Flin Flamming the Pivyck.

Before I could protest his invasive and sudden appearance, he said ‘Wait, wait, wait. Let me tell you my story.’ He proceeded to explain how his previous jump was not well-planned and he found himself in the middle of a dispute between two large, very strange entities. ‘Little did they know’ he said, ‘it had all been pre-arranged. Planned to a T.’

“It was a bit like being at a grudge match between two mismatched Titans,” he began, “then proceeded to recount the events, by mimicking the participants.”

“This can’t be happening,” the Pivyck whined. “You must’ve done something. Look at you,” he spat the words out, “you, you must’ve touched something.”

The Flin shimmered with indignation, her slime covered surface effusing gorbits of flivver. The Flin travel in groups for safety you know, and a Flin has nine arms, all prehensile, but she hadn’t touched anything. At the designated time, she and her cohort were supposed to transport to the next beacon, but she had been left behind somehow—to deal with the Pivyck alone.

Pivycks on the other hand, thrive in isolation, and are possessed of a terrible temper. That’s why they live in isolation, to protect themselves from each other. This Pivyck had such a murderous look in his eye that the Flin paused in mid-fluster and ceased her flailing.

“What in the name of infinity are you doing here?” the Pivyck groaned.

The Flin was not here by choice, any numbskull could see that, but Pivycks are not always logical, and his remark inflamed the Flin, and, let’s face it, there are few things worse than an inflamed Flin. “You listen to me, you pathetic little Piv,” she snapped, “You need to quit your quivering and fix that flin-shammed transport system.”

The Pivyck, recovering from the shock of meeting a Flin, waved his singular arm for silence. The Flin’s constant flailing was driving him to distraction. “Let me THINK, Flin. Please.”

The Flin deflated to a flaccid formicle—while Pivyck pondered their plight.

Now, “the gentleman spoke outside of his story to explain some background.” Now anyone with a little common sense could see that these two were Official Sentinels, “he said,” whose function is to inhabit the space-buoys and facilitate interstellar shipping. The buoys are specialized galactic beacons, long and cylindrical, with a spark-advance and magneto at either end.

Historically, the Pivyck and the Flin were incongruously dissimilar members of one species, but (narrator coughs) but prone to disagreements. Ages ago, while their species was still in its infancy, they discovered rocketry, space travel and a workable warp drive. A significant number of Pivycks, already feeling distanced by the unforgiving Flin, signed up for an expedition to explore exo-planets already known to exist.

(Of course, I thought, this makes perfect sense.)

Years passed and only one Pivyck returned, with tales of travails both great and small. The Flin sent him back with supplies and support, extending one of their many hands in continued friendship. The Pivyck at first declined, wishing to keep their distance. “They’re two light-years away. How much distance do you need?” The primary Pivyck proclaimed. “Let us trade, let us consort,” he said at length, “as long as we keep our distance.”

Generations came and went, millennia passed with boring predictability. The Pivyck and the Flin maintained their distance, and attained a state of co-dependent equilibrium, while trade and travel boomed.

Interstellar shipping was essential to the survival of their respective cultures, so agreement was made to share responsibility for the buoys, and to rotate crews from buoy to buoy. But the agreement stipulated that they should never meet, except through specific, arduous, painstakingly prearranged circumstances. In the words of one prominent Pivyck, ‘preferably never.’

The technology required to facilitate this arrangement was too complex to fit onto a single whiteboard, so let’s skip that part of the story for now as well, but everyone knew about the fluid in the reservoir.

“‘How such unique knowledge became universal is inexplicable to everyone, but stranger things have happened,’ the stranger quipped, and then resumed his story.”

So Pivyck said, “Did you check the fluid in the transport system?”

The Flin pulsated. “Don’t insult me, Pivyck. I’m aware of the systems requirements.’

The Pivyck opined. “You are aware, yet you didn’t answer my question. Surely you know it takes water.”

The Flin failed to answer. In truth it takes heavy water to reticulate the reactive dampener. It doesn’t take much, but it has to be deuterium.

The Flin fell conspicuously silent, while the Pivyck squinted suspiciously.

The Flin inflated, then deflated with a musical fart. “Are you testing my patience, Pivyck?”

