At Least There's No HOA

The Edge always gave Rick the heebie-jeebies. He deactivated the till setting on his new Spyder Deluxe, silencing the low thrumming noise of jagged claws that had been working the ground below, then killed the engine. The machine’s legs stretched and the body lifted, raising Rick’s vantage and giving the impression that the Edge was creeping inward, encroaching on his land like weeds to wheat.

In a few minutes, his neighbor’s property, now only a slow-moving speck hardly visible against the spackled backdrop of deep space, would swing close enough for Rick to count the steps on John and Linda Barker’s front porch.

Twice a year, the Barkers’ off-kilter orbit brought their residence within spitting distance, though he’d be hard pressed to get anything, let alone spit, through the thick airtight dome encircling his home.

The dome’s interior displays served as the window to outside, producing an image so clear and realistic that Rick, after setting the image to Blue Sky Over Landscape, very nearly suffered a concussion bumping into it. Today, he’d set the image to Real-time Patchthrough so he could watch the passing of the Barkers with his own two eyes.

Five years prior, Rick, having grown tired of reading through the immense amount of mail he’d often receive–mail which certainly outnumbered the distant stars, and, to Rick, were of a similar significance–did not read the notice that detailed the addition of a new orbiting body, and was surprised when a blip on his radar, one he’d never seen before, traced an uncomfortably close trajectory.

But all worry vanished when old John Barker flickered the lightswitch in his two-story classic, flashing a message of neighborly peace and good humor. The next pass, Rick waved from the seat of his ancient Cruber like a madman, and the rest was history. Nowadays, it wouldn’t feel like June without a wave from old John.

The speck that was John’s farm grew into a fleck. After a moment, Rick could make out tiny patches of color from John’s exterior display. A few minutes later, there was their lawn, a fresh and rich green patch, and then the white siding and red roof of their house, and then the gaps of green in the spaces of their white picket fence. That’s where he’d always see John, both hands on a picket, at least until he spotted Rick, and then he’d lift an arm and wave a wave a lover would be jealous of.

But John wasn’t there. Rick squinted at the fenceline surrounding the house, at the beautifully kept lawn, at the porch with two rocking chairs, at the windows, glowing with the light of a loving home.

There, in one of the top windows, something obscured the warmth. A dark shape moved across in a flash as if a leak in the roof had allowed the emptiness of space to pour past the window and flood the top floor. But that wasn’t true. If there had been a breach, the dome would have made it clear. Rick had seen more than one breached dome in his time, and the brilliant lights reminded him of fireworks, only he could see them across a hundred thousand miles. Maybe more.

Rick removed a terminal from his pocket, navigated to the display controls, then connected to the nearest panel. It meant he’d have to approach the Edge. Heebie-jeebies be damned, he’d been looking forward to showing old John his new Spyder.

The section of display Rick had connected to broke from the pattern of its neighbors and magnified the view of John’s farm. Just as before, John was nowhere to be seen. He magnified further, zooming toward the window in which he’d seen movement.

Another flash of black. This time, Rick could tell it was a person, though he’d assumed that from the start. This person, however, moved far too quickly. John and Linda were old, and this shadow moved with the quickness of youth. No, Rick was awfully sure, the person moving about John and Linda’s house was neither John nor Linda.

In the five years they’d been waving to each other, Rick and John had only spoken a few times, and it had mostly been pleasantries. Rick would tell his wife that he’d be out by the Edge to see his old buddy, and Rose would roll her eyes, tell him to just give the man a call, for goodness sakes.

Rick flipped his terminal to Communication and dialed John’s home phone. It rang a total of three times before John and Linda’s voices spoke in tandem, “We’re the barkers! Bark at the tone!”

Rick pocketed the terminal and took in a deep, deep breath. The Barkers never mentioned any family, any friends, any common visitors. Drop-ins were as unlikely as a thunderstorm, save for the religious types that came calling now and again. There was only one thing to do: the neighborly thing. And he had to do it fast.

Rick let out the breath all at once as he pulled the terminal back out of his pocket. He dialed Rose. “Howdy, sweetheart,” he said as he always would. “I’m headin’ out for a bit. Got a fritzy screen.”

Rose sighed. “Be safe, Rick. Dinner’s in thirty.”

Rick hung up and removed his suit from the barn, put it on, then keyed his intentions. The airlock door hissed as it opened, and Rick entered the tiny room. He ran the final suit diagnostic before initializing depressurization. There was another hiss, then silence took over. The opposite door opened and suddenly he was staring at the expanse of space as if it were the gullet of one of those space eldritches, or whatever they called them. He pushed out over the Edge.

Floating came easy, mostly because Rick’s suit did all the work. He barely felt the vent chambers open on his back, the compressed gasses bursting out, the sudden increase in speed. The only indication that he was moving faster was his shrinking home and the slowing approach of John’s.

His suit, unable to trust the dexterity of a human being, gripped a bar on the outside of John’s airlock and pulled him close. The airlock door opened on its own and Rick’s suit pulled them inside. After another series of hisses, Rick was standing on grass.

He removed his suit and set it next to the airlock door. The air was fresh, clean; indistinguishable from his own, aside from the scent of rain-washed grass which, Rick knew, could be achieved via terminal command. For some reason, Rose had never been keen on the fragrance, instead insisting on Ocean Spray or Wooded Retreat.

Rick unlatched the picket gate and made his way up the porch steps–three, as he’d always counted–passed the antique rockers with their floral cushions colored vibrantly as if they’d just been purchased, and approached the door. He pressed the doorbell and could hear the two-tone ding dong that had been popularized long, long ago, yet somehow persisted. Old John was old school.

There was a shuffle inside. The deadbolt clicked and the knob turned. It was Linda.

“Oh, hey, Rick. We didn’t see you come up.”

Rick decided they must not have been near a terminal. Rose would sometimes set hers aside, too. To ‘escape’ she’d say. “Howdy, Linda. John home?”

“Uh,” Linda said. “He’s inside, but he’s really busy.”

“Oh,” Rick said. “Everything okay? I could’ve sworn I saw somethin’ movin’ around. I didn’t mean to interrupt your entertainin’.”

“Nope!” Linda said, suddenly bright. “Just me and John. It was nice to see you. Give my love to the misses.”

“You got it, ma’am.” Rick moved across the porch, past the two rockers, down the steps, one two three, and back to his suit. He put it on and sat in the grass, arms on his knees, chin on his arms, looking out at the sky. Sparkling stars widened into starbursts. Rick’s suit warned him of an irregular discharge within its helmet, then played a soothing, hopeful melody as he waited for the drone to carry him home.