Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (91 page)

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Sean
was all but thrown into the cockpit, grabbing the doorway to steady himself.
“Leroy what are ya doin’?”

“Trying
to avoid getting grabbed by pirates.”

“What
the hell do they want with purple, poison, monkey critters?”

Leroy
glanced at him. “Maybe that’s not the cargo they're after.”

Sean
frowned at him. “Try to hail them.”

Leroy
pushed several buttons on the panel in front of him. The screen in front of
him, crackled with black and white static. Leroy groaned and gave it a quick
slap. “Did I mention we needed a new one of these.”

“I’ll
add it to the list. Now get me someone on the ship.”

Chapter 5

Indigo
got a sinking sensation in her stomach as the ship stopped zigging and zagging,
slowed, then stopped altogether. Her intercom crackled. “Cargo bay Indy and
dress for company.”

Getting
up she changed into her frilly dress, and shawl then headed down to the cargo
bay. Sean met her at the top of the stairs. “An old friend of yours is paying
us a visit.” Indy suddenly felt ill. Sean placed his hands on her shoulders. “I
won’t let him take you.”

Swallowing,
she nodded.

Giving
her shoulders a quick squeeze, he let her go and headed down the stairs. She
followed, dreading every second of what was to come. Indy stood slightly behind
and to the left of Sean, as the air lock opened. Afton boarded the ship. His
eyes passed over Sean, to land on her his lips turned up into a smile.

“Indigo
Blue, my darling, Indy.” He strode over, ignoring Sean all together, and
wrapped her in a hug.

Indy
looked over Afton’s shoulder at Sean, uncertain whether to hug him back or keep
still. Getting no commands for Sean, she decided to keep still.

He
pushed her back to arms length, looking over her like a proud father. “You look
different, but we’ll fix that.”

Sean
finally cleared his throat, to get Afton’s attention. Not letting Indy go he
glanced over his shoulder. “Ah Captain, so sorry, where are my manners.” He let
go and turned, extending his hand to Sean. “Captain Casey, thank you very much
for finding my Indigo. I’ll happily reimburse you for any…”

“Lord
Afton, I would like to keep Indy. No reimbursement will be needed.”

A
smug smile crossed Afton’s face. “Well then, we’ll have to turn on her chips.”
He chuckled at the gasp that escaped Indy’s lips. “Yes, my dear, I know. As
soon as I found out I had a check run on you. All the chips are monitored, you
had to know, Captain.”

Sean
nodded, “I was just hoping I could get her out to deep space, and the outer
planets before someone checked.”

Afton
nodded, grinning. “Honorable, captain.” He glanced back at Indy, whose head was
reeling. “Perhaps…” A sly look crossed his face. “If Indy can prove that she is
completely devoted to you. We wouldn’t have to turn them on.”

Sean
planted his hands on his hips. “She doesn’t have to prove anything. On this
ship she’s a free woman.”

Afton’s
eyes widen slightly, then narrowed, dancing from Indy to Sean. The look that
spread across his face unnerved Indy more than anything she’d ever seen before.
“You’re right, Captain. Indigo has served me well and deserves a reward.”

Indy’s
stomach tied in knots. She wasn’t sure she wanted Afton’s reward.

Afton
motioned for one of his men to come forward.

“Have
release papers drawn up for Indigo.” As the man ran back to their ship, Afton
turned to Indy. “We’ll disarm the chips, then any medic will be able to remove
them. This is my gift to you for your previous service.” He leaned toward her
speaking in a low voice. “We couldn’t have gotten where we are without you.”

Indy
felt her skin crawl, guilt gnawed at her insides.

The
man returned with the papers and handed them to Afton. He looked them over then
signed his name on the last page. With a shaky hand she accepted them, looking
them over. This was too good to be true.

"Just
like that?"

He
smirked at her. "Just like that." Afton walked by her motioning for
his men to follow.

Once
they were gone and the airlock secured, Indy let herself lean against Sean. He
put his arms around her.

"It's
all over." He murmured against her hair, rubbing her back.

“I
guess so.”

About
Wynter O’Reilly

Wynter
O’Reilly lives in the Adirondack Mountains with her husband and mutt Hemi. She
spends most her free time writing or reading, when not doing either of those
she spends her time outdoors hiking, kayaking or various other actives.
Wynter’s love of books is what inspired her to start writing and with her
active, some times over active, imagination it seemed like a good outlet.

