First Book of Zyzie: Second Edition

By G. Francis Vaisey

The cover on this book represents a vision of the end-time for planet Earth. It is a vision from Zyzies mind of that upcoming event. In the foreground to the right is our wonderful home planet, Earth. Far to the right is our moon, pulled away slightly by some force beyond our comprehension.

In the background of the picture, a rogue planet looms. It has been destined to fulfill the predictions of religious leaders for thousands of years. You can see that the light from the sun comes from past the moon, out of sight, and the rogue planet has passed it on its way toward Earth.

In the background, past the rogue planet, in the darkness of space, you can see the stars. Some of them are closer and, therefore, larger. More to the right, our very own sun illuminates the dust from other destroyed, nearby objects. The nearby stars seem shaped like angel wings, ready to be the home in heaven God promised so long ago.

This book is the first in a series, depicting Zyzies quest to take the unloved throwaway humans from planet Earth and take them to their new homesthe ones God promised so long ago.


G. Francis Vaisey

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543440645

G. Francis Vaisey

About the Author His life started just as the apocalypse began. His personality formed in the science fiction and religious world around him. As the apocalypse unfold in the real world, he saw it followed prophecies in the Bible. Taking into account biblical scholars never heard of cars, airplanes, and even this side of the planet, those predictions seemed not so different from real life. Following his fascination with motorcycle chases, old-time Western movies, escape and evasion, he started to write in a group called Writers’ Medley. Many in the group enjoyed his unique 1950s sense of humor. A voice inside him would not let up until, finally, a book. He had been working on something, exposing the urge many have to control others and its ugly side. His book shows us all his respect for all life human or not.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Escape from Vermont

The original concept envisioned throwaway space monkeys. I believe God intervened, and we became engineered to prevent the total extinction of the human race. Now, fully evolved, here I am, with a wild caretaker and belly full of contraband, headed for Montreal. My outlaw caretaker and I are on I-89, in a traffic jam, what a surprise! How will I ever please God each day while obligated to do everything my outlaw caretaker demands of me? Ahead, about three miles north of Winooski, Vermont, at the weigh station, state officials are busy weighing tractor trailers. We are at the top of a hill. Ahead, the road looks like a ski jump packed with vehicles. Some, without air-conditioning, have their windows open. I smell sweat and hot motors everywhere. The trees on both sides of the road soak up the sun; I long to relax in their shade. The sun bakes us on our open motorcycles. It must be worse, though, for those trapped in their tin can–like vehicles.

I’m glad we are on motorcycles, in a slight breeze. Everyone sitting in cars seems so uncomfortable. I ask Jake, What is the problem this time? We have been stopped for at least ten minutes. Jake is my BUD (big ugly dude) and my caretaker. He reminds me of a bygone boxer named Sunny. Often he learns things before I do. His first boss is in Washington, so we never see him, or maybe her, I never know.

Jake has a second boss, Brian, who is not part of our government organization. He works out of Montreal. Brian deals with precious stones and anything illegally smuggled into Canada. Earlier, Jake put some jewels and pills in the fingers of surgical gloves, cut off for easy swallowing. I had to swallow them. I know I am to smuggle them to Canada for Brian. I always get paranoid when smuggling. Jake tells me to relax and not get so nervous. Looking around as if I have something to hide just proves I am hiding something. I secretly look around at humans anyway, like when they are watching animals in a zoo.

I see a driver, in the passing lane, driving a white van. He has linen-white hair, in dreadlocks, and his well-beaten nose stands majestically above a huge handlebar mustache. His lower lip has a diagonal scar, from left to the center, disappearing into a square bearded area sometimes called a soul patch. The dreadlocks look like a bleached string mop. We have been secretly staring at each other ever since we stopped. I wonder if something is wrong with my disguise. My secret moniker for him is Mophead.

Mophead looks at me, studying me with dark, squinty, gray eyes. I felt my skin crawl. He points me out to the large man, with a very deep tan, sitting in the rider side of the van. His head looks to me like a leather volleyball, with a hairy halo just above his ears.

There is another white van ahead of them. Someone with a rebel flag tattoo on his bicep gets out of it and talks to the well-tanned passenger. Both give me a look, like a pirate might give to a slow-moving cargo ship in the movies. I wonder if this has something to do with all of those jewels and pills in my belly.

Jake, I mumbled, two dudes in that white van are checking me out. They look tough. All I get is a corrective sidewise glance for bringing attention to me.

Jake snarled, Zyzie Zyzure, we are among humans. Try talking like an American. Stop mumbling like that old Western actor Gabby Haze. You are in disguise. Now you must talk and think like a real American female redhead! You have the female part just right. It is only the thinking and talking part you have to work on.

