Author: Janet Shell Anderson
“The extra dimensions of spacetime are sometimes conjectured to take the form of a six-dimensional Calabi Yau Manifold.”
I don’t know about you, but this doesn’t mean a lot to me right now when there’re riots in West Palm and I’m nearby at my cousin’s estate, Florabella, in Delray/Gulfstream, Florida. At his entrance by the Atlantic, only a couple blocks away, I can hear shouting and maybe gunfire.
But the speaker’s interesting even to my cuz’s wife, Tatiana Romanova Baldwin, the most luscious woman in the world according to TODAY TODAY and ULTRAGOOGLE. He’s Chad Simmons, son of a famous film star and the last astronaut, young, horribly handsome, face like a Greek god, body ditto. An astrophysicist. I’m not sure if Tatiana thinks his being an astrophysicist’s an asset, we’re more in need of goons and lots of them.
My cousin, Perry Austrian Baldwin, the USA Vice Prez, needs help. I’m a divorce attorney mostly operating out of the Space Coast, not much help. My apt, my one-room hole in the wall, with no noticeable rats, my one Maine Coon cat, it’s probably a lot safer. Wish Thor, the Maine coon, were here. Or maybe not. I see myself as moderately successful although the last divorce trio I worked for stiffed me. And remarried.
But Perry called and I came over. Nothing to do on a Friday evening anyway. Perry’s pygmy mammoths are all gathered by his infinity pool as if they think they could make a break for it to my cousin’s yacht. Perry’s been studying the 25th Amendment, always a bad sign for everyone, including the current Prez, who’s insisting he has the right to be reelected for a third term.
“Calabi Yau Manifolds have properties such as Ricci flatness.”
Tatiana looks at Chad like he’s a piece of forever forbidden pie. She’s no genius, went to a soup kitchen in a gilded, sequined dress that flashed out gold holograms saying “Qu’ils mangent de la brioche.” “Let them eat cake.”
I didn’t know she knew any French.
“The canonical bundle of M is trivial,” Chad opines and stretches his beautiful legs on the lounge beside the pool, unaware of the gunfire, the shouts, the navy vessel coming up the Coastal Waterway, my cousin crossing rapidly to the pool area. Perry’s thin hair flaps over his high forehead. Like most Vice Presidents, he’s good for attending funerals and standing beside the Big Man, looking inconsequential.
Something like a helicopter churns overhead, a round plastic thing, a time machine, circus prop, whatever. No pilot. The pot-bellied pigs race toward hedges shaped like horses and squeal in German.
“Washington’s on fire,” my cousin cries. “The White House’s surrounded. There’re tanks on Pennsylvania Avenue. No one knows who’s driving them.”
Tatiana slips off her bathing suit top. Her skin gleams. The astrophysicist notices for the first time, takes a sudden breath, doesn’t care about DC.
“M has a holomorphic n-form that vanishes nowhere.” He certainly has a way with words. “We can vanish among the multiple dimensions.”
The round flying object has only room for two .
My cousin smiles at Chad, takes his hand and the two men get in the round clear object which bounces into the cloudless sky and disappears into the sunset.
Tatiana says a word I didn’t know she knew.
That about sums it up.
The canonical bond of M is trivial. Perhaps that will be on her next dress if we survive.