Live Assist

By
Sam Kepfield

In
the summer of Skylab falling and gas lines and hostages in Iran, I found myself
on the beach. In radioland, that means you’re a DJ who is not on the air; for
me it meant sacking groceries at a local Kroger in the evenings when I should
have been behind a mike. At twenty-one, I was approaching has-been status,
being fired from my third job in four years.

It
was a miserable time for FM radio. The Beatles were gone, ditto Jim, Jimi and
Janis, leaving us with ABBA. Tin Soldiers and Nixon’s Coming was out, Shake
Your Booty was in. The Summer of Love gave way to the Days of Rage and then the
Me Decade. Woodstock segued into Altamont and became Studio 54. The War was
over and lost only to be replaced by an energy crisis and inflation, the
nefarious Tricky Dick was gone and replaced by harmless Jerry Ford and then the
hapless peanut farmer.

One
day in April of ’79 I got fed up and dragged the needle across Donna Summer’s
“Hot Stuff” and replaced it with “Cat Scratch Fever.” On the air. It had been
cool on
WKRP in Cincinnati
when Dr. Johnny Fever did it. It got my ass
fired on the spot.

Two
months of making sure the eggs and bread went on top later, I heard of a job
out west at some daytimer AM-FM station. I sent an old demo tape and
interviewed a week later. The program director, a portly man with a Lincoln
beard named Hal Whittington who looked about thirty, offered me the job after
the interview was over. Hal let slip that he had been filling in behind the
mike, and was anxious to get back to being program director and sales manager.
Applicants weren’t beating down the doors here. After getting a good look at
the town, I wasn’t surprised.

Red
Bluff was, and still is, a Western Kansas county seat village of no great
import. It lies about thirty miles south of I-70, out past Hays and Colby,
damned near to the Colorado line. A two-lane highway doubles as Main Street for
six blocks, broken only by one traffic signal that blinked not red, but yellow.
Three blocks of brick and limestone buildings bracket Main Street, broken only
by the three-story county courthouse. A cluster of small shops surrounded the
courthouse—a donut shop where the elderly farmers and their wives
gathered promptly at 6 a.m. every morning for coffee, Danish, cigarettes and
gossip, a Rexall Drug, a few clothing shops, Duckwall’s, Western Auto and Ace
Hardware. The ATSF tracks, and the local Co-op elevator, a hundred feet tall
and visible for twenty miles on a clear day, marked the end of the business
district. A couple of run-down shacks and trailers lay on the wrong side of the
tracks, the last thing one saw in the rear view mirror when leaving Red
Bluff—if, indeed, one noticed it in the first place.

WFY
105.3 FM 1470 AM was the lone station in a fifty-mile radius, putting out an
underwhelming three thousand watts, enough to be heard clearly within a
twenty-mile radius, barely covering the county. Farmers in their combines or
tractors in the field listened as much for the commodity prices as the music.
Housewives put it on while doing chores. The shops ringing the courthouse piped
in WKY while customers perused their wares.

Format?
Country/western. What else?

I
was so desperate to get out of a green smock and back in front of a mike that I
took the job despite the fact that I knew nothing about country and/or western
music, other than it wasn’t disco. It was also free-form, since Hal didn’t have
the time or the nature to make out a playlist. He just pointed to a small
cardboard box patched with duct tape by the right turntable, holding about
thirty 45s, current country hits by Eddie Rabbitt, Dolly Parton, Waylon and/or
Willie. I was master of the board, doing a modified live assist, meaning I had
network shows to run—the commodities reports (ten every hour, seven to
six), UPI radio news (top and bottom of the hour), remotes for high school
sports, and Royals games almost every night from April to September. Ads and
Public Service Announcements were on 8-track cartridges. WFY was a daytimer
station, signing on with the national anthem at five a.m. sharp and signing off
the same way at ten p.m., or later whenever the rare extra innings or double
header Royals game ran late in the summer.

Red
Bluff shouldn’t have been able to support a radio station. Jerry Hibbert owned
WKY, along with the Sonic on Main, a few franchises in Dodge City and St.
Francis and Goodland. He also owned the trailer park, where he leased me an old
Airstream trailer for twenty bucks a month. Hibbert, who wore cowboy boots, a
bolo tie and a Stetson whenever I saw him, viewed the radio as a sort of public
service, and a way to make Red Bluff a Community on the Move.