I replied with my best Vermont English, I do think like a real American, in New York English, not British. The accent part is what you scientists did when you created me. I thought a bit and, in a sarcastic canary cartoonlike voice, replied, Ricky, Ricky, I thought I thaw two blokes a creeping up on me. I thought I thaw two blokes, as mean as they can be. One is a mophead. The other looks like a leather volleyball. One is short, the other tall.

Jake laughs. Zyzie, Lucy is not a canary or even a real redhead. Besides, your hair is light orange.

I replied, "Neither am I. Real redheads don’t swallow rocks and certainly don’t hatch someone else’s eggs. Now, the two got me a cringing. Maybe we better tara while we got a chance."

Jake snapped again. "Hey, English, please. Cringing is Welsh for ‘nervous,’ and tara means ‘good-bye.’ Don’t make me sorry I took you out of the Mirrormar facility! The human eggs you refer to is the reason you exist. You are, after all, one of the surrogate mothers for all surviving humans. Most of your types never see the light of day. Show some gratitude, ape!"

Jake is right. Few of us ever go outside of Mirrormar. At Mirrormar, everything has always revolved around the prophecy that all humans on Earth will become extinct someday, not only in various religions but also in scientific journals. We are someone’s antidote to that prophecy. That is why we are engineered and enslaved. This is why we spend all of our time preparing for it. I am one of the lucky ones; Jake sometimes takes me out to see the world. Of course, he uses me for a mule, carrying packets to Montreal. He never uses me for a toy, though, like some caretakers do to my sisters.

I come back to my senses when Jake’s voice comes over my helmet. Zyzie, pay attention. We are starting moving again. First, the passing lane moves and then, thankfully, ours. The van that made me nervous stays in the passing lane, not yet able to catch up. The moon’s light, just a bright sliver in the clear evening sky. Darkness and stars soon will replace the bright sunlight. On the right, a few white wind turbines crank out electricity in the gentle breeze.

Jake sits beside me on the grassy side of the lane. I had been grouching at him for making me swallow stones again; pills are easier to swallow. We always try to please our caretakers, even trying to mimic their favorite actors in the films they like to watch. He calls me his Maureen O’Hara. I wonder what he would call Mophead.

The human Mophead continues looking straight at me. An eerie feeling runs throughout my bones. Jake does not notice, until I point to him again. Jake says, "I told you to ignore humans and stop calling him Mophead The chill up my spine warns me that bad things are about to happen, so I unlock my spoots. Spoots are like boots; however, I can unlock their sole. We have four hands, so when your spoots are unlocked, you can use your lower gloved hands when necessary. Anyone riding a motorcycle, barefoot, knows why we wear gloves on our lower hands.

Now the other lane starts to move. The van moves farther into the left lane and starts to pass us. As it moves forward, it veers to the right and then into our motorcycles. Several men jump out. I feel two of them drag me from my bike and into a nearby van. Now, the bike lies on its side, engine running like some kind of injured horse waiting to get up and run. Jake yells, Zyzie, defend, defend, defend.

After Jake demands, Defend, defend, defend, I have to react. I never thought in my wildest dreams that I would be called upon to defend against a human. Hurting humans is strictly prohibited. How can I get myself to do such a thing? Yet I have to obey Jake. I will just do the best I can without hurting anyone. I am not allowed be captured; that will create another Area 51, Roswell, New Mexico, incident. What will I defend against? Humans can do anything they want with us. We are not human, and, after all, Jake is not in any danger.

None of the attackers pays any attention to Jake. Jake drops his bike next to mine and follows me into the van. I hear the van rev up to leave with me and Jake inside. It can go nowhere in this traffic jam. Certainly, the van will not cut through the busy weigh station, with me screaming and Vermont State Troopers there.

With Jake in the van, the bad dudes have no choice but to attack him as well. Now I have something to defend. One human has me in a chokehold, and others were trying to tie my hands. Jake drops the one on my right arm, with one solid uppercut to his chin. It seemed to come from the floor. I hear a sound like a dry limb being snapped across someone’s knee, and then that bad dude crumples to the floor. I notice his jaw looks crooked. Jake grabs him by his belt and then just tosses him out of the van. I think Jake’s favorite boxer, Sonny Liston, would be proud of Jake. Jake often talks about his boxing days; this is the first time I saw him in action. Now it is my turn to get into the action.

I try to shake the other bad dude loose from my other arm. Someone behind me has me around the neck in a figure four chokehold. They smell like Tonga aftershave. Thankfully, my helmet makes choking me impossible. Over my earphones, Jake is yelling, Zyzie, use your quadridextrous judo. Jake lands a left hook on the face of the Tonga dude behind me. He releases his grip.

