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Description
Out Of Space
By William Levy
All rights reserved. No reproduction in any format permitted without prior permission. All characters copyright by the author. Check out the Nightmart comic strip, available in book form in several collections for back history on them.
This is a continuing serial, a satire. Any remblance to persons, living or dead, is purely for the sake of social comment and parody.
Thoughts may well be expressed that won't sit well with some readers.
Dear me.
Oh my golly gosh.
******
******
1.1
It’s been said that space is large, truly huge, mind-staggeringly gigantic. Given that nature does seem to abhor a vacuum, entropy’s tendency to spread everything out evenly only makes sense.
But with so little matter compared to the near-infinite volume, the mean density is still so close to zero as makes no difference, pretty much leaving an annoyed anthropomorphized principle with an entire universe yet to fill.
However...
With one particle, you have a few simple bits of information. With two, the possible information squares, three, it cubes. Each particle increases the possible information by the power of the number of particles.
And while information really takes no space at all, understanding it does. Organizing, transmitting, interpreting, discussing, arguing, just experiencing, it all takes up space.
And requires intelligence.
At some level, it’s a little disturbing when you figure out that the reason for your existence involves a bizarre cross between talk shows and why your closets fill so damn fast.
******
The Martian Girl wriggled in her seat excitedly, causing sympathetic eye bulges in most of the male humans in range. And a few of the females. Her plush form, while not the official standard of anorexic beauty, was fit and oozed buckets of sensuality. Mind you, some folks were put off by her bright green skin, ear- and nose-less face, and hairless, pointed skull, but her bubbling enthusiasm and party attitude went a long way.
That and a penchant for tight, sexy outfits.
She’d come a long way to attend AlCon. The performances had been wonderful. Nowhere else in the universe could you find raw talent like this, and they were practically giving it away! Luke Ski had finished a set, and Tom Smith was about to start. There was a rumor he had a new song, something about zombies...
Her com beeped.
She was initially irritated. Had she forgotten to turn that thing off? Then she noticed the ‘override’ signal and frowned.
“Damn.” she muttered, leaving her seat and heading for a restroom. Reaching the porcelain sanctuary, she leaned against the sink and tapped the side of her head with a long finger.
“Yes?”
“Vacation’s over.” a chirpy voice echoed in her head. “Time to go back to work.”
“Aw, c’mon, don’t I have a couple years left?” she whined.
“Now, now, the station’s done. Besides, the locals have noticed you, big time.”
“Oh, poop.”
“oop indeedy. Big fudgey chunks, heading towards the speedy rotating blades even as we speak.” The transmitted voice was amused. “Have you located a suitable correspondent?”
“I think so.” Loud rumblings from outside were distracting her.
“Think so?” The Martian Girl winced as outrage suffused the voice echoing in her head. “You haven’t even asked anybody yet, have you?”
She pouted. “I’ve been busy...” Peering out the door, she saw squads of National Guard hustling hither and yon in the convention center. “Um, lemme get back to you.”
“That’s the point, dearie.” The voice was warm again. “Time to come home, and be sure to bring some company. Talk to strangers.”
“Talk to strangers.” The Martian Girl repeated automatically, her mind racing ahead. One hand touched the air in front of her in a complex pattern, and a shimmering blurred out her form as she levitated.
“Man, I hate it when they change the radio stations at the garage.” She complained, fingertips flashing and weaving as she floated through the wall and into the main concourse.
It was tempting to leave, but she felt a little responsible for the disruption. Pondering, her eyes scanned the camo-clad figures below her...
‘There!’ she thought, ‘He’s the one.’
The starcraft swooped in next to a trim officer with steel gray temples in a leather flight jacket studying a map of the convention center. Snapping a safety portal around him, she spun around, leaned back casually and smiled at the shocked general.
“Hi there, handsome. I understand you’re looking for me?”
General Carter had always been known as a quick thinker. But to instantly pop from a pale white convention center to floating in a gray haze was more than he was ready for.
“Um, well...” His first impulse, the pistol at his belt, was dismissed rapidly as both probably useless and curiously inappropriate, given her relaxed attitude.
Waving a hand, she pouted. “Don’t understand why you had to spoil the party for everybody else. They didn’t do anything wrong.” Screens popped into existence behind her, showing views of soldiers chivvying convention-goers to and fro, shutting down activities and concerts.
“Well, I was ordered to...” Carter suddenly felt disturbed. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to work. Invaders didn’t call you to task over bad manners.
The screens continued to pan as she leaned forward, displaying dark depths of cool green cleavage. “Did it occur to anybody to maybe give me a phone call? For crying out loud, I’m in the book. Just stop by for a chat?” Standing, she edged close, running a hand along the zipper of his jacket. “Or perhaps, send a handsome guy to ask me out...” she cooed.
