Sweet Release

Abigale Applegate Buttersmith stood in the fairgrounds landing strip, which was really just a cleared area of genetically cloned lawn planted to look like a field on Old Earth. It had what they called the “Fresh Mown Scent” which almost made her gag, but it had a nice intense verdant color rarely seen on the Planet Bradbury. The object of her focus, the reason she was not with the others at the party having a good time, flopped before her: Trebby. Trebby, also known as Bartholomew Bertram Buttersmith, her on again and off again ex husband, sat encased in forty-five kilos of augmented baby blue sugar floss. Currently, they were on their first date since their last divorce. Their status could change again, though, depending on the night and if he kept his mouth shut.

Trebby looked ridiculous lying there rolling around. His spastic efforts to escape just compacted the casing formed around him like a giant burrito caked in clumps of sod.

A crowd of spectators gathered at the edge of the green. Bets were being placed. Trebby always created a spectacle. She turned her attention back to him, sipped her wine, and smiled. Idiot, she thought.

She had seen him struggling for some time now, rolling back and forth from the safety of the tents. Abbey had been content to leave him out here, but a few glasses of merlot had lowered her resolve.

She cleared her throat to get his attention, and then seeing as he didn’t notice, did so again with a bit more oomph behind it. Trebby’s head moved to the sound, but he couldn’t see her face. “Trebby, are you… all right?” she ventured.

The flopping intensified momentarily, and Trebby’s head careened around to look in her direction. “I’m fine,” he lied. Anyone could tell Trebby was not getting up anytime soon. The party was half over already. Large chunks of grass had bonded directly into the candy surface and were quickly becoming mostly mud. Great divots ripped from the new lawn clung to the sugary shell. The smell of fresh soil and sugary confection did not mix well.

“Let me help.” She reached out and touched the shell, but the sticky surface nearly ripped off her skin as he moved and swayed.

“No. I got into this mess, I can get myself out.” If he hadn’t stayed in the candy-floss machine so long, the suit wouldn’t be so dense. And sugar, especially genetically augmented sugar, would reform with a new crystal matrix when disturbed, as anyone who had ever made rock candy could attest. The new confectioners melt-away clothing style, soft and sweet, light and discrete, not rock hard, muddy and immobile. It was meant to be worn for a few minutes, at most, before diving into the lake. “Soft tingles and colors mingle,” as they say. Silly man.

He would have to roll himself into the lake to let it melt off overnight and most likely drown, or they could turn the domesticated slug-dogs loose. And Trebby hated slug-dogs more than anything. Abbey burst out laughing at a thought. If he didn’t stop, they would never get him out of that thing. His new nickname would be Butterscotch.

A great desperate roar echoed off the surrounding hills, followed moments later by a deep exhale of breath and then a whimper. Was that frustration or had Trebby broken something? She looked around to see his face, but he stared off to the other side of the lake. “So?” he asked, defeated.

“I could call in the slug-dogs?”

“What? No. No slug-dogs” He rocked his form over until he could look her in the eye. He wore his “stubborn-man-face.” Abbey knew the look well. Tight-lipped, jaw clenched, and dimpled chin stood out from the ruddy-cheeked face.

“What would you give to escape?” She held the bottle of solvent behind her back. The liquid held a special mix of nano-tech that would dissolve the confectioner’s suit, but the tech would also remove every bit of hair on his body and remove any tattoos. He’d be like a baby. Losing the tattoo of his mother’s face would be a plus, she thought. Why anyone would want that hag’s face on their body? The eyes always followed Abbey no matter where she looked. That tattoo was one reason they broke up originally.

“Anything. I’m at your mercy,” he said, between gasping breaths.

“A fresh start then?” She downed her glass of merlot. Not waiting for an answer, she smiled, lofted the bottle of nano-tech and removed the cap.

“Oh, no, wait. Is that…”

“To new beginnings.”