Adorable Cyborgs

Dreamed 2016/10/5 by Wayan

THAT EVENING

I watch back-to-back BBC shows--first Call the Midwife, set in postwar Britain just as Gagarin goes into space and thalidomide causes a wave of birth defects that the midwives are first to notice... Then a mystery, Murder in Suburbia, starring Caroline Catz (reserved feline brunette) and Lisa Faulkner (earthy, feisty blonde) as detectives who spend half their time complaining that they can't get laid. Which, since they're both gorgeous, seems absurd. Hmm. The acting's as good as in Midwife, but somebody get these two a better script!

THAT NIGHT...

Two cyborg trios share a San Francisco home: reserved feline brunettes; earthy feisty blondes. From the future or the stars? Now stranded on Dark Age Earth--passing for human. Not. The Cats were made to pilot starships; find our wildest systems kitten-simpleminded. The Blondes are different; I don't know their field back home, but they too are so bright they earn tech-cash easily. I find them adorable. Bodies, auras, minds. Vive la Borgérence! Alien's a relief to Asperger me, a Gulliver webbed by Lilliputian threads--your myriad human conformities. But with galactics shipwrecked, a geek can relax. Though cyborgs don't eat. Their GI tracts got deleted. Complex, a weighty waste; or so the makers felt. I watch a Catz refuel: injects a tube of goo in a wrist- port. Just like a human toothpaste tube; for it is. Marketed--mint-green-- by earnest Borgnomes in their Alpencaves. It will clean human teeth--but 'tis a double agent: secretly the fuel for that global alien skein of anthropol- ogists Goodall--mad all--though brave-- and Frisco castaways. Warily I taste the paste. So VERY mint. My tongue whispers "Safe as advertised, just not food. For me." Their fueling's so robotic. Gets me glum. Do they even taste, smell? My sensorium may be passé. I long, but is my lust pointless? Does the future fuck? Jettisoned fun too, as quaint mammalian dead weight? We're asked to rescue hostages sealed in a dank bunker deep beneath the Bay. A precocious little girl insists if they burrow a tubeworm path in baymud floor, they can secure the Nautilus chamber before jailors turn and fire. She dreamt the writhe, and has a solid track record: quite a psychic dreamer. These pilots only debate if she's mapped the route so well they can worm in accurate to the foot-- or if our dream-shrimp must be on the spot to course-correct. Metal and flesh agree not to risk her, but she says she must. Fulla spunk, hungry to spelunk. Snaking her worm-route, we blunder on two mud- preserved bodies. Cyborgs encysted! Pilots, lain mudsealed decades. Centuries? Surely even they could not endure. But cyborgs could, if anyone. Two Lazaroid lives perhaps re-begun by girl tenacity. Will the sunken dreamers wake?     Will the drillers break Into the hostage chamber,     free those undersea? As Dreamgirl guides the Subterrene     steampunkishly, I tangle in bed. Not seabed. Me bed.     Damn! Awake.