I am quadridextrous and learned Judo in that fashion. My spoots are already unlocked, so I grab the nearest ankle. I bring my elbow to the dude’s chin. The dude yells at me as he flies out the door. Sugar nuggies that is way too much fun. I feel something hit my helmet and spin around to face an unwashed dude in total shock. He is probably wondering why I am still standing. Now he can wonder why he is flying through the air. I sometimes carry a four-hundred-pound backpack on twenty-mile hikes. Tossing a two-hundred-pound jamoke out the door and over the bikes, on the ground outside, is small bananas.

I step on the club the jamoke dropped after hitting me. I rarely lose my balance but find myself crouched against the far wall of the van. I regain my balance, and then I look around for the next threat. Someone was standing at the van’s door. They have already thrown Jake out the door. I see some gunslinger reaching for a firearm in a holster between his back pockets.

I do not have time to think. Jake and some karate movies taught me what to do next. I am engineered to lock my muscles, kind of like a grasshopper, and release all of that energy at once. It is kind of like holding a finger back with your thumb and then releasing its energy, snapping the finger against the heel of your hand. I am against the far wall of the van, and I launch myself toward the gunslinger. I lock my right leg muscles and then release that energy through my right leg, aiming for that little apricot at the base of his skull. Ask any Navy SEAL what happens next. The gunslinger drops like a wet washcloth and lands like a cow pie, with his upper torso partly under the van. His legs are over my KLR’s exhaust. I hope he is not hurt too badly. I look around for other threats. I turn toward the front of the van.

The leather volleyball dude is coming into the cargo area of the van. He reaches behind him and pulls out a very large knife. Say what you will about firearm control legislation; a knife is quiet and can be just as deadly. With so many state troopers nearby, inspecting and weighing trucks, a loud firearm is a real bad idea. I didn’t expect him to lunge at me from so far away. He must not watch many action movies. Jake and I love them, and I learn some good moves watching them.

I manage a judo chop to the wrist. The knife flies from his hand. It cuts through my pants and Kevlar under-armor, nicks my leg, and then clangs on the van floor. That triggers my SDF. Self-defense fog is a genetically engineered thing, probably made from skunk DNA but much worse. SDF should have normally cleared the van, but my leather pants and Kevlar under-armor make it ineffective.

With all apparent threats neutralized, it is time to get out of town. Jake yells, Mexico, Mexico, Mexico. He points to some large motorcycles coming down the northbound breakdown lane. I escape the van. I am surprised when Jake pulls a medallion from my jacket, squeezes it, twists it like opening a bottle, and then throws it into the van. Then he reaches for his large belt buckle. He removes something, twists it as he did with my medallion, and then throws it in the van as well. It starts to smoke. I start to pull the humans out of harm’s way, when he yells, "Mexico, Mexico, Mexico, and I mean now!" I toss the gunslinger off my KLR650 off-road motorcycle. I lift my bike from the ground, twist the throttle, and run alongside. Humans are running from the van in all directions. Some of the staff from the weigh station head here carrying fire extinguishers.

Jake retrieves his bike and then heads south on the northbound lane. Jake is yelling, Get the hell out of here! I do one of those mounts you see in old Hopalong Cassidy movies. I cut to the grassy side of the weigh station. Now that I am on my bike, I have a mirror view of the fire Jake started in the van. Rassel frasits, I mumble to myself, We just hurt something belonging to a human. This is no way to please god.

I know attacking humans is the worst thing we Tangs can do. Now, I will be terminated, like a rabid dog. Perhaps they will use that as an excuse to terminate all of us and end the program. We rarely cry, but I do. I can barely see the van. My eyes are so filled with tears. What just happened? What did I do wrong? Jake had given me a dirty look. Maybe I caused someone to get mad and this whole thing is my fault. I never should have agreed to leave Mirrormar with Jake, to say nothing of bringing contraband into Canada. If I stayed at Mirrormar like I should have, no one would have tried to cut me open and everyone would still be safe. I dry my eyes and look in my mirrors.

Looking behind me, I see Jake turning his bike south on the northbound breakdown lane, straight toward the oncoming bikers. The fire in the van goes from a normal orange flame to a dark red one and then to blue and, finally, to a whitish-blue flame, like the tip of a cutting torch. The windows are exploding and the van roof melting. We are just south of the weigh station on I-89 North. Now even the DOT personnel are starting to run south, some carrying fire extinguishers. People are scattering from surrounding vehicles. What good will fire extinguishers do for such an enormous and hot fire? Wait a minute, I think. That medallion was part of my leather jacket. I think it was meant for me, if I were caught.

