Zoe Furl, 16, rejoiced in her uniqueness. Her razor-sharp, laser-cut, copper bob distinguished her from other humans. Her sunken sea blue eyes, pointed elfin ears and turned-up toffee nose gave her a unique, spoilt look. For Zoe Furl was a spoilt brat, spoilt like no other. She pouted her cerise lips, folded her extraordinarily long arms and emitted a loud tut, for the benefit of Zee, her long-suffering mother. Zoe Furl was not a happy girl. Oh, and Zoe spoke Zoe Speak.
‘Why can’t I go with Michael, Mum?’
‘Your father refused to sign the forms to freeze you, darling.’
Zoe pulled her angular chin into a long jut, flexed her high cheek bones, and banted. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re too young, darling.’
‘I’m not too young, look!’
Zoe pushed out her tiny conical breasts to stress her points. Even long-suffering Zee had to concede that: dressed in her beautiful jet-black, sleeveless, herring-bone kimono with high neck and side vents, her daughter resembled a fine young woman. More than the banting teen who slept through her alarm that morning and nearly missed the cadmium carrier to the launch pad. It was no good. The exclusion order had been enacted by Garth. Zoe wasn’t hurtling to another planet, a far-off, distant galaxy with Michael Mist, and that was that!
Michael would be fired into space in seconds. Zoe stanned him, scrunched up inside the conical capsule on the rainy, windswept launch circle, from her floating observational pyramid.
‘Seen his spacesuit?’ she banted, ‘It’s slaying! That helmet’s so legit? Those space boots are snatched! Look at him! Gangsta! He’s proper peng. His new crew cut’s butters, though!’
She pressed her pale round face into the drizzled pane, steaming it up with her runny nose. Her eyelashes were fleek. Tears cascaded down her milky white skin, sticking her face to the cold glass. Okay, she kidded herself, I’m calm.
‘Love you bare, Michael,’ she mouthed.
Zoe felt peak about not joining Mist but Garth and Zee Furl didn’t ship their freaking kid falling for an astronaut. She found her Mum and Dad so basic? She’d told the melt to shut up? That shook! It was impossible for her to see Michael’s face inside his space helmet, behind the masque, the scary, black visor. Zoe imagined his frail body, safely encapsulated in its padded spacesuit, pulsing its stumpy arms and legs to maintain blood circulation. She drew her long, bony fingers down the steamed-up window, pronouncing her knuckles, chipping her cerise nail varnish, flashing the ring he gave her to wear until the end of time, when they smooched and canoodled, under the stars, on Playa Linda Beach.
Heartbroken, she imagined him, dismounting the darkness of the capsule, waddling, gravity-free, down the flimsy ladder, adjusting himself meticulously with his silver jet propulsion boots. When he reached his one-way journey’s end. Her nose was running. She wiped herself with the back of her hand wishing she could wipe her memory of Michael, erase him from her memory, but she couldn’t, she loved him too much. I hope his back-pack life support system works long enough for him to remember me. I hope he still remembers me, when he stares up into that alien night sky. His loss was too much for her to bear.
‘I love you, I always will,’ she whispered.
Michael Furl, 34, stared, love-lump-in-throat, out of the Plexiglas portal, smiled, and waved his big, gloved hand at Zoe. He mused a silent prayer, then bid farewell to Earth. For the next 45 years he would be glued to Silver Bullet 1’s innermost lining, submerged (initially) in a sac of clear blue cryogenic fluid then incrementally deep-frozen like a big intergalactic fish finger.
‘Love you, too, fam,’ he mouthed back.
Built to be shot into space, Silver Bullet 1 was miniscule, basic by space rocket standards, a bullet-shaped cone with ultra-ceramic, solid-shield heat protectors at its squat base and blunt tip. Towards the rear of the spacecraft were the ultra-critical computerized life support systems, wrapped in thick, heat-resistant silicone swaddling. The living quarters, automated feeding and excretion facilities were situated behind the bullet’s tip, next to enzymic waste digestion, and would be activated upon landing.
At the very heart of the craft, cocooned and cloistered in his solid Plexiglass bubble bath of eternal blue dreams, lived Michael. His body could, the biologist explained to him, be expected to grow a fine coating of furry down, a fluffing of swarth on his angular jaw. And he would enjoy dreams, orgasmic, narcoleptic, dreams, the likes of which he could never expect to experience on Earth. Oh, and the scientists had arranged some company for him, for his wakeful moments on the endless mission. After all, he was a man, wasn’t he? He was only human.
The phased array of purple laser beams was on point. Silver Bullet 1 absorbed the beams into the anti-matter reactor at its tip, glowed incandescent red, and shot off into outer space.
Zoe Furl grinned, conceding that the take-off was lit!
Don’t want to beef, Mist thought, curving her, but she really shegged me just then.
