Bluespace

By J.R. Rizzo

Three urban explorers discover an abandoned house with unusual properties: strange spatial loops, a bottomless pit, and mysterious spray cans that manipulate reality. Through systematic exploration and problem-solving, they discover a way to exploit the house as a means of duplicating physical objects, like cash and jewelry. They soon attract unwanted attention from a global gang of techno-anarchists as well as mobsters who want a piece of the counterfeiting action. Of the three, the everyman narrator falls in love, the quiet nerd figures it all out (but keeps it to himself), and the charming manipulator finds himself at the mercy of forces he can no longer control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.R. Rizzo
• Release date: Nov 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223326243

J.R. Rizzo

J.R. Rizzo is a software engineer who enjoys writing, painting, and making electronic rock music.  He once had some artwork published in a romance novel.  Many years later, he scored a indie film about an elephant.  These days, he can solve a Rubik's Cube in under two minutes. He lives in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania with his wife, two kids, two cats, one goldfish, and many chickens.  Bluespace is his first novel.

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bluespace

trail

j.r. rizzo

Bluespace.

Copyright © 2023, Joseph R. Rizzo Jr.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design and internal photographs by Joseph R. Rizzo Jr.

To me, absurdity is the only reality.

- Frank Zappa

1: Infiltration

HUMPTY DUMPTY HAD A GREAT FALL, BUT HIS WINTER WASN'T ANYTHING TO WRITE HOME ABOUT. That was the slogan printed in bright orange letters on Duke's shirt. The back of the shirt had a picture of a frowning, anthropomorphic fried egg.

It was a hot and muggy afternoon in the ass-end of August and the first time I ever saw the Blue Line and the White House. The others wondered what the blue lines meant. I wondered what percentage of Duke's nearly nonexistent income went into dumb T-shirts.

What's this, a fire road? Iris asked.

Fire roads aren't paved, Duke said. No one challenged him. For one thing, he said it quickly and with the utter confidence of the true bullshit artist. For another, no one cared about the truth enough to argue.

The road curved lazily ahead. We stepped out of the woods and walked along its edge.

What do the double blue lines mean? Iris asked.

It means the township ran out of yellow paint, Duke said.

Duke was the mission leader and we trooped behind him. He was taking us to a target he had found: an abandoned house, ripe for exploring. Our cover was that we had gotten turned around on a hike and were looking for a way to town. Martin had a backpack, so the story was faintly plausible. Martin, a tall, quiet guy with short blond hair, always had a backpack. He was our mapper and the one who carried the supplies. He exuded quiet competence and thus complemented Duke well. At the moment he was scrutinizing his phone.

Service is gone, he said. I hope you know the rest of the way.

Don't be a pussy, Duke said. Humans somehow survived for three million years without cell phones.

Everyone except Duke, as if sensing the loss of an important umbilical, pulled out his or her cell phone. Sure enough, mine said No Service at the top. I felt a twinge of unease. The smooth, dark pavement suggested civilization but the woods seemed to grow thicker as we walked.

Blue lines, Jeremy muttered, looking at the road. He was Iris's boyfriend and they walked alongside each other. Jeremy placed his left foot on the left line and his right foot on the right line as he stepped. "Blue lights on a car usually mean what, a fire marshal? So maybe this is a fire road, or a fire break."

You don't know what you're talking about, Duke said. Fire trucks and emergency vehicles have red and white lights. Cop cars have red and blue lights. Everyone knows this.

Not really, I said, venturing disagreement. My uncle was a volunteer firefighter. He had a blue bubble light he put on his roof while on duty. He used to turn it on and drive me to the mall at eighty miles an hour.

Yeah, maybe when you were ten, Dog Duke said. Trust me. It's a state law now. Blue lights mean cops.

So...maybe this is a cop road, Iris ventured.

You better hope not, Duke said.

Is the place locked? Martin asked, always thinking ahead.

Who knows? Duke replied.

What if it is? Iris asked. This was her first mission. Duke opened his mouth but Jeremy spoke first.

Most of the time we can find a way in. We don't break and enter, but there's almost always a way in. It's not that people are dumb. They just don't think anyone would bother climbing to an open second floor window or jumping chain link.

Plus, we go to places that no one cares about, I said.