I cut to the right, on the grass, and then head north on the breakdown lane of the northbound side. I cut into the weigh station ahead. Funny, Jake has to waste precious time mounting his bike the usual way. Some bikers are still approaching us, coming down the breakdown lane. I size up the situation and decide to follow the grass around the right side of the blacktop. Jake is yelling, Mexico, Mexico, Mexico! into my earphones. I know what to do, and nothing will stop me now. First, though, I have to dodge some very angry DMV officials. I am able to weave around some parked trucks and almost run into one of the DMV guys arguing with a Canadian driver, speaking mostly French. One Canadian eighteen-wheeler is trying to reenter I-89 and nosed it partly into the driving lane.

The other van moves into the breakdown lane. The driver is watching me and runs into the truck, trying to nudge its way onto I-89. That is the one ahead of the one we just torched. I wondered if that is also a threat.

Jake yells, Mexico, Mexico, Mexico! Defend Brian’s stuff and get it to him as soon as possible. Usually Jake takes care of that detail. What am I supposed to do—hunt Brian down and pass the packets on his office desk? Anyone might think we were headed south to Mexico. If so, they will follow Jake. Actually, he told me to head north to Canada, to a little spot we called Mexico3. Sometimes I call it M3. It is one of several sites we call Mexico. Some are storage units, but this one is so much more. It is time to get out of town.

I bring my bike to full throttle and cut north onto the breakdown lane. With the eighteen-wheeler and attached SUV in my line of sight, I can only hear what sounds like a dump truck unloading milk cans, rolling them down a rocky hill. Then I hear Jake spinning a wheelie and heading south.

That is the last I hear from Jake. Jake is heading south at high speed, probably hoping any bad guys will follow him. He is out of the range of our helmets. The van we were thrown in is fully consumed by fire now. Had we not escaped, no trace of us would be left to violate the Roswell Mandate. The Roswell Mandate refers to an incident where one of our test balloons, with howler hybrid monkeys on board, crashed and started an alien scare. My concern: is anyone following me in the breakdown lane?

I size up the situation. I remember the time Jake stiff-armed someone’s passenger side mirror for cutting us off. I remarked, Jake, you just broke their mirror. He retorted, Never! I just folded it back. It has a breakaway feature in case of an accident. Now, though, that rude driver will have to get out of their SUV and snap it back in place. I guess that is what they get for cutting Jake of at the pass. That routine works for me this day as well. As I expect, many SUVs have open rider side doors, so passengers can fix the mirrors. I can picture a dozen SUVs with their drivers or passengers yelling at me while fixing their rearview mirrors. What a way to put a barrier between me and anyone who might want to chase me, especially down the narrow breakdown lane.

I am racing north of the northbound weigh station. There is the abandoned weigh station in the southbound lane. Just after that, I get my chance. A few impatient SUVs are U turning on the median. Ahead of me, some driver in a red Ford takes a chance and moves into the left lane. I cut past it and then go left onto the edge of the road, between the rumble strip and the median. Once past some center scrub brush, I jump onto the median.

I have to hang on for dear life on the grass. If I had kept on the paved section, I could go as fast as my bike will allow. I move to the narrow paved area between the median and the rumble strip on the southbound lane. I am looking for a break in oncoming traffic so I can go north on the southbound breakdown lane. Follow me, if you can, you tabernacs. My KLR goes off-road just fine, I mumble to myself. I move to the tarmac strip by the median to avoid a bridge.

The bridge crosses over a stream, joining two swamps, one on each side of the interstate. I lean down on the gas tank and lock my feet on the rear rider’s pegs. I cringe as the rumble strip disappears at the bridge over the stream ahead. I wonder if I will live long enough to pass it. There was little room to drive, especially at speeds over one hundred miles per hour, with oncoming vehicles traveling at near seventy miles per hour. Headlights turned on blind me. Roadkill is hard to see; vehicles crowd the center rumble strip, and guardrails fly by on my right. Oncoming traffic is brutal enough, but those big rearview mirrors on trucks are especially scary. With a combined rate of over 170 miles per hour, you could lose your head if you hit one. An SGT (silly green truck) decides to crowd me off the road. It misses. An RV driver is texting and strays toward the median; it has those mirrors that go past the side of the vehicle and are hard to spot. I get lucky this time.

After I pass the bridge, there is a second break as rubberneckers and gawkers slow down to look at an eighteen-wheeler that is lying on its side, blocking part of the northbound lane. I shoot over to the southbound breakdown lane. I swerve to the roadside grass to miss a Honda parking there. They ignore me as they were trying to get a better look at the accident. Ahead is Route 7 at Exit 17’s southbound on-ramp. I glance in my mirror, looking for any pursuing bikes, police cars, or vans. There aren’t any. I ponder what just happened.

