Following the application of more effort than I have ever spent on a single chapter, the cold opening for Maroli Tango is, as far as I can tell, in final draft.
1 ~ Fast Forward
Tuesday
Three days after the White House Christmas party, eighteen months after aliens from outer space claimed a seat at the table, President Carmen Benequista went on a first date with her steady companion, former NSA officer Brandon Lopez.
Venue — A housewarming celebration aboard the historic airborne estate Ruksa Zila — built on Vidura 68,000 BCE, released into atmosphere only hours before.
Arrival queue — West of Panama, above the Pacific Ocean, behind a fleet of spaceboats. Expected wait time — more than ten minutes.
Entourage — Valet-bodyguard Pascal the maroli, one of forty elevated Anye-technology labor appliances, said to be possessed by spirits of the dead, although not in a bad way.
The PMI Explorer Inconsistent followed the attraction south. Brandon reached across the center console to hold Carmen’s hand.
Pascal crowded up front, tentacles spilling between operators’ seats. “This one is not prone to gossip, but my hearing is excellent.”
Brandon replied, “I could tell you about our trip to see Carmen’s family.”
Carmen rotated the co-pilot’s seat. “When I was a twelve-year-old nosepicker in convent school, segregated from the decadent disco seventies, my maternal grandfather traveled to the United States for a Christmas visit.”
Pascal quantum-glued his capsule to the deck. “Fifty years ago, to the month.”
“A Spanish Gypsy — born in Greece, married in Corsica, on the move most of his life.”
“And so, not a casualty of back-to-back wars, none of which had anything to do with him.”
Carmen fixed him with a solemn gaze. “Everything that matters is at arm’s length.”
He drew tentacles halfway into the plug cavity. “I did not mean to infer defective citizenship.”
“For all we know, Grandpa was an adventure tourist from Jivada, gone native after a Roma caravan holiday.”
“Wouldn’t your mother have told you?”
“She said life with her parents was rootless and unstable.” Carmen made a face. “Come on. The AjJivadi called it the big secret.”
“This one recants. Your theory may hold water.”
“Or not.” Brandon rubbed the back of his neck. “All that aside, I gather he made an impression.”
“He filled my imagination with tales of adventure and then disappeared, never to be heard from again.” Carmen rotated her seat back around. “But before he left, he told me to be like him, and not like my cousin Holly.”
“What was Holly like?”
“Fifteen. Pregnant.” Carmen slouched. “I never understood why he disapproved. Life happens, even on the shanty trail.”
The van’s cabin fell silent, its passengers sightseeing through Armor Light, to witness a flock of seabirds on a steep glide, aimed at a moving buffet.
Ruksa Zila — a 335-meter-tall faux-rock-faced grav-lift barge shaped like a curved-blade obsidian hatchet with a fat 400-meter-long spine, sharp edge down — capped with grass, trees, gardens, a lake, a stream, a waterfall, buildings, pavement, paths and hollows.
Carmen tapped rudder pedals. “Tell the boat’s Oma to let me drive.”
“Don’t get us in trouble with traffic control.” Brandon touched a gesture pad. “Great story. We should try to find out what happened to him.”
A fly-around revealed Ruksa Zila’s hull form as leaning toward bare naked upside-down mountain ridge, in need of a pressure wash.
RZ’s Oma told them to move away. Brandon reported a spatial distortion leak near the estate’s swim platform. RZ said it would log a service ticket.
Their party disembarked on a promenade, between lake and a row of zero-clearance storybook facades, tucked into a hill below the owner’s residence, anchored on the port side by a four-story cube with a bar-and-grille on the ground floor, apartments above.
Toward starboard — guest accommodations hidden behind semi-functional faux storefronts, culminating in a community center, commercial kitchen and dining hall disguised as a bakery.
They strolled through a line of battle-dressed CH Banks security guards, a throng of housewarming guests, a contingent of non-elevated maroli serving appetizers.
Carmen was quiet, reserved. Pascal the maroli wrapped a tentacle gently around her wrist.
He asked, “Is Madame all right?”
“I’m glad I wore flats.” She bumped him with her hip. “Everyone is smiling at us.”
“Perhaps they are trying to be friendly without intrusion.”
“It’s like they know something.”
He performed a gesture of mirth. “Madame has a bounce in her step.”
Brandon nodded agreement. “A little more sway than usual. Looks good on you.”
The walkway gridlocked in front of a mock eyewear boutique. Carmen covered her face, letting out a mournful groan.
“It’s the clingy skirt.”
“You’re channeling Sophia Loren. I promise.”
She pretended to give him the bad-eye. “At what age?”
“The lady still has it going on, in my opinion.”
He peered through storefront glass, spying an elevator lobby. “Let’s hide out for a while.”
There was a kiosk on subdeck 3, a legacy of Ruksa Zila’s hotel phase — stocked with Bronze-age works of art and artifice, sunscreen, tobacco, and vintage snacks — as though still in business.
The full loop took them to a flight of stairs leading back to the surface through a bunker, emerging near a spillway, top of the waterfall, alongside boulder-strewn rapids.
Where loitered master of the house Glenn Mehrenholz — German farmer stock, by nature shy-to-sheepish.
Brandon clapped him on the shoulder. “Making yourself scarce?”
“I’m sociable, but not two-hundred guests’ worth.” Glenn gave Pascal the eyeball. “What do you have there, buddy?”
Pascal moved his prize from tentacle to tentacle, a demonstration of possessive ardor. “A Ruksa Zila guidebook from the gift shop.”
“RZ has a gift shop?”
Carmen’s valet hid the pamphlet amongst lesser ungula. “On subdeck 3.”
Glenn chuckled. “What’d you do, go on a house tour?”
Pascal performed the maroli nod. “Our party did not visit the owner’s residence; in case you weren’t ready.”
“Good thing, because we’re not.” Glenn kissed President Benequista on the cheek. “Hey.”
Carmen batted eyelashes at him. “Hey, yourself.”
Brandon stood on tiptoes. “Did you leave a drain open in the lake basin?”
“Don’t ask me; I haven’t moved in yet.” He touched thumb to ring finger. “RZ; is something happening with the reservoir?”
The lake frothed. A Saraf Drive pylon emerged, shedding water on its way to becoming the tallest object in town.
Glenn listened to the house Oma, then wiggled fingers at his guests. “We have a missile coming our way.”
At the center of the lake, a spiral disk fanned out from a still-rising dull-grey column. Below decks, an atomic shredder power pack spooled up with a deep growl.
A bright blue midday equatorial sky disappeared, replaced by an empty black void. Artificial lighting blinked on.
Phase cancellation reduced ambient sound levels by half. Ears popped from a change in atmospheric pressure. A child started to wail.
Thirty seconds later, the historic airborne estate Ruksa Zila was cruising off the coast of Portugal under starry skies.
A disorienting experience for everyone except master-of-the-house Glenn Mehrenholz.
John Dyer Writes 
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