One day, the mountains awoke.

We still don’t know what triggered them to come alive.  There must have been some signal, however, given how coordinated everything was.  Maybe they have some way of communicating with each other.  Or maybe, somewhere in the world, someone just did the wrong thing.

They awoke on June 29, 2014.

All across the world, the mountains began to shift, to rise.  Legs emerged, huge pillars of stone, each one miles across.  Slowly, ponderously, unstoppably, they began to advance across the world.  Belching smoke and spewing lava, they began to bring about our extinction.

Surprisingly, Australia did the best initially, not counting the loss of New Zealand.  It turns out that New Zealand was basically just a bunch of these creatures sitting in the sea, and they decided that it was time to submerge.  A few thousand survivors were pulled out of the ocean with rescue choppers, or managed to make it to boats in time and escape being sucked down, but the rest of them were wiped off the map, along with the country.

Second best was probably America.  The rural South was trampled by the Appalachians, but they’re fairly small as far as these mountains go.  The East Coast and Midwest did all right – they got to sit and listen to the tragedies on the news as California was steamrolled.

The worst faring were probably the Chinese and most of the Europeans.  Between the Alps and the Himalayas, they didn’t stand a chance.  Half a billion people probably died in the first day.

It only took two hours for the President of the US to get an executive order out, although the jets weren’t scrambled for another couple hours.  The generals were experiencing a bit of consternation, it seemed.  How did you kill a mountain?  And most of the US weapons weren’t pointed in towards our own heartland.

Incredibly, it was Pakistan that was the first to bring one of the monsters down.  Satellite surveillance captured the attempt.  Despite the dubious honor of getting the first kill, they didn’t make a good job of it.  It took six hits, and they managed to vaporize most of their defensive forces as well.  But they eventually managed to pierce the abomination’s stony hide, and thermal imaging picked up the subsequent meltdown as the beast literally exploded.

After being briefed, it took six hours more before the President cleared the US arsenal of ICBMs to launch.  Unfortunately, the monsters had already begun to trample across the Midwest, where many of the launch silos were located, putting them out of commission.  Warren Air Force Base in Wyoming was wiped off the map when one of the ICBMs detonated prematurely, still inside its silo.

Still, with over 5,000 nuclear weapons at its disposal, most of the Rockies fell in that initial wave of firepower.  Nuclear submarines turned out to be most effective, as they were relatively protected from the monsters and could move into location.

By the end of June, over a thousand nuclear weapons had been detonated.  The United Kingdom was heavily crippled, and most of central Europe had gone dark.  The Middle East was, for the first time in history, actively requesting the help of Israel, which had finally confirmed rumors that it was a major nuclear power.  Most of Western China had been wiped off the map.  India claimed that it was holding its northern mountains at bay, although satellite images revealed a different story.

Conservative estimates put the count of the dead at between 1.5 and 2.5 billion.

In the next week, the various nations did their best to counterattack.  The United States was momentarily clear, thanks to its massive arsenal, but there were new threats moving up from South America, the Bajas, and down from Canada.  Military engineers began stripping the nuclear power plants of all fissile material to replenish their depleted arsenal.

After days of silence, France suddenly erupted spectacularly.  Experts knew that they had been sitting on a nuclear arsenal, but it was believed that they hadn’t had time to launch.  Surveillance showed that they crippled several of the larger Alps, as well as some of the Pyrenees, but the collateral damage was estimated to be immense.

By a month later, most of the beasts had been brought down.  Scientists were already bemoaning the fallout effects from the sheer number of nukes deployed, but they were being largely pushed aside by the sheer scale of the rebuilding movement.  It turned out that, inside these gigantic moving mountains, huge deposits of rare and valuable ores were hidden.  Even in the wreckage of great cities, new companies were springing up, workers in armored radiation-resistant suits harvesting these great sources of new wealth.

The final kicker, almost an ironic announcement, came from NASA, of all places.  They revealed that they had detected movement on the moon, shortly before the initial movement on June 29th.  It was believed that the awakening signal had come from there.

A new chapter in the space race was opened.  In a matter of days, Congress, acting proactively for the first time in decades, voted to divert huge levels of funding into space travel.  We had been attacked, crippled, but we weren’t out yet.

We were headed back to the moon.  But this time, we’d be armed.

Continued from Part I, here.

“Hello there, Sampson,” Carson greeted me, grinning broadly as he ushered me inside.

“Sammy, please,” I responded automatically.  I was talking on autopilot.  The rest of my brain was busy trying to absorb him through my nose.  It was unbelievable.

By this point, smell was an integral part of who a person was.  I could recognize most of my mechanics who worked for me before they even entered the room, just from their odor.  Terry was very earthy, mainly from his work with farm equipment.  Calvin dealt with small motors, so he always had that hint of oil.  Bob was a deft hand with plumbing… let’s just say that I preferred to eat lunch at the opposite end of the room from Bob.