I think of someone cutting me open just for the contraband Jake made me swallow; how rude. If I were cut open, not only would I die but also Jake and Brian will lose his contraband and our entire program could be cancelled. How do I get myself in these situations? An individual cannot serve two masters. I must serve my god first, but the Bible insists I must serve God by serving my master. My current goal is to get to Mexico3 alive. After that, I have to get the contraband to Brian. Brian does not even know who or what I am. I need to avoid the chance of anyone overtaking me on pavement. I drop onto the grass next to I-89, exit 17, and go to full throttle. The grade on the side of the ramp is banked and curved like a racetrack, only more so. The fence along Route I-89 here is far back from the interstate. My KLR has knobby off-road tires that dug in. The centrifugal force is so strong that my chest presses forward toward the motorcycle’s gas tank. I struggle for control. Suddenly, I am next to Route 7, looking at oncoming traffic. Darn those mirrors, I just barely duck that one.

Ahead is the Do Not Turn Left crossover to the Jasper Mine Road. I have two choices: screech to a stop before running out of blacktop, or dodge through oncoming traffic and cross the road. I choose the former. I turn around and find a break in the traffic so I can safely get to the other side. I continue to Bear Trap Road and head to the lake. I know the road well. It is hilly and windy with a surprise left turn, hard to see from the road behind. No doubt, someone will be looking for me now. I know I am paranoid, but if someone were chasing me with anything that can top one hundred miles an hour, well, a 650 isn’t big enough to outrun them. I expect that the police, the dudes in the vans, or the people on the big motorcycles, from I-89, will soon be on my tail.

I speculate that my pursuers will think I went south, following Jake, or, if north, I will head to Mirrormar. If I head for Mirrormar, I have to cross the Sand Bar, a local park on a causeway on Lake Champlain. Both sides of the Sand Bar road have a long a straight section. I would be helpless, with no place to hide. Mirrormar is our home barracks, near the Canadian border. From there, I can safely cross to Canada and deliver Jake’s contraband to Brian. Every fiber in my being screamed for me to go there, but I know I must first safely obey my caretaker. I did too much deciding on my own for one weekend.

You have to love Bear Trap Road; it starts with a curve that goes over a blind hill, not improving until later. There I know I stand a chance against any van, police car, or big road bike. The road’s short line of sight helps me. There are many side roads, cow paths, and driveways to duck into in an emergency. My KLR can go almost anywhere; however, vans and road bikes, luckily, can’t. If the police use helicopters to try to find me, I can hear them before they can see me. I also have to watch for a place to hide a bike, if necessary.

It is getting darker now, but with a sliver of moonlight, I can still see well enough to drive. I can even use a kill switch and turn off all of my lights at once. The evening sky will help me see on the very long, straight sections. I remember every curve from past adventures on this road. I remember that stinky, old red barn on one special straight section. When I smell it, I have to get ready for an upcoming sharp curve to the right. Other smells help me know just where I am. I enjoyed those smells more the last time I went by, a little more slowly, I can tell you. I remember another old barn and the old dead maple tree just before Sanderson Road. I decided to turn onto Sanderson Road, since going straight leads to Route 7 in Milton, and that could make me an easy capture.

Jake always warned me, Humans can decide things. Individuals like you don’t decide anything! Still you keep insisting on deciding things. Like the time you almost killed me when you decided you wanted to see what it was like to kiss a human, like in the movies. You dragged me into the spinning room when I wouldn’t do it. The room was spinning, and the centrifugal force splattered me onto the wall. You kissed me and then had to go for help. No, I was not smiling. The centrifugal force just pulled my lips back. Now stop deciding things and just do what I tell you! I started to wonder, What have I decided wrong this time?

Some motorcycle sounds are getting louder. Are they chasing me, or were they just out for a ride? Just before Sanderson Road ends, there used to be a sign for fresh eggs. Anyone seeing a motorcycle racing over a back road with its lights off will notice it; he or she may even call the police. I need to turn on my lights to avoid attracting attention from the doggy day care there. Just as I turn them on, I spot a family of skunks eating roadkill. I love all animals, so I swerve hard to avoid hitting any of the skunks. I struggle and regain control just before the end of the road.