He froze. Deep inside his brain, synapses were busily shutting down to avoid burning out.
“I’m hurt.” she finished, returning to her invisible seat and sulking.
“Sorry.” he mumbled, unable to come up with any other response. “But we had to... you know...”
“You’re just mean.” she sniffed. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Bunch of bullies.”
He was amazed. It was so transparently manipulative, but somehow... She made him feel like a naughty kid and a potential protector at the same time. ‘And really,’ he thought, ‘Where’s the harm? I can play this game to our advantage...’
Clearing his throat, he said. “Um, look, I’m really sorry about all of this. What if we pull all the troops out, make everybody happy, and we, uh, arrange something?”
She looked up at him, her smile restored, and his toes tingled. “Oh, that would be sooo nice!” she purred. “How about the Tempura House, you and me, next Wednesday at noon, and one other little thing...”
The general’s eyebrow lifted, he gulped weakly, but agreed.
******
Tom Smith rubbed his aching calf and sighed. It’d been a bitch of a day. He’d barely gotten into his set when the auditorium had been invaded by soldiers on a mysterious ‘search and capture’, complicated by the audience’s disbelief in the whole situation. By the time it was over, the early concert was blown, as well as the recording. Or any sales. Or any fun, dammit.
‘Oh, well, still the evening concert. Maybe I can make it up there.’ he thought.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Huh, who..?’
Outside was a squad of national guardsmen. The lead officer saluted. “Mr. Smith?”
‘Oh, shit.’ “Yeah, what..?”
“Compliments of the U.S. Government, sir. Our apologies for the disruption of your performance.” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “We’re at your disposal for the rest of the weekend, sir.”
“Huh?”
“We’re professional singers, two with the Chicago Met, three with the New York, and one with a country band before they called us up.” The soldier relaxed a little. “They called for volunteers, sir. Beats the hell out of KP.”
Tom stared at them, wheels turning in his head. Then with a chortle that a nervous person might describe as verging on evil, he turned and dove into a case, tossing sheets of paper at the bewildered soldiers, who studied them curiously.
Rolling back on his heels, the singer grinned at the guards, his face glowing. “This is gonna be good!”
“Brains?” One of the soldiers whispered nervously to another, who giggled.
******
To be continued.
Tom Smith is very real, and a VERY funny singer, by the way.

Description
Out Of Space
By William Levy
All rights reserved. No reproduction in any format permitted without prior permission. All characters copyright by the author. Check out the Nightmart comic strip, available in book form in several collections for back history on them.
This is a continuing serial, a satire. Any remblance to persons, living or dead, is purely for the sake of social comment and parody.
Thoughts may well be expressed that won't sit well with some readers.
Dear me.
Oh my golly gosh.
******
******
1.1
It’s been said that space is large, truly huge, mind-staggeringly gigantic. Given that nature does seem to abhor a vacuum, entropy’s tendency to spread everything out evenly only makes sense.
But with so little matter compared to the near-infinite volume, the mean density is still so close to zero as makes no difference, pretty much leaving an annoyed anthropomorphized principle with an entire universe yet to fill.
However...
With one particle, you have a few simple bits of information. With two, the possible information squares, three, it cubes. Each particle increases the possible information by the power of the number of particles.
And while information really takes no space at all, understanding it does. Organizing, transmitting, interpreting, discussing, arguing, just experiencing, it all takes up space.
And requires intelligence.
At some level, it’s a little disturbing when you figure out that the reason for your existence involves a bizarre cross between talk shows and why your closets fill so damn fast.
******
The Martian Girl wriggled in her seat excitedly, causing sympathetic eye bulges in most of the male humans in range. And a few of the females. Her plush form, while not the official standard of anorexic beauty, was fit and oozed buckets of sensuality. Mind you, some folks were put off by her bright green skin, ear- and nose-less face, and hairless, pointed skull, but her bubbling enthusiasm and party attitude went a long way.
That and a penchant for tight, sexy outfits.
She’d come a long way to attend AlCon. The performances had been wonderful. Nowhere else in the universe could you find raw talent like this, and they were practically giving it away! Luke Ski had finished a set, and Tom Smith was about to start. There was a rumor he had a new song, something about zombies...
Her com beeped.
She was initially irritated. Had she forgotten to turn that thing off? Then she noticed the ‘override’ signal and frowned.
“Damn.” she muttered, leaving her seat and heading for a restroom. Reaching the porcelain sanctuary, she leaned against the sink and tapped the side of her head with a long finger.
“Yes?”
“Vacation’s over.” a chirpy voice echoed in her head. “Time to go back to work.”
“Aw, c’mon, don’t I have a couple years left?” she whined.