But Carson’s smell was unlike anything else, anyone else.  Aside from a slight hint of flowers, it was, well, absent.  He was a man who didn’t smell.  It felt like an impossibility.  But no matter how my nostrils strained, I just couldn’t pick anything up.

“Ah, so you’ve noticed!” Carson commented, watching with a smile as my nostrils flared.  “Yes, it’s quite unique.  And that’s why I invited you here.”

My brain finally managed to catch up with my nose.  “You don’t smell!” I commented, rather stupidly.  Okay, maybe my brain hadn’t caught up all the way.

“No,” Carson responded, “I don’t.  And I want to show you why.”

As I stared at him, Carson closed the door behind me.  For a moment, we were in pitch blackness.  And then I heard the click of a light switch, and the room was illuminated.

We were standing in a large warehouse, surrounded by shelves holding large cardboard boxes.  Carson reached out and pulled the nearest one off the shelf.  “Do you know what these are?” he asked.

I shook my head, and the other man popped the box open.  From inside, he withdrew a plastic tube, rather flattened, with a cap on one end and a little knob at the other.  He popped off the cap, twisted the knob a few times, and a white rubbery substance began to rise up from inside the tube.  “This,” Carson revealed, “is my secret.”

He held it out to me, in front of my nose, and I took a sniff.  Sure enough, it had that same faint scent as Carson.  “What is it?” I asked.

Carson grinned.  “Deodorant!”

We talked a bit longer there, Carson still holding that tube.  It turns out that he had purchased this whole warehouse at a steal, as it was rumored to be near a hot zone and possibly contaminated.  That rumor proved to be false, but the deodorant had been a much greater find.  Carson knew that I was a gifted tinkerer, and he wanted me to try and reproduce the formula of this substance, to try and make more.

“I’ll do my best,” I promised, “but no guarantees.”

Carson looped an arm around my shoulders.  “Just think of it,” he said, spreading out his other arm in front of us.  “If we can sell this stuff, no one will smell any more!  We’ll put those rubber scraper folks out of business in weeks.”

As I walked home that evening, holding the two tubes that Carson had given me as a gift, my thoughts were a jumble of ideas and disbelief.  I had to keep on uncapping one of the tubes and sniffing it to convince myself that this meeting had actually happened.  It was unbelievable.

A world where people didn’t smell.  It was almost too much to believe.

I coughed, anxious, as I approached the door at the back of the alley, featureless gray and unmarked by any sign.  In my hand, I held the gold-embossed card that had summoned me here.  But even though I held an invitation, I couldn’t stop myself from trembling.

We all knew him, of course – his name was famous.  Carson Stone, the man who didn’t smell!  He had appeared on Letterman, once.  I had watched that episode, and still remembered vividly the contrast between Carson and the joking host.

Carson had strode confidently onto the stage.  That confidence wasn’t unusual, but his appearance was.  Somehow, his skin was free of grime, as though he’d spent hours running a rubber scraper over his skin.  His clothes appeared similarly clean, free of the stains of sweat – they must have been brand new.

Even more than that, the audience responded to him instantly, leaning forward with their nostrils dilating.  Most times, people maintained their own personal space to avoid too much stench, and indeed, the audience members were well dispersed.  But Carson was different.  There was no bubble around him, and the host and audience seemed almost eager to draw close.

We all knew the secret to attraction, of course.  Smell good.  Hence the booming business of rubber scrapers, “guaranteed to wipe away all dirt and grime from the skin, taking off those pesky odor particles!”.  But they never worked as well as the commercials and ads promised – and after just a day, sometimes even only a few hours, a new layer of dirt would take its place on my skin.

Of course, there was always the wild tale of an untainted spring.  Someone was always claiming that they’d found the “pure source”, water that hadn’t been contaminated, water that didn’t make skin burst into painful boils and weeping sores.  But it was always a hoax.  Most of the time, the braggers were scammers, looking for an easy bit of money before they’d inevitably vanish.

Reaching the door, I lifted my hand and gave a tentative knock.  I had to admit, if pressed, that I had some value as well.  Ever since I was young, I’d been good at fiddling, tinkering, and I’d help get many machines from the olden ages working again.  I ran quite a successful business as a mechanic, fixing televisions, screens, cooking appliances, and vehicles.  I was one of the few people who could get a motorcycle working again, and I didn’t know of anyone else who had successfully converted one to run on alcohol.  I had even managed to make a small improvement to the solar stills that pulled water out of the air, a few meager drops at a time.

But still, receiving this invitation from Carson had been unexpected.

I lifted my hand to knock again, but the door sprang open before my fist could land.  And there, larger than life before my eyes, stood Carson.

He was clean, immaculate, his teeth gleaming.  But that wasn’t what nearly knocked me off my feet.

He smelled . . . amazing.

To be continued!

Continued from Part I.

