PLANET MAGAZINE

When The Clone War started up, my comrades and I in The Rebel Federation quickly determined that it was an exact duplicate of an earlier war, known simply as The War. A war that we had won. So we carefully did everything exactly the same again, using, ironically, clones of soldiers who had fallen in The War.

The choreography and continuity, that is to say, the tactical planning, was a little tricky since not everything in the first war had been quark-recorded and survivors’ memories were a bit faulty. For example, the attack ships that spent the war beautifully but pointlessly glittering in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate would have been much more useful if they’d been positioned against the enemy bases near the shoulders of Orion. Should’ve realized that the second time around, of course, but at least we saved a few attack ships that way.

Anyway, as expected, we won — again.

The Awards Ceremony at the end of the movie, I mean at the end of The Clone War, was a little more yawn-inducing this time around (although Princess Luka’s crossed hair buns were as hot as ever).

I don’t suppose the other side, The Federation Rebels, will be trying a clone war again anytime soon. But just in case, the face-and-body dancers are keeping the clone vats warm for us.

One thing still puzzles me, though. Why didn’t the enemy also realize that it was a clone war and thus do something different this time? Could they really be that stupid? Or are they more clever than we realized, and some unseen hammer blow has yet to fall? Or, worst of all, could it be that the underlying logic of this blog entry was never fully worked out by the editor before being posted? We may never know, but we can guess. Oh yes… we can guess very well.

Illustration: “Smile” © 2005 by Romeo Esparrago

Among my mother’s frequent sayings when I was a child was, “You’d cut off your nose to spite your face.”

I know she meant that I was stubborn and obstinate and determined to have my own way. She was right. I was all of that, plus! And now….

“Well, Mom, now I’ve done it. Too bad you aren’t here to say, ‘I told you so!’”

I thought I was thinking that to myself but my words clearly startled the aide at my bedside.

“Damn!” I added, as I pulled the mirror from her hand and held it up to my face again. “Damn and damnation!”

“The doctor will be with you momentarily,” she said as she edged out of the room.

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Illustration: “Green Stripes” © 2005 by Romeo Esparrago

The real estate agent’s car crunched to halt in the gravel at the curb. Maria twisted around to face the backseat. Her hair — an intricate weave of curls and swirls, all carefully sprayed into an immovable shape — bobbed as she spoke.

“This is it, dear. Listen, I know the house needs a little TLC –’’ she started.

“I like it,” said Ray. His voice was high, almost squeaky. He frowned for a moment, as if unhappy with his own voice. “I do. There’s something about it.” He examined the house closely with pale-blue eyes that blinked nervously from behind thick frames. He was reed-thin and not very tall, with hair so sparse it was almost transparent. He was gray and nondescript, easy to overlook in a crowd.

“Seriously? You like it?” blurted Maria, who immediately wanted to kick herself for opening her mouth. She regarded the house with distaste. She thought it was creepy. Decades before, the house might have been an impressive sight. It was large and well proportioned, with graceful Greek columns supporting the porch. Not anymore. Now, it was a wreck. It had clearly been abandoned for years. Strips of paint curled from the clapboard. A front window was smashed. Roof shingles lay scattered around the ragged lawn like gray poker chips.

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