Canto 151 – Harlequins
Smoky Hardretter and the synthezoid Sorcerer 27 stood over the operating table with a Mechanoid stretched out upon it. Mechanoids, of course, are deceased humanoids that have been reanimated by robotic implants and electronic reconstruction to make of them what are basically cyborgs, except for the fact that they have not merely been enhanced while still alive, they have been dug up out of graves and zombified by the Mechanoid-making process.
“This body in life was one of the best Imperial Guardsmen we ever had. He defended three different Triumvirs while he was alive. He had 500 clones that also served as guardsmen.” Smoky looked questioningly at Sorcerer after explaining the guardsman.
“This body will be perfect for our needs. He has been put through the tissue-regeneration protocols that I set up as an automated process?” Sorcerer grinned, something previous Sorcerers were not capable of doing.
“The nanobots are transforming the flesh now. It seems he is growing huge muscles as we watch.”
“Oh, yes. He will be an unbeatable warrior. He is not only going to be more powerful and more agile than any existing Mechanoid, but he will also be unkillable. His flesh is natural armor and quickly repairs itself when he is wounded. He will also be nearly impossible to hit because of his agility and camouflage.”
“Camouflage? He’s dressed in multicolored clown clothes!”
“That’s also why he’s called a Harlequin. He’s acrobatic enough to dodge bullets and plasma streams. And his combat dress produces strobing and flashing colored lights that will make targeting nearly impossible when the energy dampers are working at full power.”
“So, he will be like an acrobat? Flipping through the air to avoid being shot while firing his weapons from midair?”
“Now you’ve got the core idea,” said Sorcerer. “He will be capable of putting on a real show of power. And imagine how effective an entire squad of these troopers performing in unison will be.”
“I am impressed,” Smoky said.
The Mechanoid suddenly sat up. His face mask, obscuring the skull-like corpse head underneath, was a grinning, white clown mask.
“I can’t believe I’m alive again. What are your commands, Lord Hardretter?”
Smoky smiled contentedly. “I think we need to run some tests.”
Catch a Falling Star 
Ghostly Reflections
So, I am probably the last stupid goomer who should be writing this post. But I do have a lot to say on the subject that will more than fill a 500-word essay.
At my age and level of poor health, I think about ghosts a lot because I may soon be one. In fact, my 2014 novel, Snow Babies has ghosts in it. And some of the characters in it freeze to death and become snow ghosts. But it doesn’t work like that in real-world science. My ghosts are all basically metaphorical and really are more about people and people’s perception of life, love, and each other.
Ghosts really only live in the mind. They are merely memories, un-expectedly recalled people, pains, and moments of pandemonium.
I have recently been watching the new Netflix series The Haunting of Hill House. It creeps me out because it latches on to the idea that ghosts haunt us through the revisitation in our minds of old trauma, old mistakes, old regrets… We are never truly safe from ghosts, no matter how far under the covers we go in our beds, deep in the dark and haunted night. Ghosts are always right there with us because they only live inside us.
I am haunted by ghosts of my own. Besides the ghost dog that mysteriously wanders about our house at night and is seen only out of the corners of our eyes, there is the ghost of the sexual assault I endured at the age of ten by a fifteen-year-old neighbor. That ghost haunts me still, though my attacker has died. I still can’t name him. Not because I fear he can rise up out of the grave to hurt me again, but because of what revealing what he did, and how it would injure his innocent family members who are still alive and still known to my family, will cause more hurt than healing. That is a ghost who will never go away. And he infects my fiction to the point that he is the secret villain of the novel I am now working on. In fact, the next four novels in a row are influenced by him.
But my ghost stories are not horror stories.
I write humorous stories that use ghosts as metaphors, to represent ideas, not to scare the reader. In a true horror story, there has to be that lurking feeling of foreboding, that sense that, no matter what you do, or what the main character you identify with does, things probably won’t turn out all right. Stephen King is a master of that. H.P. Lovecraft is even better.
But as for me, I firmly believe in the power of laughter, and that love can settle all old ghosts back in their graves. I have forgiven the man who sexually tortured me and nearly destroyed me as a child. And I have vowed never to reveal his name to protect those he loved as well as those I love. If he hurt anyone else, they have remained silent for a lifetime too. And I have never been afraid of the ghost dog in our house. He has made me jump in the night more than once, but I don’t fear him. If he were real, he would be the ghost of a beloved pet and a former protector of the house. And besides, he is probably all in my stupid old head thanks to nearly blind eyes when I do not have my glasses on.
I don’t believe in ghosts.
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