The
station sat in the middle of a quarter-section of land four miles from town and
surrounded by wheat in the spring and summer, at the top of a low, sloping
hill. The building was a cinderblock box with peeling white paint plopped onto
the middle of a concrete slab that had been poured on 8-8-51 by the letters
scrawled into one corner. The tower stood behind the building. Neon letters
that hadn’t worked in years hung from the girders. The only roads around were
dirt and gravel. Fifth Street, which led to the station, had washboard
stretches and a rickety wood bridge over a creek that ran dry most of the year.
I always slowed when I approached it; the newer wood on the side rails told me
that at least one unlucky soul hadn’t.

The
interior was a horrid assemblage of painted cinderblock, cheap paneling,
threadbare harvest gold shag carpet and beige drapes. Reception area up front,
metal army surplus desk and orange plastic chairs, two offices for Hibbert and
Hal.

The
setup in the booth was standard. U-shaped shelf along the booth, metal office
chair with stained yellow upholstery. A stash of several-years old
Playboy
and
Penthouse
mags under the counter, hidden by a Wichita phone book.
Control board with nine potentiometers, or pots, big black dials running to
different functions on the board. Number 1 went to an 8-track cartridge (or
cart) machine for ads or PSAs, both on spinning racks by the turntables, 2 and
4 to two Technics 1200 turntables, 3 to the mike, 5 was for the UPI wire news
and commodity reports, 6 went to the sports network, 7 was for remote
broadcasts of local high school games, 8 went into the small studio on the
other side of the booth, and 9—I never figured out what 9 was for. A
small studio sat adjacent to the booth, used for recording ads. On the other
side, a small newsroom with an old green metal teletype whose clattering keys
spat out news flashes and weather updates.

The
broadcast booth had a huge glass window that faced west, looking over the flat
landscape towards town. It gave a good view of the two country roads that
intersected a few hundred feet away. During harvest, combines trundled to the
field and ancient grain trucks with fading paint lumbered by on their way to
the Co-op. Once in a while, a pickup would travel the roads, kicking up clouds
of dust. Rarely was there a passenger car.

The
record library was hidden in a storage room next to the studio. The dusty grey
metal shelves housed a collection of old pressings by Bob Willis and Patsy
Cline and Hank Senior, above a couple feet of classical albums, played on
Sunday morning after the church services from the First Nazarene Church (8:00
to 9:10 Sunday with a preacher who used three syllables to say “God”).

 Poking
around late one night I came upon a half-dozen boxes in a storage closet,
filled with 45s. WKY’s past also held Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis and Buddy
Holly, the Beatles and Stones, the Who and Zepplin, jazz albums by Miles Davis,
John Coltrane, Thelonius Monk, Charlie Parker and others. In the rock library,
time had ended about 1971; the latest albums were
Chicago III
and the
Stones’
Sticky Fingers
with the original zipper intact.

I
took over the evening shift, three to ten, later if the Royals went into extra
innings in a late West Coast game, which was fine since it paid overtime.
Afterwards, I would drive my rustbucket ’65 Chevy down the darkened dirt and
gravel roads to my trailer, unwind with a couple cans of Coors while reading
paperbacks, turn in about midnight, get up late, occupy myself until it started
all over again. In high school, I’d run cross country in addition to being in
the AV club. I dug out a pair of old Adidas and some faded gym shorts, and
began running again along the country roads or at the high school track. The
checkerboard pattern visible from the air made it all neat. Go a mile, turn
left, repeat three times, and I was back home a half hour later.

I
did all this because I had the time to be alone. For a healthy, horny
twenty-one year old, Red Bluff was hell. There was the cute brunette checkout
clerk at Duckwall’s who was still in high school but not street legal, the
petite redhead girl behind the counter at the Rexall’s who was. And there was
Carma Gaines, our part-time sales rep and receptionist who wore crinkle gauze
peasant skirts and blouses with no bra, straight dirty-blond hair worn long.
Carma was older, pushing thirty, chain-smoked Virginia Slims and had that
wonderful don’t-care air that older divorced women have. She was looking for
someone with more money than I was earning to get her out of this career pit
stop, though, and it never went beyond pleasant conversation and an occasional
ride to her house when her Monte Carlo conked out.