No one but the owner and his Doberman pinschers, Duke said cheerfully. We're here.

He motioned us to one side. The road ahead bent to the left. I could see a clearing through the trees. We inched along the tree line listening hard, but all I could hear were droning cicadas.

Get off the road, Duke said. We stepped into the woods alongside a chain link fence. Our cover story couldn't help us now. We were clearly casing the joint. Behind the rusted fence was a wide swath of weeds, rocks, and blown-down branches that had once been a yard. Beyond this was a little white house, a one story job with peeling paint and a dented tin roof. The front porch had collapsed and two rocky ruts ran from the front of the house through a rusty, vine strewn gate along the road. A padlock hung from the gate's latch.

whitehouse

Duke paused, scanning the yard. I'm gonna recon from the back. Wait here. He followed the fence to the back yard, clambered up gracefully for such a large guy, and dropped over the side. It was still dead quiet. Iris and Jeremy laughed as he adopted an exaggerated hunch and ran a zigzag pattern to the back of the house. With his neon orange shirt, he stood out like a zit on the homecoming queen's forehead. He made a complete circle of the property, stopping to examine each window and take pictures. He whistled, giving us a thumbs-up, and a few moments later we were with him along the back wall.

The windows are boarded up from the inside, he said. There's one that's open though. We followed him around the corner. He pointed out a small window that was slightly ajar. Jeremy gave Iris a significant look.

The windows were the old kind that swung outward on hinges. I reached up and yanked. It opened with a groan.

As the leader, there was no question that Duke would enter first.

Give me a step, he said.

The window wasn't high enough to make this strictly necessary, but to avoid an argument I obligingly knitted my fingers together and bent over. He placed his foot in my hands and I lifted him until he had his head and shoulders above the window frame. Hunh, he said, peering in. Looks okay. It's the kitchen. His head disappeared into the black square followed by his shoulders and legs. There's a counter here so it's easy to climb in.

We heard clunking sounds. Eventually his face reappeared.

We're go, he said. Dog and Lee, come on up. Germy and Iris will lookout. Give us three good raps if you see anything. He looked at his watch. It's 1:30. We'll be out by 1:45. Let's go.

Jeremy and Iris moved to the house's back corners. Martin boosted himself up and I followed. After some struggle I found myself standing in a dark room. As my eyes adjusted I saw it was a tidy little kitchen. The only light came from the small window and our flashlights.

What do you make of that? Duke asked. I followed his flashlight beam to the sink where water dripped from the faucet. I reached out to turn it off but Martin said Wait. He took a picture of it and then nodded to me. I turned the water off.

Duke shook his head with a smile. He was loving this.

Martin opened cabinets and found dozens of cans. I could see that many had rusted beyond recognition and several were swollen to dangerous proportions. Others were in fairly good shape and had what looked like the stylized labels of a couple generations ago. He picked one out.

I don't think they made cans out of aluminum back then, he said, hefting it. The orange label said Lake Shore Tomatoes in fancy, handwritten script. The label was disintegrated on one side, revealing a dull cylinder of gray metal flecked with brown. He put it back on the shelf and took a few pictures.

There was a battered, bullet-shaped Frigidaire in the corner, the kind I remember seeing in my grandmother's house when I was a kid. I pulled the door open and gagged as a wave of warm, fetid air wheezed into the room. A quick peek inside revealed masses of shapeless, gooey funk.

Jesus, Duke said, covering his face with his elbow. Close that shit and come on. We're wasting time.

He led us through a door into a tiny living room no more than twelve feet square. It was mostly empty except for an ancient console TV in one corner. Its screen was bashed in. There was a locked front door with two firmly boarded windows on either side. One wall had a set of empty bookshelves. There was another door along the back wall. It had no handle and wouldn't open. Martin took pictures of everything.

I dunno, Duke said, looking around. Seems smaller on the inside, don't you think?

Yeah, kind of, I said.

I pointed my light at our feet. We were standing on a horrible green shag rug, the shade of which conjured in my mind a pair of equally horrible orange armchairs. I pictured an elderly couple sitting in them, watching the bleary TV and rising occasionally to fry up some tomatoes, neither of them ever going to the bathroom.