“Now, now, the station’s done. Besides, the locals have noticed you, big time.”
“Oh, poop.”
“oop indeedy. Big fudgey chunks, heading towards the speedy rotating blades even as we speak.” The transmitted voice was amused. “Have you located a suitable correspondent?”
“I think so.” Loud rumblings from outside were distracting her.
“Think so?” The Martian Girl winced as outrage suffused the voice echoing in her head. “You haven’t even asked anybody yet, have you?”
She pouted. “I’ve been busy...” Peering out the door, she saw squads of National Guard hustling hither and yon in the convention center. “Um, lemme get back to you.”
“That’s the point, dearie.” The voice was warm again. “Time to come home, and be sure to bring some company. Talk to strangers.”
“Talk to strangers.” The Martian Girl repeated automatically, her mind racing ahead. One hand touched the air in front of her in a complex pattern, and a shimmering blurred out her form as she levitated.
“Man, I hate it when they change the radio stations at the garage.” She complained, fingertips flashing and weaving as she floated through the wall and into the main concourse.
It was tempting to leave, but she felt a little responsible for the disruption. Pondering, her eyes scanned the camo-clad figures below her...
‘There!’ she thought, ‘He’s the one.’
The starcraft swooped in next to a trim officer with steel gray temples in a leather flight jacket studying a map of the convention center. Snapping a safety portal around him, she spun around, leaned back casually and smiled at the shocked general.
“Hi there, handsome. I understand you’re looking for me?”
General Carter had always been known as a quick thinker. But to instantly pop from a pale white convention center to floating in a gray haze was more than he was ready for.
“Um, well...” His first impulse, the pistol at his belt, was dismissed rapidly as both probably useless and curiously inappropriate, given her relaxed attitude.
Waving a hand, she pouted. “Don’t understand why you had to spoil the party for everybody else. They didn’t do anything wrong.” Screens popped into existence behind her, showing views of soldiers chivvying convention-goers to and fro, shutting down activities and concerts.
“Well, I was ordered to...” Carter suddenly felt disturbed. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to work. Invaders didn’t call you to task over bad manners.
The screens continued to pan as she leaned forward, displaying dark depths of cool green cleavage. “Did it occur to anybody to maybe give me a phone call? For crying out loud, I’m in the book. Just stop by for a chat?” Standing, she edged close, running a hand along the zipper of his jacket. “Or perhaps, send a handsome guy to ask me out...” she cooed.
He froze. Deep inside his brain, synapses were busily shutting down to avoid burning out.
“I’m hurt.” she finished, returning to her invisible seat and sulking.
“Sorry.” he mumbled, unable to come up with any other response. “But we had to... you know...”
“You’re just mean.” she sniffed. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Bunch of bullies.”
He was amazed. It was so transparently manipulative, but somehow... She made him feel like a naughty kid and a potential protector at the same time. ‘And really,’ he thought, ‘Where’s the harm? I can play this game to our advantage...’
Clearing his throat, he said. “Um, look, I’m really sorry about all of this. What if we pull all the troops out, make everybody happy, and we, uh, arrange something?”
She looked up at him, her smile restored, and his toes tingled. “Oh, that would be sooo nice!” she purred. “How about the Tempura House, you and me, next Wednesday at noon, and one other little thing...”
The general’s eyebrow lifted, he gulped weakly, but agreed.
******
Tom Smith rubbed his aching calf and sighed. It’d been a bitch of a day. He’d barely gotten into his set when the auditorium had been invaded by soldiers on a mysterious ‘search and capture’, complicated by the audience’s disbelief in the whole situation. By the time it was over, the early concert was blown, as well as the recording. Or any sales. Or any fun, dammit.
‘Oh, well, still the evening concert. Maybe I can make it up there.’ he thought.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Huh, who..?’
Outside was a squad of national guardsmen. The lead officer saluted. “Mr. Smith?”
‘Oh, shit.’ “Yeah, what..?”
“Compliments of the U.S. Government, sir. Our apologies for the disruption of your performance.” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “We’re at your disposal for the rest of the weekend, sir.”
“Huh?”
“We’re professional singers, two with the Chicago Met, three with the New York, and one with a country band before they called us up.” The soldier relaxed a little. “They called for volunteers, sir. Beats the hell out of KP.”
Tom stared at them, wheels turning in his head. Then with a chortle that a nervous person might describe as verging on evil, he turned and dove into a case, tossing sheets of paper at the bewildered soldiers, who studied them curiously.
Rolling back on his heels, the singer grinned at the guards, his face glowing. “This is gonna be good!”
“Brains?” One of the soldiers whispered nervously to another, who giggled.
******
To be continued.
Tom Smith is very real, and a VERY funny singer, by the way.