begins a hard upward swing at full strength.

How’s your dentine ya big fuck'n monkey,

he growls.

He does not connect. In a blur, a tentacle has appeared from nowhere, firmly grasping his wrist with such strength, his whole arm is immobile, his body twisting into a cartoon flip that leaves him lying in a heap, with his hand at the same spot where his swing was halted.

A strange gravelly voice growls out above his head.

No one, three crotch, is allowed to harm the dancer at the brink of heaven.

No, course not says Tim.

It’s just being approached by a hunk of sea food in the desert, that kind of fucks with my senses. I'm kind of stressed out over my situation with the big meet, which I can't get to considering my totally fucked bike. So I'm sure you can understand my reaction, and any way, this is killing me. I won't attack again, let me up huh?

Tim is being held by second octopus like creature, standing off to one side. He releases Tim's hand, and he falls in a heap, massaging his wrist.

Where the shit ball Christ did you come from anyway? You weren't there a minute ago.

I am always with the dancer, three crotch, always. You will be peaceful, because I will not allow it to be otherwise.

This creature emanates an aura of displeasure, though without eyes, it's difficult to be sure.

A third voice has entered the exchange. It or he is standing off to the other side.

KlaB he says

do not be so insulting.

His tone of voice is much gentler.

It was agreed between us to treat the humans with respect.

He turns toward Timk,

"we are the KarG eN ArK, we are here on a mission of great import. The fate of your world is dependent on our success. I am CaBeBee, the one preventing your attack is KlaB who sees himself as our protector. The first you encountered is our