Wait, wait, Duke said. Step back. He grabbed one end of the rug and pulled. After the fog of raised dust cleared, we saw a wooden trapdoor underneath.

A trapdoor!

This was easily the coolest thing we'd ever found, a vindication of years of tepid urban exploration. I saw something like lust in Duke's eye. By unspoken agreement, he grasped the edge of the trapdoor and carefully lifted it. It revealed, as we all hoped, a rickety wooden staircase descending into darkness.

After you, I said, indicating Duke.

Fuckin' A, he replied, placing his foot on the first step.

Moments later we found ourselves in an improbable hallway. It had a low ceiling, a concrete floor, cinderblock walls, and four closed doors: two to the left and two to the right. Duke's eyes performed a quick calculation and moved to the closest door on the right. It opened easily, revealing a six inch recess that was sealed from floor to ceiling with more cinderblocks.

Son of a bitch, he spat.

We moved to the second door on the right which, unlike the others, was metal and set into a sturdy steel frame. The door itself had no visible knob or lock.

Must be a vault, Duke mused. He stood before it, feet apart, arms akimbo, as if willing it to open.

Or maybe it opens from the other side? I ventured. Martin and I pushed on the door and felt around but it seemed permanently sealed.

Goddamn. We're 0 for 2, Duke said, giving it a longing look and moving on to the door on the far left. It was locked by what appeared to be an ordinary tumbler mechanism in the knob.

That's not going to be a problem for long, Duke said, glancing at Martin. Martin nodded.

The final door, on the other hand, opened easily to reveal a long, dark corridor.

That's weird, Martin said. This must extend under the yard.

Man, this house must have been for bootlegging or the Underground Railroad or something, Duke said.

The Underground Railroad?! I said. Not unless it's 150 years old.

Must be a meth lab then, Duke said.

We went in single file, Duke first, then me, then Martin. The corridor went twenty feet and made a right turn followed by a quick left turn.

Something's ahead, Duke muttered.

Another door emerged from the gloom. Duke put his hand on the knob and gave it a twist. It pushed outward easily. He paused at the threshold, gaping at something.

Well butter my tits and call me Sally, he said, stepping forward. I followed and had a moment of disorientation before realizing we were back in the living room. This, then, was the door with the missing handle. There was the green shag rug piled to one side of the open trapdoor.

Did we do a U-turn or go up a hill or something? Duke asked.

Definitely not, Martin said.

What the hell then? muttered Duke, looking behind us, back through the open door. I followed his gaze and so did Martin. There was nothing there except an empty, dark hall.

Something isn't right, Martin said. You guys wait here. I'm going back around.

We watched him disappear down the hall. A minute later he popped out the trapdoor.

I don't believe it, Duke said.

A dim unease began to grow in the back of my mind, a feeling that we were being tested, or being watched. Speaking of, my watch read 1:45.

I think it's time to go, I said.

Duke nodded. Sure, I figured you'd puss out on us, Dog. But I noticed he led the way out. We climbed back through the window without incident. Jeremy and Iris met us and said they had seen no one.

How was it? Jeremy asked.

I could tell Duke was struggling with how much to tell.

Man, the place was really old and weird. There was this trapdoor that went to the basement and a bunch of doors. Some were locked.

Cool, Jeremy said, satisfied. He nodded to Iris. More to explore next time.

We proceeded down the right side of the road, twelve feet from the double blue center lines and well in accordance with the law. We could breathe easy now that the cover story was back in effect.

The trail should be just up here, Duke said. We kept walking for some time but, strangely, didn't see the trail. I was sure we had gone too far. Martin looked puzzled, which was interesting since he never looked puzzled. He pointed up ahead. There's another clearing.

What the hell? I said. We must have walked too far.

No, because we didn't pass the trail, Martin said.

We rounded the bend and, sure enough, there was a clearing. The same white house stood in the middle, surrounded by its chain link fence.

The fuck...? Duke muttered, absorbing this scene. Lee, are we walking in circles?

We can't be, Martin said. The road doesn't curve enough.

We passed the house and saw no one. A few minutes later we found the trail. It was obvious, clearly marked with a dozen feet of gravel off the Blue Line before turning into solid dirt. We agreed there was no way we could have missed it despite Duke casting aspersions on Martin's sense of direction and general observational skills, which was a little like accusing the Pope of being a Hells Angel.