“I’ll test more than that,” muttered the Pivyck, as he turned his attention to the station’s systems console, stuck his hand in a glove and began interfacing with the buoy’s hardware. In a matter of moments a series of flashing lights and beeps alerted us to a transport system shortage. “The reservoir is empty, Flin. You would leave this station with no transport power?”

Without heavy water, the Pivyck and the Flin would be trapped on this station, with me, for 90 days. Until the next shift change. This was an interval that exceeded all previous cohabitation events by 85 days. I did not want to witness a murder.

“Well how much do we need?”

“It doesn’t matter, don’t you see, if we don’t have any.”

“But how much do we need?”

“Less than a thimble full.”

A thimble was a measurement that Flins are familiar with. Again, all Flins are issued a thimble at their ‘inauguration.’ (Where they keep it, nobody knows. But they have one.) And the fastest way to draw water from a Flin was with concentrated firepower. (Especially when in flux. Which this one certainly was.)

I pulled out my Eco-blaster and pointed it right at her chest, painting a little red dot on her quivering flavium. “Hold ‘em high, honey!” I announced, with way too much drama, but it convinced the Flin, who obediently raised all nine arms at once. It was hard to keep from laughing. Really. It was really hard. I moved around, concealing my amusement while feigning ferocity. “You workin’ for the inflivium, Flin?” I stole a glance at the Pivyck, who was stunned into silence by my performance, and the blaster. “Come on Flin, out with it.”

The Flin was obviously flustered for a moment, but recovered rather quickly. “May I retract my hands now? Since we both know you’re not going to shoot me.”

“No, ack, you may not,” I choked out, almost snorting. “One of you is, is a mole, or something.” I shifted my aim between them, staying out of their way. As expected, the Pivyck jumped to his one foot, and hopped across the deck to protect the Flin.

He knew she had it. We both did. “Give us the water, Flin. It’s the only way you’re getting off this beacon. Be reasonable.”

She produced the thimble with amazing dexterity and held it under her enneadic beak and waited.

We all waited. Until a bead began to form, grow, jiggle and fall. And then another bead began to form, grow, jiggle, etc.

Pivyck kept a watchful eye on me as the Flin, whose fear I had fomented, began to osmose minute molecules of deuterium into the thimble.

Drop, by deuterius drop.

When I could see that she was almost done, I snatched the thimble from between her fingers and backed away. I splashed a drop or two in the reservoir, opened my coat, selected a glass vial from an inside pocket, and poured the remainder of the thimble’s contents into the vial, and tossed the thimble aside.

The Pivyck’s eyes grew wide as the consequences of my actions slowly dawned on his single-minded brain. “No. You wouldn’t, you’re not…” he glorphed in desperation. (It was a massive glorph. Never seen one like it before. Hope I never see another one again. Not like that.) Sorry, where was I? Oh yes, at the end of my story, lying to a Pivyck.”

“Of course not,” I lied, as I punched the giant ‘For Emergencies Only’ button, skipped across the room, jumped onto the transport platform and hit the ‘send’ button: Taking all of the water with me.

“It seems cruel to the uninitiated perhaps, but it has been the accepted method of Flin-Pivyck reproduction for centuries. Leave them alone together for two-and-a-half days, then send in squads of heavily armed domestic counselors. Peel and heal the Flin, separate and isolate the Pivyck, and give the little flivulets room to grow.

“In other words, I was just doing my job, ma’am. Or sir. Excuse me, sir.”

“Unfortunately, I forgot to calibrate the transport’s focuser, and that’s why I appeared in your living room. Show me to your transporter and I’ll be on my way.”

“And when I told him, ‘we don’t have transporters yet.’ A look of suspicion flitted across his animated face, then he looked me up and down. “You have a toaster?”

I nodded.

“A microwave?”

I nodded.

“That’s a good fellow,” he said, in the most disarming voice. “Which way?”

I pointed to the kitchen and his last words were, ‘just give me five minutes—alone.’

I started to say, ‘With my appliances?’ But I think that was already a given. At about four minutes, ten seconds later there was a loud thunk from the kitchen. I waited another thirty seconds but I knew, that crazy bastard was gone. But there’s no reason for me, or you, to think that he wasn’t telling the truth.