Two months ago, Doug showed me a program about crippled humans playing Basket Ball in wheelchairs.

"I do not understand this strange activity," I had said. Doug responded by showing me an informative video on the subject, and something called Hoosiers.

At the conclusion of these instructional materials, he brought me a Basket Ball, much to my surprise and delight. The object looked like an orange, its surface covered in tiny bumps and strange line patterns.

Doug showed me how to `dribble' and throw, and after a few pitiful practice shots into a bucket clamped to the side of my cage, I most clumsily punctured the ball with my claws.

He stepped out for a few minutes, returning with the ball repaired and reinflated.

This worked okay for awhile, but then I got really excited and a bit too aggressive, and the ball again became deflated.

When the repaired ball returned this time, I made the mistake of drooling on it. A hole like that he couldn't repair.

Doug brought me a replacement ball, warning me to be careful, that the other crew members and staff liked their Basket Ball games, and this was the only other ball in the entire base.

I tried. I really did, but, as Doug so succinctly put it, shit happens, especially when you're having fun.

That appeared to be the end of it.

Two weeks passed without a word about this intriguing Basket Ball.

I watched other programs about this marvelous game, most notably a tale about a talking dog and a team of skilled Basket Ball jugglers who whistled as they caused the object to travel their bodies in strangely hypnotic ways.

I asked Doug if people played Basket Ball with objects other than inflated orange rubber spheroids, and he said sure, some used `paperwads', for example, and such was given to me for practice. Although pitiful, it brought me pleasure to engage in the activity once more.

I thought this would be the extent of my experience, but not one day after I had commenced this `paperwad' practice, Doug came in with a concrete ball.

Basically a hollowed out sort of bowling ball they had fashioned with a special mold.

"This isn't ideal, but scrap metal is at a premium, and we got a lot of concrete...You can probably dunk it. Not sure how you're going to dribble, though."

He took the photo frame off the wall and let me try some `Free Throw' shots.

The humans had fashioned excellent concrete. It didn't even chip when it hit the floor.

Very fun, and I pursued this act nonstop for a couple days, dunking in a fashion similar to `Mikel Jorden' (note: not related to Rebecca), making several attempts at spinning the ball on my claws.

Eventually, though, I gave up the sport, glumly lying on the cell floor.

"What's the matter?" Doug asked.

"I'm only playing by myself. It's boring me."

That gave him pause. "I...It's kind of hard to play against you when you're throwing objects that can break a man's skull. And you ruin everything else we have to use for balls. It's too bad we can't make you one out of wood or solid rubber or something. We've got a solid rubber dog toy left over from one of the pets we lost, but it's too small."

I wondered if this had been the same dog I'd eaten months before, but didn't think it wise to ask.

I stared at my cell floor, pondering the various methods one could play Basket Ball with a tiny dog toy.

Before I could broach the subject, Doug blurted, "Wait! I got an idea! This is going to be hilarious!"

I sat up, looking bewildered. "What is?"

The base had a large unused storage bay, designed for storing geological core samples, precious minerals (which they had yet to find) and various unused supplies from delivery ships. At the time of Doug's `hilarious idea', it only contained two core samples, an aluminum storage barrel full of fasteners, and a large metal container filled with condiments.

Somehow, perhaps with a forklift, he'd managed to move the core samples to form a pair of goals, affixing a pair of `less than premium' metal rings to them, so I had some semblance of a regulation court.

Imagine my shock when I saw the opponent I'd be playing against.

Sanchirck.

Half drugged, Doug pulled her into the chamber with one of those collar stick things that dogcatchers use, setting her in front of me. "Sorry about the rough treatment with your friend. He's kinda vicious. You might want to go easy on him until the stuff wears off."

"Sanchirck," I said.

"Sister," she groggily hissed.

I did a few Free Throws whilst she recovered her senses.

"What is this place?" my sister groaned.

"This..." I bounced the ball off a wall. "Is called a `Basket Ball Court.' Fancy a little game?"

"What...is game?"

"It is...ritual." I attempted to dribble the ball. It was concrete, so it failed to respond in such fashion. "An amusing exercise."

"Is it useful in acquiring food?"

I paused. Certainly I had heard of humans earning many pieces of food using their Basket Ball skills but Doug said they were only a small minority of the humans who enjoyed the sport. There was, for example, the movie about the Stauk Brokener who engaged in the sport for no monetary gain whatsoever. "Not generally."

"Then what good is it?"

"It is called `fun.'"

"What is fun? Is it edible?"

"No, it is something you enjoy after you have eaten. A slegizrak. Recreation."

"Like how mother makes the skull puppets!"

I nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes!"

I rolled the ball back and forth with my claws, deciding it to be the most practical method for `dribbling' concrete I could muster.

I slid the ball across my claws, up and down my shoulders, as I had practiced in moments of idleness.

"What is that you're doing?" Sanchirck asked.

"It is part of the ritual I have seen performed by the Harem Gobe Toppers." I hummed the little ditty that always accompanied their performances as I continued rolling the ball.

"You look ridiculous."

"It is fun." I rolled the ball to her. "Mirror what I just did."

She did not, eying me with suspicion. "This is a human ritual, isn't it?"

I nodded.

She rolled the ball back. "I do not partake in human rituals."

I returned the ball. "Why does it have to be a human ritual? Already I have modified it by omitting the regulation `dribbling' procedure. It is now effectively Ss'sik'chtokiwij."

Sanchirck shrugged, and for a few moments, we had an actual game.

Glorious. It played out almost as well as the wheelchair men on the monitor.