We must have walked in a circle and missed it the first time, Jeremy insisted. It's the only thing that makes sense.

"There could be two houses," I said.

Two identical houses? he said. Unlikely. But I noticed he sounded more confident than he looked.

What I think is that it's mission accomplished. Duke said, ending the conversation. That was a weird, old-ass house in good shape and we got a lot of great pics. I'm gonna grab a cold beer and post this shit up tonight. People are gonna dig it.

Martin said nothing. He seemed lost in thought.

2: Steampunk Biohazard

I met Jenna on a ledge which, in retrospect, was blatant foreshadowing. It was kind of a miracle she even noticed me; I was no babe magnet. I've always been sort of middling average, smarter than most maybe, and a nerd at heart, but the kind of guy you simply don't notice.

Predictably, I became a computer programmer. I graduated in 2012 with a degree in computer science. Programming drew me like a magnet drew iron. Part of it was due to my natural technical bent, part of it was due to my OCD tendencies (an advantage in the field), and part of it was due to a decent supply of tech jobs in the area.

They said that the 21st Century was the revenge of the nerds. That was true for me in part. I had a decent job out of school and met some very bright people, like Martin, but as far as the opposite sex was concerned I wasn't feeling any of that sweet, sweet retribution. I hadn't dated seriously since my senior year, and hook-ups were few and far between. Truth be told, I had gone to seed. My hair was down to my shoulders and, despite being twenty-five, I spoke openly of armor classes and comic books. I forgot what it was like to be attracted to someone, or to realize that someone else found me attractive.

I was at a Halloween party hosted by some younger friends who were still in school. Granted, Halloween was a month away, but it was as good an excuse as any to dress up and get hammered. One guest stood out. She arrived wearing an amazingly detailed and cunningly crafted outfit that I didn't immediately recognize. This fact alone afforded her a high but perhaps temporary rank in my mental nerd pecking order. It covered her features completely. The face was an odd mask of sewn leather with a birdlike beak below two glass eyeholes. It was affixed with rivets and lovingly aged. It looked a hundred years old. She wore a flat brimmed hat of the same material. Around her body was a shapeless black cape draped over a heavy tunic. She carried in her gloved hand a long wooden staff topped by a caduceus. She was terrifying. I wasn't the only one keeping a wary eye on her as she drifted silently from room to room like the Red Death.

I noticed some folks heading up to the roof, so I followed. I found a spot on the ledge, three stories up, where I could watch party people spill into the street. I was at that stage of drunk where the WALK/DON'T WALK sign seemed to have an important message just for me. I was determined to figure it out.

I jumped a bit when she sat down next to me. She removed her hat and mask and smiled. She was pretty, but in an uncalculated sort of way. Her hair fell lank across her face; she brushed it back absentmindedly. Her eyes were bright green. I felt a vague discomfort. I wasn't sure what the problem was at first, but in assessing the situation I realized I was self-conscious; I was suddenly aware of my haystack hair, my halfhearted goatee, and the fact that I was wearing a homemade Thor costume with some degree of sincerity.

Mind if I join you, Thor? she asked.

I recovered quickly. Pull up a rock, fair maiden. All of Camelot sits before us.

The green eyes narrowed. Are you Thor or Sir Lancelot?

Um, I haven't read much Thor.

Then why the costume?

Because I had an hour to decide who to come as and when I looked around for props I found this. I held up a four pound sledgehammer, the kind with the yellow plastic handle that you get from Home Depot.

I see, she said.

I have to say that I don't know what you're supposed to be but you're scaring the hell out of me and everyone else.

Aw, come on. Guess.

I was in no state to guess. Big Bird's evil twin?

Uh, no, try again.

The dude from Spy vs. Spy, you know, from Mad Magazine?

You're dating yourself. She probably intended the pun.

Look, why don't you just tell me?

She spread her arms.  This was the uniform worn in the 14th century by doctors who treated the bubonic plague.

Plague doctors? Why did they look so freaky?

She held up the mask. They didn't want to catch it. They wore masks with glass over the eyeholes and stuffed the beak with herbs that were meant to filter their breathing air.

Herbs? I repeated stupidly, thinking of basil and oregano and marijuana.

