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Predator and Prey: A Zansasi Highway Adventure © September 2010 D.B. Story

eXcessica publishing

A Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved

Predator and Prey

A Zansasi Highway Adventure

By D.B. Story

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A special thanks to Ian, Mulligan, and Deryk Bramwell for their excellent and much appreciated proofreading.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

In Glory Road, Robert Heinlein wrote about travel to different universes—and one "place" that was so strange and different that you couldn't even live there for more than a few hours because your body couldn't long survive the different physical laws in that "place".

That idea sat with me for three decades or so until I saw an anthology project calling for stories that somehow related to this miniature Ferris wheel sculpture that the editor owned. The winning entries would be sold in an anthology, which was an attractive proposition to me at the time since I had yet to sell any of my fiction.

Although I had an idea for that anthology, in the end I didn't write or submit a story to it. Instead that idea sat with me while I eventually worked out the principles of The Zansasi Highway as a way to travel to other universes and "places" where anything you could imagine became possible because of the different physical laws that existed there. It was those two concepts that eventually came together in an ideal fit to create this story.

As for the title, I've used it once before as an episode title for a Star Trek: The Next Generation spec script I once hoped to sell that show. Great story, but the show ended before I got the chance to offer it to them. Later on I was invited in to pitch to both Star Trek: Deep Space 9 and Star Trek: Voyager on several occasions. I failed to ever sell them any of my premises, some of which may become stories some day independent of the Star Trek franchise, but the experience of actually pitching to them in person was priceless.

—D.B. Story

April 2010

d.b.story@excessica.com

Chapter 1—The Highway

Sometimes you go to the Zansasi Highway. Sometimes it comes to you. And when it comes to you, it can bring the most unexpected of adventures.

* * * *

I'll never walk The Highway myself. I tell myself inside, where no one else can hear it, that I'm not that daring: That I'm quite content where I already am and have neither the desire—nor the courage, I'll say to you—to go off adventuring in some other place.

Some other place where the immutable rules that predictably run my universe in a comfortable clockwork fashion may be completely skewed. A place where maybe I would be completely different because I would have to change to exist within the rules of such a place. I say these things because it's better to cop to a lack of courage than admitting the real truth.

The real truth is worse. The real truth that I live with every day since I first heard about The Highway and realized what it represents. The real truth is that I don't have the imagination necessary to travel The Highway. And it takes a good imagination to go questing out along it—looking for something that you'll never find here at home.

* * * *

It's not that The Highway doesn't fascinate me. It fascinates much of the world, but I'm in the top percentile of that category. Whenever I'm at home I'll have at least the picture-in-picture on my High-Def set to the twenty-four hour channel that's nothing more than a camera sweeping our Highway segment and locking on any motion. I do this even though The Highway itself is empty more often than not here in our own little backwater spur of it.

And when I'm at work I subscribe to pager and e-mail alerts when something significant comes through. I keep my browser minimized, connected to the best web-cam, which I can flash up on the screen with a single click.

Knowing this much about me already the following two facts shouldn't surprise anyone:

I'm a single male in his early thirties.

I use all my available vacation time to actually visit The Highway itself.

* * * *

Why would I actually go to The Highway when I can see all of it on the flat panel, nestled in the comfort of my Barcalounger back home?

You might as well ask why people go to professional sports events, which require insanely expensive ticket prices, twenty-dollar parking fees, eight-dollar beer, all while watching the entire event from the view of a single uncomfortable seat, with no ability to pause or rewind, and regardless of where the action is at the moment.

Some of the answers are the color, noise, immediacy, and companionship of likeminded fans you share this experience with—not to mention items like cheerleaders and mascots that never get much television play. The Highway itself doesn't have cheerleaders, but it does have its unforgettable characters.

* * * *

I go to The Highway the same three weeks each year. This is not three contiguous weeks, but instead three times a year as soon as I've accumulated my next week of vacation time. This behavior shouldn't be considered any stranger than any of a wide variety of other people I can point out, who follow their own passions to do the same thing every year on their vacations.

Earth's stretch of The Highway is located in a desolate area considered haunted by the Indians for centuries before the Zansasi stepped out of thin air one morning in front of some startled hikers and announced simply, "We're here."

The patch of land they requested is only about a half-mile square, which includes enough extra space to set up a small structure for their use, and a measurable buffer around the actual Highway segment. And even then they have never minded people crowding right up to the edge. This segment is the piece of The Highway here on Earth. In return for having it here they offered a select group of peopleaccess to their Multiverse—as in the plural of Universe.