I size up the situation, and I decide to turn left on Lake Road. I have to keep left again, later, toward the boat access at the lake. I fake turning right toward Milton, leaving tire marks on the road. I quickly turn around and then use my kill switch to shut off all my lights. I know I am paranoid, but there is a lot riding on safely getting to Mexico3. If I don’t get there, Jake will not be able to retrieve Brian’s contraband. When dealing with people on the other side of the law, you have to worry about being killed or injured for making a mistake, like the one I just made. I check my mirrors to see if I am being followed. I cannot see far past the corner, but I sure can hear the motorcycles getting closer.

I hear yelling, brakes, and skidding tires. I hope the skunks are OK. Sanderson Road ends in a T. There is a slight drop-off, and headlights make you think the road continues across the field. Many strangers have left skid marks there when they realize they are about to go into someone’s meadow. Now I hear tires skidding on pavement as the bikers try to stop before the end of the pavement.

Taking advantage of the situation, I give my KLR full throttle and put some road between me and any potential pursuer. If they actually are chasing me, they have to decide whether I turned right toward Milton or left toward the lake. Straight would take them over a meadow or into trees. I hope they split up or think I would not head for the lake; I could gain a couple of miles before any pursuer has a chance of reentering the chase. Just ahead, you have to know enough to stay left, or you will miss the access road to the lake. The right fork goes to Saint Albans Bay, ending by a restaurant. I decide to head for the boat launch access. The upcoming darkness will be to my advantage now.

My lights have to be on now so I can see the road. I am enjoying the apparent safety of the winding, hilly road. I can tune out my KLR and listen for traffic. Any pursuer, real or imagined, can’t sneak up on me. At the speed I am going, I must remember the road ahead. After several previous visits to that boat launch, I am quite confident the road can’t surprise me. I will soon pass an equine hospital, followed closely by the fork to the left.

I slight horse smell reassures me that the equine hospital is on the left, partway through a long, straight stretch. On previous visits, I marveled at the large, pristine fields surrounded by rust-colored, red wooden fences. They are as pristine, as you would expect any hospital grounds to be.

Like human hospitals, you rarely see patients walking around, all alone and outdoors. Instead, the building is very large. I imagine the long rear section includes both stalls for sick horses and accommodations for the staff. That would be similar to Mirrormar, or even most hospitals.

Ah, Mirrormar. My mind wanders back to younger, happier days. The smell of horses takes me to my tenth year of training. That was the year I started training for life on a female planet. A female planet is like Earth was before humans evolved. It is habitable but not evolved to the point where it will reject an alien life form. We have to live in harmony, with nature, on such a planet. Back then, I had to learn everything I could absorb about Earth’s animals. The book learning was at Mirrormar. We also learned the smells, sounds, and biology of most of Earth’s animals. Of course, that required studying sixteen hours each day while still doing our usual routine physical training. Those of us who were successful advanced to the next level and headed for a ranch out west.

Soon, I was on my way to the middle of nowhere. I passed long stretches of nothing but trees and road. Suddenly, there were houses, trees, barns, horses, and many white wooden fences. My first week revolved around shoveling, painting, and freshening up everything in sight. Next, I had to learn everything necessary about caring for horses, well or ill. On dude ranches, guests do not live with the horses. This is not a dude ranch. My cage is part of my horse stall. Fantazymo is the appaloosa horse in charge of me. She is gray with a spotted rump. I told her she was part Dalmatian. Fancy is more stubborn than the mules I read about at Mirrormar. When I got her to like me, she lost some of her stubborn ways. I finally realized the difference between stubborn and tenaciousness. I think she learned to trust my judgment. Her iron will was handy sometimes when you were on her back. I could not use reins or a saddle. Those are human dominance things. I have to learn to communicate with Fancy and convince her to complete any task requested. Fancy and I were going to be a team, or I was not fit to go to a female planet.

Communication and teamwork required us to have our own language. Back then, I did good imitations. Two weeks of hit-and-miss communications, and then we were both on the same page. The easiest one for Fancy to understand was Fancy, let’s go get an apple. At first, I ran alongside and then, when she started to outrun me, jumped on her back. We both understood that I could reach the higher branches if standing on her back. That allowed her to get the biggest, juiciest apples from the higher branches. That way, we both won. Fancy was a great swimmer. The orchard was near a large pond, and tossing an apple in the water, saying, Swim for it, was fun. She learned fast. Later, she let me hang on her tail for longer swims. I still love her. She could almost fly across the grass, if motivated.

Her greatest motivation was the word barn. You better be hanging on for dear life with that one. We would be almost two miles away, out of sight, and she still would make it back before running out of steam. Running away from the barn was different. After a little less than a mile, she slowed down and pretended to be pooped out. About a year later, training was over. I had the sad task of looking her in the eye and bidding farewell. I think we both cried. Well, understand horses and apes don’t really cry. With Fancy’s help, I won advanced training.

