Coincidence Miners

You might suspect, once you've read this one, a handful of different influences. And of course you'd be right.

One of them in particular... ok, dear reader, suppose that the Universe is a clockwork maker's dream.

Clockworks need maintenance. Someone to go around and clean the dust off the gears.

And, perhaps, someone to go around and put that dust right back on those gears. On occasion. But in either case, if we did happen to live in such a delicately balanced universe, I wonder how and when you and I might be able to peak around the edges and observe the work of these dedicated souls I name here...

Coincidence Miners by M. K. Dreysen

In her own small, cozy but very much still imprisoned thank you very much corner of Hell, Georgina Deskul turned her mind, as she often did, to the nature of escape plans. "Imp, would you mind terribly...?"

"Of course, madam. What's on your mind?"

"About the Whispering campaign? After the last escapade, if I remember it correctly, that thing with the actor..."

The Imp shuddered. Ever so slightly. And with just the barest hint of delight. "He did have a very beautiful ass, madam."

"Curved strong ass, warm soft hands. And denser than a neutron star. That poor boy was made to be a pool toy. In retrospect, I should probably have simply left it with the noodling."

The Imp nodded his emphatic agreement to that. "Right, so after..."

"My recovery period..."

"I went about my experiments with yeast."

"Tell me again why you started with yeast?"

The Imp shrugged. "Generations pass in the time you're warming up your coffee in the microwave. You can get a lot of basics done in a hurry."

"It's been more than thirty years, Imp," Georgina pointed out.

He coughed. "Yes, well, we have moved on to more complicated beasts, madam. We've recently, in fact yesterday I received the final report..."

Georgina raised a carefully drawn eyebrow.

"Slugs, ma'am. Not yet the full vocalization required, you understand..."

"Imp..."

"They've learned to write your name in chemicals, ma'am. Their scent trails, well, it's more of a persistent marker since they're sea slugs. But forget that, have you seen how they eat?" The Imp pulled up a video of a sea slug gulping down a fish.

Georgina nodded, behind a small, pursed smile. "That is interesting. First question, how long?"

"Until?"

"Until you've moved up to something that can talk, Imp."

"Ahem, right. Ah, perhaps another three, maybe four decades? With a bit of luck?"

Georgina sighed, heavily, then turned and gazed to the burning beyond.

The Imp shifted from foot to foot, but didn't say anything. Decades, in the grand scheme, passed like seconds if you were busy, in the Imp's experience. Which partially explained why he'd started at the unicellular level.

He waited, very much aware that he might lose a year or two if Georgina had become impatient. And predatory.

"Tell me about this... venomous proboscis, was it?"

The Imp held back his sigh of relief. "Yes ma'am, of course. The slugs manufacture quite a variety of different toxins..."

****

Meanwhile, by, almost, pure happenstance, on the other side of the universe, which was surprisingly enough not actually very far from where Georgina contemplated the ticklish possibilities of proboscis and siphon and the toxins that went with them, two angels discussed their own modest endeavors.

"I wonder if the Boss is bored?" Murray asked his friend, Lexis.

"How do you figure?"

"Well, it's... it's my current job. I'm supposed to grant human voice to a colony of sea slugs. For precisely one hour."

"Showbiz?"

"No." And the angels lifted a glass at that particular world; when dealing with Hollywood, one could never be sure of which side of the fence one played against. "No, this time, I actually need to go to... the Flower Gardens, Gulf of Mexico. Find one of several hundred sea slug colonies, the Boss was very specific on this point, and grant them a nice little bubble of air and the power of human speech."

"When?" Which often happened. One never knew when one might be asked to, for example, hang out on a particular street corner at 1:39 a.m. on the third Tuesday of April.

"No specific time for kickoff, only the solid hour of duration and a good strong air bubble. Oh, and I'm not allowed to hang around for whatever it is that happens after."

Another often imposed detail. Sometimes, the purpose was to set the ball in motion; other times, to catch it before it rolled into the pins.

"Reminds me of... what, thirty years ago?" Lexis tried to remember the details. "The Boss set me up to teach a parrot to say this one particular name. Backwards. I spent six weeks, snuck into his room every day when his buddy, some actor, was out of the house, and trained the poor thing to say this name backwards. And then, when he had it cold, I had to leave."

"No idea..."

"None whatsoever. The thing I remember most is that parrot. Until I got there, I'm not sure he even knew that he could talk. His owner," and Lexis shook her head. "Pretty as a picture, dumb as a box of rocks."

The angels shared another glass. Then, on the way out, Murray asked, "Not that it matters, but I'm struck that you remember how the parrot had never known he could speak, but not the name you spent all that time teaching him to say?"

"I think a lot of that parrot." Lexis furrowed her brow, trying to remember. "Georgette? Georgette... Deschuul. I think. It has been a while."

"You're keeping an eye on the parrot, aren't you?" Murray asked as they left the heavenly cafe.

"He's a guest of the San Diego Zoo, they took him in after his owner passed away a couple years back. I've already put a word in with Peter, for when Yellow Jack wings his way up the path."

And with that, the angels waved their good-byes.