The Zansasi Highway doesn't take you to the stars. Or maybe it does, among other things. No one knows for sure just where all it goes since the Zansasi aren't very good about answering that question. I do know it will take you to alternate realities, most of which are nothing like what we have here. I know this from the people who have returned from their own trips.

By select group, the Zansasi aren't referring to politicians, the rich, the famous, the famous-for-being-famous, or the well connected—although many of them initially thought so when granting permission for the Zansasi to set up camp here. They were instead referring to individuals they would select and provide the all-essential Map to, without which travel on The Highway is all but impossible.

The Map is made of some unknown black material, thin and infinitely flexible, which can be folded to the size of a postage stamp, or unfolded to that of a medium sized billboard, although I've never seen anyone use it at those extreme sizes.

When held down, like reading a book, it shows a luminous indication of your present position, and pointers to where you need to go next. It's first trick is that not only does it immediately update to your new position each time you take a step, but no matter which direction you point it in, the direction pointer corrects to show you where you should be headed now. It's a lot like the arrow to your next waypoint on your GPS in this regard, and just as easy to follow as long as you take the fourth dimension into consideration.

In addition it has a variety of statistical information on it, such as the length of your remaining journey in Highway segments, how far you've already traveled, useful—sometimes vital—information about the area currently around you, such as what food is edible and what you should avoid at all costs. More importantly, it has a clock that tells you the time—in days/hours/minutes/seconds/fractions for those from my planet—before you must pass through the next portal at one end or the other of The Highway segment you're currently on.

There are several invisible—to human eyes at least—portals on each end of the segment. It's vital to pass through the correct one at the correct moment, lest you be lost, with only the hope of the Zansasi resetting your Map to get you home once again on a journey short enough for you to actually traverse. It's a truism that travel on The Highway is not for the imprecise.

The Zansasi, who all look like tall, mottled shades of green, aliens with stalks on their heads, stay in their structure near one end of the segment—at least on this planet. They are occasionally seen to arrive or depart via The Highway, and are themselves the only travelers to never be seen with a Map. How they do this nobody knows. Perhaps they have some innate understanding of The Highway itself, transcending the need for additional guidance. This might explain how they are able to construct Maps for others.

Why the Zansasi offer this public utility for free is also a mystery. My guess is that the value of The Highway itself multiplies with the number of connections it makes, so they benefit from every new segment, but that's only my guess.

When it comes to selecting those fortunate few on whom they'll bestow their Maps their method is...uh...sort of...well...kind of...actually nobody knows, and those who claim to understand it are liars looking to take your money in exchange for their worthless advice.

If you want to travel The Highway the procedure is simple enough. Come to The Highway. Wait your turn to enter their structure. Tell the impassive Zansasi on duty where you want to go—the why of it doesn't matter. Leave and go home again.

If they decide to grant you a boon your Map will arrive anywhere from three days to five years later. Nobody knows if five years is the actual upper limit. That's just the longest it has taken so far.

And good luck. From everything I've heard, getting your Map is the least of your difficulties.

* * * *

When you travel to an event regularly and occupy the same space each time you'll soon meet the other regulars on your schedule.

As I pulled to a stop at the small parking lot on the dusty unpaved road to The Highway, after the six-hour drive, I was reminded how little this actually affects my planet. It hasn't been even important enough to pave the two-lane road leading in the last miles—let alone construct a superhighway, along with its attendant hotels, fueling stations, restaurants, markets, and entertainment venues out here. You'd think that would have happened, but it hasn't. Except for people who wish to travel the highway itself, most people arrive, watch for an hour, or several, until something actually happens, take some pictures, then turn around and drive away. Some stay an entire day. Only a few are as—dedicated is the word I prefer—as I am.

As such, there are almost no comfort facilities out here. A few porta-potties are required. The Zansasi have their windowless building on one side, while The United States Customs and Immigration Service has built an entry station diagonally across on the other.

They are mostly ignored by The Highway travelers, none of whom could be expected to have the proper passports or visas, although a surprising number actually do. The Highway seems to provide the requisite documentation to its travelers in a form equivalent to whatever they had at their Place of Origin—an official term because no more precise terminology is accurate—through some mechanism no one understands. Those few actually stopping off here also seem to arrive with a compatible medium of exchange, also courtesy of The Highway.

Immigration and Customs has mostly given up trying to enforce entry procedures on the few visitors and returnees any longer, but they keep up the show. I glad they're out here because it means there's water and power available, and their toilets are much better than the PP's. Ask nicely, and there's a shower in there that you can use as well.