After leaving the ranch, I went to a remote island. I credited Fancy for that privilege. In addition to the herd of horses, there were various safe animals. The horses were smaller, wild, and wanted no part of me. The horses there were very fast and shy. I was all alone and expected to mingle with the animals. This mission was to communicate with at least one horse and convince it to let me ride it. One year from now, I have to prove myself by riding my new friend around the island, in sight of a ship. I will then cross back to the starting point and make my report. My report would include my favorite method of action, including the name I gave my horse.

My mission didn’t start well, I’ll tell you. Those horses wanted nothing to do with this ape. I tried climbing for the higher, juicier fruit, placing it on the ground and walking away. They just sniffed it and walked away as well. I was so discouraged; I just climbed a tree and pouted. I missed my Fancy more than you can imagine. I could almost hear her talking to me when the horses talked to each other. Obviously, I was the outsider on this island. The inhabitants had been on their own forever, and no one here needed me for any reason.

One dismal day, I came out of my self-pity to the distant sound of a horse in distress. It sounded far away. It came from the direction of a small freshwater pond. I investigated to find a mare, exhausted and ready to give up. She was dealing with a breech foal. Without an intervention from me, she would soon give up and die a painful death, colt and all. I had helped with regular births at the ranch, but this was different. I sat awhile trying to decide between survival of the fittest and mercy. Mercy won. I remembered my friend Yvonne often reminding me, If God didn’t want you in a situation, He would not put you in it. All situations are just opportunities to show God He can count on you.

The mare was having contractions, rolling around to set the foal up for a normal birth. One hoof was showing. This would be a breech birth, impossible in the wild. In the wild, outside assistance is never available. I was the only creature with even a remote chance of intervening.

Intervening required getting her up. I talked to her horse to horse and then ape to horse, with little luck. Some tugging on her mane and with some weird noises, she got her hindquarters up. She was too exhausted, so she ended up kneeling. It looked like, any moment now, she would be back on the ground. It was time for action.

I immediately palpated the placenta in the mare. The colt was breech. One leg had ruptured the placenta. The other was forward, preventing the birth. I cannot reach in far enough with my upper hands to make a difference, as I am not fully grown. I used my lower hands to push the foal back. Gravity and the mare being on her knees made all the difference. I was able to unfold the trapped leg so both legs were in the right position for extraction. About that time, the mare is too exhausted and collapsed back down.

I still had both hoofs in my large lower hand. I felt her starting another contraction. If I didn’t get the foal out in one try, the blood supply from the mare might stop. This was not a one-person job.

One-person job or not, I was the only one there. Sometimes having four hands, instead of two, comes in handy. I unceremoniously grabbed the mare’s tail by the stump with my other lower hand. I grabbed my right leg while holding the foal by the hoofs. I pushed with the free leg, pulling with the other one holding the hoofs. I pulled that leg with my right hand. I grabbed the grassy ground with my free hand. I needed all the traction I could get.

My fur is very slippery when wet. There came a rush of fluid, and the stallion colt landed on my lap. I cleared its nostrils so it had oxygen again. I helped it stand for the first time. Mama was too exhausted to clean up her colt, so I chased it down, and we went for a swim. That was when I named it Brat, in a good way, though.

I cleaned Brat and chased it down again. After introducing it to its mom, it was time to introduce it to milk. Mom is too exhausted to do much but seemed glad for the sniffing, appropriate for such an occasion. I named the mare Angel. I didn’t think the birth was just some good deed I did for Angel. Angel did so much more for me than I ever did for her.

Angel was a light brown quarter horse type with a white blaze. Brat was a darker stallion but similarly marked. Fancy had trained me well. Soon, Angel and I were friends, eating fruit and riding all over the island. That was one test I was glad I took. All I had to do is tell her where I wanted to go, and she would do the rest.

Suddenly, my attention returns to the road ahead. My KLR isn’t Angel; it requires me to steer it. I miss the left fork, toward the lake, and have to backtrack. Well, at least that proves no one is following me. Now I go onward to the boat access.

That access is one that Jake and I often visit. The worst-case scenario: I can drive into the water and swim to New York State. I can replace the KLR later if necessary. Just before the lake access, there is a ninety-degree turn to the right. After that turn, the entrance to the lake access is a ninety-degree turn to the left. If the homeowners near the boat access have just mowed their lawns, I can shortcut the curve by cutting across their lawns. Vans and large motorcycles may rule the road, but I have the advantage off road. I do not hear anyone following. I decide to avoid gaining attention from the homeowners. I follow the road.