I
actually began liking some of the older country after a while. Hank Williams
had a few tunes that were passable rockabilly, like “Long Gone Daddy,” and I
could always slip in a little vintage Jerry Lee Lewis. Johnny Cash became one
of my favorites, and I’d sometimes slip on three in a row from his Folsom
Prison concert.

After
a couple of months, I talked Hal into letting me play some of the old rock for
an hour a night. He was reluctant at first, but I got him to agree. We settled
on nine to ten p.m., by which time the downtown businesses would be long
shuttered, the sidewalks rolled up, the old people would be in bed, and the
teenagers would be up listening to the radios in their cars. Until the Royals
got eliminated by the Yankees in the September playoffs it would be a night or
two a week, on afternoon game days and travel days.

Hal
cleared all the tracks, showing a surprising hidden knowledge of the ‘60s music
scene. He let on one day that he’d worked at a radio station in Topeka while
attending Washburn University until graduation in ’72, then came back to his
hometown of Red Bluff, fell into WKY and just never left.

So
we reached an understanding. The Beatles were okay, pre-
Sgt. Pepper
with
a few exceptions, the Stones were questionable (for recording “Sympathy for the
Devil” and “Let’s Spend the Night Together,” no-nos in the Bible Belt), Dylan
was barely okay (no “Ballard of Hurricane Carter”) Chicago was fine, Gary
Puckett and the Union Gap, Creedence, The Supremes, The Ronettes, you get the
idea, go light on the psychedelic stuff so no Hendrix and for God’s sake don’t
play any antiwar stuff, since Vietnam and hippies were still a sensitive topic
and it wouldn’t do to get the VFW (of which Hibbert was a member) up in arms.
Hal volunteered that the Monkees would be fine, but I never got around to
spinning any of their discs.

Three
months into the job, on a typical Kansas summer night, hot, humid, crickets
chirruping and locusts singing a chorus in the stubble-covered wheat field
around the station, no clouds, a half moon, no wind, I went outside for some
fresh air while a side of
Chicago II
played, a nice long track. The
stars overhead were overpowering. I grew up in Kansas City where the city
lights hid the heavens. Here, four miles from nowhere, the only lights coming
from the widely scattered farmhouses, they blazed forth. The Milky Way arched
over me, clear as in the astronomy book photos I’d pored over as a kid.

Coming
in from the break, the last strains of the Beatles’ “Let it Be” pouring from
the speakers, I saw the small red light on the top of the board flicker. I
raced to the battered black wall phone mounted under the counter, and picked up
the heavy receiver. “WFY, AM fourteen seventy, FM one-oh-five point three,” I
intoned in my deep Announcer Voice.

“Do
you do requests?” the voice asked. It was female, young, and alto, very pretty,
very delicate, breathy. The voice of a poetess, or a ballerina or singer, not
the flat nasal twang of the farm girls who dotted these parts.

Requests?
I didn’t know. Hal had never given me a policy on requests, implying that they
didn’t have one, thus implying that they didn’t need one, since few people
listened. I’d had a couple of complaints about the Allman Brothers, and that
was it. “Sure. What would you like to hear?”

“How
‘bout ‘Light My Fire’ by the Doors?”

“Uh,
I don’t know if I’m cleared to play that one.” Ed Sullivan had asked Morrison
not to sing “Babe we couldn’t get much higher,” thinking it a drug reference,
but The Lizard King ignored Ed. Hal and Ed seemed of a type, so I was on the
edge. I had the Animals cued up on turntable 2. I did a Rose Mary Woods,
cradling the phone with my shoulder, starting turntable 2, potting it up as I
turned down turntable 1 and began rifling through the box for another 45.

“Oh.
Well, then, I really love Big Brother and the Holding Company,” the voice
breathed.

“’Piece
of my Heart’?” I asked. Their most famous hit, from ’68, before Janis split and
went solo, but they’d reunited to do it at Woodstock.

“That’s
the one. I love Janis. She’s so—so soulful.” An embarrassed silence,
self-conscious, as if realizing how few people who don’t write for
Rolling
Stone
actually use the word “soulful” in conversation with strangers.