Living the Liminal

Part 1

Our story continues . . .

Jorgee was utterly lost. This section of the city seemed deserted, full of hulking industrial buildings interspered with a few sullen one-story pre-fab rent boxes.The dome of the city was a hazy web of light. Enough so he could see clearly, but making everything look black and white. His limbs were sore as his intoxication oozed out from his elimination glands and his head was beginning to throb in pain. He tried to bring up a map on his iPod, but this section of the city was under a data blackout for repairs. Probably, he thought, had been under a blackout for years by the looks of this place.

Occasionally he’d hear a sound behind him: a soft scuffling sound, but when he turned he saw only shadows and rotting plastimetal. Fingering the new pins on his uniform, Jorgee realized that he might very well be in trouble. His father’s voice snickered in his head: “Not a very auspicious start there, Grenthy boy.” Jorgee’s father had never called him by his preferred name, always by the nickname he’d been stuck with as a boy. In his language, a grenthy was a slow moving lobster-like creature that had a propensity for walking into any traps set for it, curling up and going to sleep.

“No, Father,” he though, “It’s not. Now go back to sleep.”

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Dedicated to Joya, the namer of this tale

Jorgeegrenthalu d’adr’tt Krendatel-5 (Jorgee to his friends) stood tall and tentacled, a terrifically handsome specimen of his race with large headbumps, peircing black eyes, and a sharp beak. Normally he was quiet and reserved, his movements always formal and highly controlled. Tonight, however, he had lapsed into movement patterns that were casual, bordering on intimate. His voice was slurred, and his normally smooth skin was covered in the orange bumps of serious inebriation. He’d spent the night celebrating his promotion to Navigation Lieutenant 4th Class on the good ship Speckle’s Pimple with crewmates, but had lost them somewhere along the way and he found himself in a part of town he’d never visited. The copious quantities of fermented methane had lent a romantic, rough-and-tumble charm to his current surroundings and he found himself buying the patrons of the Sailor’s Last Stop Saloon, a round of drinks without noticing just how closely those patrons were eyeing his wallet, 3¹⁰ Gen iPod, and even the trail of gemstones that tattooed one of Jorgee’s tentacles in the pattern of his family dynasty.

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