*****
Michael Mist lay deep in thought in deep space as the narcoleptics entered his bloodstream. He drifted off to sleep, content in Zoe’s arms…
Zoe Furl 1, rejoiced in her uniqueness. Her razor-sharp, laser-cut, copper bob distinguished her from other androids. Her sunken sea blue eyes, pointed elfin ears and turned-up toffee nose gave her a unique, spoilt look. Zoe Furl was a spoilt brat. She pouted her cerise lips, folded her extraordinarily long arms and emitted a loud sigh. Zoe Furl was a happy girl. She pushed out her tiny conical breasts to stress her points. Even Michael had to concede that, dressed in her beautiful jet-black, sleeveless, herring-bone kimono with the high neck and side vents, his android resembled a fine young woman. More than the banting teenager who’d slept through her alarm that morning and nearly missed the cadmium carrier to the launch pad.
It was perfect: the exclusion order he’d enacted with Garth. Zoe wasn’t hurtling to another planet, a far-off, distant galaxy with him, and that was that! She was!
Zoe stanned him, scrunched up against her in the conical capsule, from their floating observational pyramid.
‘Seen him without his spacesuit?’ she banted, ‘He’s slaying! That beard’s so legit? Those muscles are snatched. Look at him! Gangsta! He’s proper peng. His crew cut’s butters, though!’
She pressed her pale round face into his, steaming him with her runny nose. Her eyelashes were fleek. Tears cascaded down her milky white skin, sticking her to him. Okay, she kidded herself, I’m calm!
‘Love you bare, Michael,’ she mouthed.
Zoe felt his frail body, pulsing his stumpy arms and legs to maintain his blood circulation. She drew her long, bony fingers down his sweating body, pronouncing her knuckles, chipping her cerise nail varnish, flashing the ring he gave her to wear, until the end of time, when they smooched and canoodled, under the stars, on Playa Linda Beach.
Thrilled, she imagined him, dismounting from the darkness of the capsule, waddling with her, gravity-free, down the flimsy ladder, adjusting himself meticulously with his silver jet propulsion boots. When they reached their one-way journey’s end.
Her nose was running. She wiped herself with the back of her hand, wishing she could erase him from her memory, but she couldn’t, she loved him too much. I hope his back-pack life support system works long enough for him to marry me. I hope he marries me when we stare up into that alien night sky. His loss would be too much for her to bear.
‘I love you, I always will,’ she whispered.
‘Zoe,’ he murmured, drowsily, ‘Shoot this pulse to Zoe.’
‘Sorry, Commander. I can’t do that. I am Zoe,’ said sus Zoe.
‘Don’t peak me, melt! Just do it, OK?’
Zoe shot the pulse:
BAE,
I would have liked you to have been deep-frozen, too. Guess you’ll be about 60 now, long-dead by the time I return to Earth. Your android replica is shegging me again. It’s no joke! When she curves, she bants your mama’s name! Her time-held thoughts are full of you as you were when I left. We’ve fallen in love IRL. We plan to get married, launch a floating home, buy a flying car, have a freaking kid.
Love you, fam.
Hey, don’t cry.
Your loving Michael xx
*****
‘Silver Bullet is flying through Proxima Centauri at 12 per cent of the speed of light,’ 5DTV informed the watching world, ‘Michael Mist will be shot at Proxima B at 22:00 tonight.’
Mission Objective: Establish contact with Alien Life-Form!
Zoe, the android replica, was busy on her hyper-tablet generally interfering with the mission. Suddenly, Silver Bullet shook, rattled, rolled, dipping, losing altitude, careering out of control. The sus capsule exploded in showers of white-hot sparks. Mist was incinerated, died instantly. Zoe’s eyelashes were on fleek, correction, fire! It was calm just long enough to send a slaying, peak, beefish bant to curve Zoe and sheg the basic melt until she shook:
BAE,
Landing itself was nothing. We touched upon a shelf of rocks selected by the auto-mind? IRL I find you so basic and butters, Zoe? You sheg me! Not like my Zoe? That chick is on point, snatched, legit, lit! I’m it’s biggest stan? Sorry to curve you, melt. But like they say:
There is no Future in the Past!
Hey, don’t cry, kid, it’s only bant!
Michael
*****
Twenty-five trillion miles, or 4.2 light-years, away, Zoe Furl felt a crushing pain peak her sus heart. She clutched her chest, shook, collapsed and died.
She would never read Zoe II’s beefish bant… her letter to Zoe I.
*****
Zoe-Speak:
BAE: sweetheart.
Bant: verbal blabber, social media interaction.
Bare: a lot, very much.
Basic: uncool, boring.
Beef: rant, grudge.
Butters: unattractive.
Calm: unperturbed.
Curve: reject someone.
Fam: dearest.
Fleek: neat.
Freaking: natural, not made in a lab!
Gangsta: hero, soul-mate, bedfellow.
IRL: in real life.
Legit: quality.
Lit: awesome.
Long: slow to defrost.
Melt: faint heart, phoney, replica.
On point: perfect.
Peak: upset, upsetting.
Peng: attractive.
Pulse: space-mail.
Shegging: embarrassing.
Ship: approve of a relationship.
Shook: surprised.
Slaying: impressive.
Snatched: stylish.
Stan: fan, devotee.
Stanning: idolizing, adoring.
Sus: dodgy, malfunctioning…