Unlike one Highway segment I once heard a traveler describe, where the entire length is flanked by hundreds of rows of stadium seats rising at least twenty stories tall, topped with bright lights and every seat full, all you'll find out here are a few ramshackle pipe-and-plank weathered bleachers that would be more at home at some elementary school sports field. Some entrepreneurs hauled them out here with the intent of renting seats by the hour, until they found out that nobody was interested enough to pay what they needed to survive here. They weren't worth hauling away afterwards. Once the first one was abandoned to whomever came along next the market for the rest dried up immediately. Now we use them all for free.

A few hawkers made a living selling cold drinks, sandwiches, and souvenirs, but there just isn't the profit opportunity out here that people had once expected.

I pitched my small tent next to my car before picking up my folding chair-back and wandering over to see what was happening, searching out old friends.

* * * *

The actually Highway segment itself is a bit under a quarter of a mile long and a bit over a hundred yards wide. Although there is no special marking of its boundaries, the texture of the land changes along a knife-edge that is more than obvious.

There's nothing in place to prevent anyone from just stepping out on The Highway itself, as long as you're checking both directions in order to not get run over by any traffic in the process. More often than not there is no traffic to worry about, but occasionally a fast flyer can come through and there have been accidents to the unwary.

At each end are the invisible portals. You step through and disappear from here to reappear on the next segment. Although you can't see them your Map will guide you unerringly to the proper one if you follow it. Step through the wrong one, however, and you may be lost forever. You can't just step back through to where you departed from a moment before.

In theory your Map will make the adjustments necessary to still guide you to your destination. However, the journey may have suddenly become an order of magnitude or more longer and more difficult. Without a Zansasi Map you might as well give up and just keep traveling until you find a place you want to live out the rest of your life.

The Highway seems to enforce its own form of diplomatic immunity. You're safe while you stay on it, and the places you travel through are safe enough for you by the time you arrive there. The Map doesn't route anyone to their unavoidable death. If you must travel through a world with a chlorine atmosphere—or several in succession since similar realities seem to cluster near each other—The Highway will have adapted you to handle this by the time you arrive.

But no smart traveler should ever expect the Map, or The Highway, to protect him or her from their own foolishness. Substantially more people start their journeys on The Highway than have actually yet returned. While some may never have planned to come back, feeling perhaps that they had always been a misfit here and seeking out the place where they actually belong, that can't explain all of them. Some places may offer great temptations to leave The Highway before completing one's journey. The Zansasi do nothing to help you out under those circumstances. It's Traveler Beware, so the rewards had better have been worth it.

* * * *

My personal ritual on each arrival is to pitch my tent before doing anything else. This way it's done, and ready when I need it. It has been months since I was here last and a few more minutes of preparation can be withstood. Then I walk over to The Highway itself and start looking for the people I already know. People like me who have the same interests and show up here in person.

I'm in perfect phase with some people. We come for the same weeks every year. A few real characters seem to live here, somehow subsisting on seemingly nothing more than handouts for the stories they can tell about what they've seen with their own eyes. And some encounters are fortuitous coincidences whose schedules only occasionally overlap with my own. I'm happy to see them all. Half of this adventure is the shared experiences we all have had together here.

I spot Sam and Wilma first. They're an old couple who virtually own bleacher 3a—twenty-five feet wide and twelve rows high, with wobbly galvanized pipe railings around the edges. It's called 3a because of the faded spray-paint sign that once attempted to identify the competing structures. Sam and Wilma have built themselves a small shack underneath it, which I almost never see them actually use. I wave, getting an immediate response back from both of them.

I call them old, but that's only in years. Sam has a lively twinkle in his eye, while Wilma is undeniably sexy in a way that transcends all age. How sexy? I'd take a tumble with her anytime she offered it—and she knows it!

"How's the weather?" I ask in Highway-speak as I climb to the top row of the weather-damaged wooden planks where they rule like royalty over this old bleacher. What I'm really asking is, what is the mood on this segment of The Highway at the moment, including the other people alongside it.

"Calm and warm," comes the reply. Translated: nothing exciting going on at the moment and no bad karma among the other humans scattered along both sides of this stretch of dirt.

"And the traffic report from the eye in the sky," I continue, referring to their perch about as high up as most people get here.

"Friday morning light," they inform me, meaning almost nothing is happening on our little backwater Highway segment. Nobody pretends we're part of any major traffic artery yet.