Private Huffleman was concerned.  He switched his grip to the PlasMark II and shoved it down, barrel first, towards the dog as it crept closer.  The weapon’s barrel was shaking back and forth a little (Private Huffleman had never fired it in combat), but it was still aimed at the animal.

The dog, however, didn’t seem fazed.  Instead, it sniffed at the weapon and then extended that long tongue and licked the barrel a couple of times.  Private Huffleman flinched back, in case the animal’s saliva was toxic or acidic, but there didn’t seem to be any reaction.

After the licks, the animal flopped back down on its haunches and looked up at Private Huffleman again.  It seemed perfectly content.

Slowly, still ready to react at a second’s notice, Private Huffleman holstered his weapon.  Instead, he withdrew his supercomputer from its little pocket on his waist and pointed the built in camera at the dog.  “Analyze,” he said, speaking as softly as he could to avoid inciting some sort of attack.

The supercomputer paused for a second, and then beeped.  “Dog, subspecies poodle,” it announced in a crisp, faintly accented voice.  Someone had once told Private Huffleman that the accent was called “Braitish.”  He didn’t know what that meant, but went with it.

“Scientific name *Canis domesticus,*” the supercomputer went on.  “Species originated on Earth several thousand years ago, as a domesticated breed that lived in a mutual relationship with early humans.  Further genetic blending led to more intelligent Canids.  This particular subspecies is known for being an excellent companion, as well as for frequent shedding.”

“Danger level?” Private Huffleman asked.

“Danger level two.  Species may bite when threatened, and bite carries significant chance of infection.  Generally docile and friendly.  Warning signs include: raised hackles, growling, aggressive lunges.”

The dog hadn’t shown any of those signs.  Private Huffleman relaxed a little more.  “Toxicity?”

“Animal is non-toxic,” the computer told him.  “In earlier times, the fur was often touched to relieve stress.”

Slowly, his fingers quaking, Private Huffleman extended his hand towards the dog.  Its eyes locked on his hand, and it tilted its head as it examined the approaching appendage.  It made no other movements, and very slowly, he touched the curly fur on the top of its head.

Indeed, the animal felt wonderfully soft – softer than most things that Private Huffleman touched during his day.  The animal seemed to enjoy the contact, too, its eyes squeezing shut and scooting a little closer to him.  He slid his hand down over its neck, rubbing along the length of its back.  He wasn’t sure, but the dog appeared to grin.

Private Huffleman grinned back, but then his eyes rose up to the airlock hatch just ahead, and that grin faded.  His orders were not to pet artifacts of the Improbability Drive.  He was supposed to jettison them out the airlock.

At his feet, as if sensing his thoughts, the dog whined.  The supercomputer hadn’t said anything about telepathy, but Private Huffleman quickly banished the thought of this poodle going out the airlock from his thoughts, just in case.

What was he going to do?

The dog sat in front of the airlock, its mouth hanging open and a long, pink appendage hanging out between the teeth.  It seemed perfectly content, aside from the huffing noise it was making.  And its eyes were boring into Private Huffleman’s soul.

Private Huffleman (Private Second Class, age 22, currently fourteen months into his three-year-tour, assigned to the UFCS Enterpriser) hadn’t had many issues of morality to deal with yet in his career.  He had been fortunate enough to test out of grunt duty, and had been assigned to a ship that was a third of the way through a government-sanctioned aid distribution mission.  His day job mainly consisted of patrolling the hallways of the ship, especially the exterior access areas, making sure that none of the grateful indigenous populations attempted to hitch a ride off their little balls of rock.

This week, he was also responsible for cleaning up the Improbability artifacts.

This week’s list of artifacts, by his mental count, had so far included several very weird metal sculptures, a few balls of unidentified organic goo, a large spider that had clacked at him menacingly several times before he’d whacked it with the butt of his PlasMark II.  All of these items had been carefully swept out of the corridors, into the airlock, where they were promptly jettisoned.

But now there was a dog sitting in the corridor, staring up at him.

Private Huffleman knew that this animal was a dog.  He had never before seen a dog in person, of course, but he had an annoying tendency to not fall asleep right away and instead lie awake in his bunk reading random entries in WikiUniverse.  The Enterpriser had also made one of its aid relief stops on Arcturus 371_B, which had been settled by a group of Canids.  They had been created through genetic blending with dogs, Private Huffleman had read on WikiUniverse, and indeed, they had borne a strong resemblance to this creature in front of him now.

The dog stood up, wiggling its hindquarters.  A long tail, quite hairy, wiggled back and forth as it gazed up at Private Huffleman.  The private, unsure what to do, reached down to his waist, but hesitated between his PlasMark II and his personal supercomputer.  Was this creature dangerous?

The dog padded a couple steps closer, that pink appendage still hanging out of its mouth.  It looked a lot like a tongue to Private Huffleman, but he’d never seen one that oversized before.  It was getting awfully close…

To be continued!