Unfortunately, after two shots (I regret not letting her win), she growled in frustration, throwing the ball so hard that she put a permanent dent in the wall. "This is stupid. The humans have warped your brain."

She turned her back to me, giving me the `cold shoulder' until Doug and Keith returned her to her cage, and I to mine.

The next day I had a new opponent.

My pebble skinned sister cracked her knuckles as she entered the court. "I hear I am to partake in this `Basket Ball' ritual."

Oh Sanchirck, I thought as I lay beside the sump pump in the darkened sewer. Why couldn't we have been better friends? Why couldn't you understand what wonderful things these humans have conceived? You could have been my HairyBird to my ErrJorden.

An anguished yell snapped me to action.

"Chingandan marsianos!" came the shout.

Boger!

With my damaged heat vision and clouded smelling organ, I could see precious little in the dark, but I fumbled around until I had my claws on the ladder, clambering to the top as quickly as my claws could carry me.

I pushed open a square manhole cover at the top of the ladder, squinting in the darkness.

The base had emergency backup lights. Lines of dotted yellow orange illumination traced paths to doorways and staircases, a set of skylights touching the area with a faint diffuse glow from the setting sun.

I winced in pain as a rectangular metal object hit me in the head. I pick it up.

Boger's channel locks.

"Basket!" My sister shouted in a mocking tone.

Although Ahxalybij only played three rounds with me before vowing to never play again, she seemed to have latched onto the concept of the Free Throw. That perfectly tossed plumbing tool indicated practice.

That, and the cracked looking concrete Basket Ball I stumbled over in the semi darkness.

My heart thumped with hope at the thought of discussing this matter with her, maybe winning her over for Jesus.

"Psst! Ernito!" A voice hissed.

I couldn't see anyone. I stared in bewilderment at my shadowy surroundings.

"İVa aquí! İRapido!"

My night vision picked up a sparkling dot beneath the stairwell.

I ran in that direction, narrowly avoiding a collision with the shredded remains of Brice's `Dalek.' The machine lay on its side, dome dislodged from the wire mesh portion, bits of hair and a bloody mop piece indicating where the rabbit had been.

Boger hid inside an air/electrical maintenance duct. I could just barely see his frantic motions.

When I came close, he cracked open the vent covering. "İEntar aquí! İÁndelay, señor!"

I didn't understand his language, but knew he wanted me in there fast, so I obeyed, barely squeezing by his fat body in the cramped passage.

A small, very dim little light dangled from his neck on a cord, providing the only source of illumination, other than the faint glow coming from the power deprived outer room.

Boger secured the fastening bolts with a manual tool, rather than the automatic device on his belt, for sheer necessity of not being heard.

Once he had the thing closed relatively well, he led me away from the panel on hands and knees.

His leg and arm had been recently bandaged, his face scarred from my sister's acid. I could smell the blood amidst my hallucinatory nasal peanut factory.

Well, at least he was still alive.

As we crawled further in, the shaft narrowed, and it became impossible for more than one of us to squeeze through at a time. We could barely turn around.

"İMuchas gracias, amigito!" Boger said in a grateful whisper. "Marsiano, salvastame vida."

He inhaled, and broke into a coughing fit. "İDios mio! İPensé que eres un ángel desde el cielo, pero huele a mierda de Santanás! Cuando lleguemos a la securidad, se bañan."

I didn't follow any of that, but it seemed obvious he didn't care for my smell.

"Hablando con un gringo del espacio," he sighed.

I responded with a confused noise.

"Lo siento, señor. Mi Ingles no es bueno." (28)

"What?"

"I say, my English no good. You understand? ¿Sí?"

I nodded.

"I say you are a save of life, but God Almighty do you stink."

As a sanitation worker, he took it better than most, still sitting in close proximity to me, nose wrinkled in disgust.

"You survived my sisters. You must be very strong."

Mr. Hernandez shook his head. "I survive because...su pequeño amigo quemada help me."

My confusion seemed to be readable.

He rubbed the back of his wrist. "¿Barilla? ¿Barbecua?"

Pasta Barilla? Barbecue? Why was he talking food? I thought. Was he hungry? Did he want me to bring him food?

I sighed.

"¿Bestia negra?"

"I still don't..."

He pantomimed something spiny. "Acerico. Picos. ¿Sí?"

I shook my head.

"Horns? He black? Mucho burned?"

Sydjea. I nodded.

He pantomimed a fight. "A luncha chico escamosa. Pow pow pow."

Ah, I thought. I gathered my sister had put up a fair fight, helping him to escape.

"Mujer robot les distrajo tanto."

I understood the words robot and distraction. Mrs. Hansen apparently helped him somehow.

"Corté el uno con manchas y corrí." Boger touched his chest, made a slicing motion, reminding me of what he did to Hissandra.

"I run. Cerrí la puerta." He mimed a closing door, making a faint hum. "As it close, cerrí, bzzz. Electrificada con alambres. Y rociaron con una manquera de freon. Foosh!"

His pantomime said he sprayed some kind of hose on Hissandra and zapped her with wires he'd yanked loose. "Entonces me metí aquí despues de quese fue la luz y me escondí."

The statement seemed final, like, "And that's how I got in here."

"Listen, did you see Sarah and Rebecca? Or Brice?"

Boger paused and thought a moment.

"I only see Señora Mulcahey." He shook his head. "Que descanse en paz."

I sighed. The tone indicated that my family had killed someone else.

"I can whisper too," a voice said from the dark.

Boger screamed as Ahxalybij ripped his chest open, spraying blood all over the aluminum compartment.

[0000]

(28) I confess that my Spanish isn't much better.