I arrive at the access, thankfully, with no one following me. That swim to New York is long, and I am getting tired. At the access, I drive just on the edge of the water, into the brush behind the green porta-potty. I hide my KLR650 and cover it under as much loose brush as possible. I scrounge the blue Dumpster for anything I can use. Fortunately, no one has picked up the trash before the access shut down for the day.

Now I have a chance to ponder everything that just happened to me. That is the first time my self-defense fog (SDF) happened when I am fully dressed, in leathers. That feature is engineered into my DNA. I presume it has something to do with our unwillingness to hurt any living thing. It triggers automatically when we are in imminent danger or traumatized. It is far stronger than the smell of a skunk and far more irritating to the eyes and respiratory system. Under current circumstances, I must reconsider my wardrobe.

My DNA is a mixture of various animals’ DNA. I may look like a female with orange-tinted hair when disguised by wearing clothes. That is why I look like a Sasquatch when not wearing clothes. I am neither. I am an engineered mixture designed to be a surrogate mother. A number of fertilized human eggs from Earth will go into space. After they reach the new home world, we will birth them. Where has not yet been determined. I stink very badly, especially my clothes. I pack everything but my clothes into my saddlebags and head for the lake. Clothes and all, I dive into the water to get rid of as much smell as possible. I dry off with some semiclean napkins I find in the trash. I retrieve my saddlebags and climb up a tree. I feel like a Japanese sniper; I saw one once while watching late-night war movies with Jake. The sniper did not have a knife wound to contend with.

That knife wound I got when I judo-chopped the tabernac in the van is still bleeding beneath my under armor. Now it needs attention. I strip to fix my wound. I have found a sewing kit, hand sanitizer, used napkins, and some throat spray. I can use them to sew up the wound. Before I start with the stitching, I put a small stick between my teeth. I bite into it when the pain is going to make me scream. It ends up in two pieces. In old Westerns, the hero, when wounded, always says, It’s only a flesh wound. No one ever tells you flesh wounds hurt like hell!

Later, some bikers arrive at the boat launch, look around, and then leave. After that, when no one is around, I wash up again, still trying to get rid of that terrible smell. I dry off again and then hide in the trees. After everything that just happened, being alone feels so nice. In the distance, cars go by, dogs bark, and I hear people talking.

One house is nearby, another closer to the road, and a third, on the far side of the trees. If I concentrate, I can hear the 10:00 p.m. Channel 5 News. Along with the usual news is the story about a tractor trailer overturning when it tried to miss an SUV, just before Exit 17 North. The SUV, full of children suddenly, changed lanes. The truck driver swerved hard to save the children. Later, in the broadcast, is the story of a white van bursting into flames and melting. Investigators sent it to the Vermont State Police lab. It is too burned to tell if anyone is inside. I listened intently, but there was no mention of my escape. They did, however, mention some cars were burned and some others damaged trying to avoid the fire. I feel safer now, alone and forgotten in a tree, in this small woods, behind two Port-O-Lets.

Later, another group of bikers pulls into the boating access while I am still hiding in a maple tree. They are talking about what happened on I-89. Apparently, they are looking for a trained ape on a gray dirt bike. A big reward is offered to whoever finds it. They keep referring to the Million Buck Bounty they will split if they find that Sasquatch and its dirt bike. The apparent gang mechanic, they were calling him Luke, seems to have no interest in any of the gang’s activities. Luke starts skipping stones across the lake, but that soon gets boring.

Finally, the bikers all take off for Saint Albans Bay, where they saw some locals. They were lighting early pre-Fourth of July fireworks, lighting up the sky like a huge multicolored fountain. Luke is the last one to leave. Just before he does, he chucks a golf ball–size stone at the Port-O-Let. The loud bang causes some skunk to react. I freeze. Anyone hiding around it would have yelled. Great move, Luke, no results. Luke got on his matted black Harley, and then, doing a wheelie, he spun out all the way to Lake Road.

I am alone in a tree, near a boat launch, at night, smelling awful, with a bad cut on my thigh. Well, at least it has stopped bleeding. I remove my disguise and go ape. I want to look as much like a bear at night as possible. Who would ever believe in a red bear? Well, at night, I do look black. No one in their right mind approaches a bear in a tree, surrounded by a skunk-like smell. Well, this is Vermont, you never know. I still need to wash again. Later, I may be near people.

As soon as I feel safe, I carefully climb down. I put everything from my pockets into the locking storage compartment attached to my bike. I use my under things to wash my bike and then soak everything in the lake, secured by a rock. My activity caused the local dogs to start talking.

Dogs do not care what you look like as much as what you smell like. Dogs know we are not humans. I have to be careful; some of my sisters have been bitten when away from Mirrormar. With all of that barking, I decide to leave everything