This was before the germ theory of disease, she said. They thought the plague traveled by bad air that touched the skin or went in through the mouth and nose.

So...it's kind of a steampunk biohazard suit?

Yes, you've got it.

It's creepy as hell, I said, and amazing. Did you make it yourself?

She smiled again and handed me the mask. Yep. The mask is real leather. I just made it look old.

I turned it over in my hands and admired it. Unbelievable. Well, you make me feel like a dork in this get up.

Hey, don't knock Thor. He gets it done.

Eh, I suppose. So do you make other costumes too?

No, she said, taking the mask back and studying it. Just this. I guess it's kind of special to me.

An affinity for the plague. That's nice. I like that. Are you a student?

She shook her head. Nope. A friend invited me. I'm just visiting the area. How about you?

I graduated two years ago, I said. But I know some of these guys. They invited me and since I didn't have any cocktail parties or rotary meetings this evening I thought I'd come over.

Nice.

We looked down at the street.

What are those guys doing? she asked.

I squinted at them. Looks like they're trying to steal a stop sign.

Makes sense.

Sure, why not. It's a Wednesday night, I agreed, and took another sip of beer. She chugged hers. The can must have been full because it took a long time. She slammed the empty can on the ledge, stood up, and crushed it with her boot.

Think I can hit them with this?

Depends. Have you led a good, clean life?

What do you think?

I think that those are some bad dudes that could kick our asses. That guy holding the wrench looks like the Incredible Hulk.

She gave me a look of disgust. You're worried about him? What kind of Thor are you?

The candy-assed kind, I guess.

She took careful aim and threw. The can went wide, but just as I opened my mouth to make a smart remark it caught the breeze and cut a huge, flat curve, hitting the Hulk between the eyes with the accuracy of a Patriot missile locked on a Mujaheddin. My jaw dropped. The Hulk and his cronies paused for a moment in surprise, then turned their eyes upward and hollered at us, shaking their fists.

Nyaah, nyahh! Bite this, you pussies! she yelled, dancing on the ledge and grabbing her crotch.

Holy shit, I said. What are you doing? You're going to get us killed.

She laughed and turned around, waving her ass at them. It was a discreet bump under her cloak but the guys on the ground got the message and yelled louder.

I got up and dragged her from the ledge. She was still laughing as we walked across to the other side.

I'll be damned, I said. You must have led a good, clean life.

What are you gonna do when they come looking for you? she asked.

I shrugged and held up my sledgehammer. She laughed.

Meanwhile, some folks came up onto the roof carrying ropes and making a commotion. They were, for some reason, preparing to rappel down to the street. It was the kind of thing that sometimes happened at the parties I was invited to. Her eyes rolled.

Well, that was fun but I think this party is cashed, she said. It was nice to meet you, Thor. She turned toward the stairs.

Likewise, I said, Thanks for putting me at risk of imminent death.

But I wasn't ready for her to go yet. Another feeling was bubbling up through the self-consciousness, mortal fear, and general inebriation: the feeling of an opportunity slipping away. My addled brain insisted that I wanted to spend more time with this girl, and given that she approached me, especially in the state I was in, it detected a faint hint that she might be interested. I gathered what wits I had, which wasn't saying much.

Say doc, I called. I'm pretty sure I'm going to have questions about the plague and 14th century medicine and all. Is there some way to reach you if I want answers?

She turned and studied me. My stomach did a lazy loop and it wasn't just from the Jell-O shots. She could have easily rolled her eyes again, but instead she smiled and held out her hand.

That was pretty smooth, Thor, all things considered. Give me your helmet.

I handed it over. Something inside me deflated as I remembered that I'd simply taped cardboard wings to a metal bowl I found under the sink. It still smelled faintly of SOS pads. She took out a fat, black marker, scribbled something, and handed it back.

Party on, Thor, she said walking away.

The fates have smiled upon the son of Odin! I hollered after her, putting the helmet on my head. As it turned out, the Hulk never showed up. Maybe he got lost, or maybe I had led a good, clean life. I spent another hour reflecting on my unexpected good fortune while I tried to decipher the WALK sign's secret warnings.

3: Big Ideas

I first met Duke four years ago, in our sophomore year of college, before he failed out. I was wearing a dog costume and he was beating me up. All I remember was