by E. M. Foner
“You would have to recuse yourself from any category for which you enter your own pieces.”
“And can we sell our work?” another artist asked.
“There will be a fee for tables or pegboards to display art that’s for sale, but if you’re willing to offer the pieces in the charity auction, the fee is waived,” Flower said.
“Who does the charity benefit?”
The holographic projection returned to life with the Horten commentator mid-sentence.
“…and the next award is for best interspecies anime stand-in for vector scaffolding purposes,” Bunk announced. “The finalists will be read by the last winner, Floppsie Friend, from the hit series, Dragon Galaxy.”
A Huktra wearing prosthetic wing extensions to make her look a little more like an interstellar-vacuum dragon almost knocked over the Drazen co-host while reaching for the plastic sheet with the names.
“The finalists are, Aaki, the royal Vergallian schoolgirl from Class Assassins—”
The projection cut to a clip of immersive anime where a small Vergallian girl with enormous eyes and an even larger sword did a triple somersault and landed in a crouch in front of a group of similarly dressed schoolgirls from a variety of tunnel network species.
“—Sevensie, the Zarent Seventh Apprentice on Koffern from the action/adventure series, Wanderer Mob—”
The clip showed a furry octopus brandishing an array of tools racing her unicycle towards a sparking cable dangling from a corridor ceiling.
“—and Mastermind, the evil Farling villain from Everyday Superheroes.”
The holographic projection showed a giant beetle casually batting away attacks by a tray-wielding waitress, a knife-juggling Drazen, a young man with a shovel, and an underdressed Vergallian beauty.
The Huktra paused dramatically, and then bellowed, “Mastermind, from Everyday Superheroes.”
“Go nuts,” the Grenouthian director shouted as he pumped his fist. The large projection that the partygoers were watching was replaced by a view of themselves staring like a herd of deer caught in the headlights.
Irene was the first to react, letting out an excited scream and grabbing Harry, and then the writers and animators joined in. M793qK rolled off his chaise lounge and ducked behind the Verlock as the floating camera zoomed in on him.
“Looks like we have a shy stand-in,” Poga said to Bunk. “How about an instant replay?”
“No time,” Bunk said. “Mastermind couldn’t be here in the carapace tonight so I’ll accept the award in his place. Moving on to the best scream in an interspecies horror anime,” the Drazen continued. “The award will be presented by—”
Flower muted the broadcast again. “We did it! Everyday Superheroes is now an award-winning anime production. Zick, I believe most of Mastermind’s lines were yours.”
“I like writing villains, but you know that M793qK was always improvising with those snarky insults,” Zick said modestly.
“I think part of the award should go to Dave,” Harry said. “He spent as much time standing in for Mastermind as the Farling did.”
“I was standing in for the doctor, not for the char,” Dave said, though the retired salesman was clearly basking in the shared glory. “M793qK said all of the lines. I just took up space so your characters would have somewhere to point their weapons.”
“I’m never going to live this down,” the Farling said as he crawled back onto his belly-lounger. “I may as well resign myself to repairing primitive life forms for the next galactic rotation because they’re rubbing their speaking legs raw with laughter back home.”
“It’s the interspecies part of the award show, I doubt any Farlings were even watching,” the Grenouthian director pointed out.
“Everybody quiet now,” Flower said. “They’re running my first commercial.”
“Do you have an idea for anime but don’t know where to turn for production help?” a voice that sounded like Maureen’s spoke over the holographic projection of a hand sketching characters from Everyday Superheroes. “Do you have any money or access to grants? Flower Studios, the award-winning producer of Everyday Superheroes, has thousands of trained professionals to fit every budget. Check our travel schedule in the Galactic Free Press. Coming soon to a world near you.”
“That’s the whole thing?” Harry asked. “It couldn’t have been twenty-five seconds.”
“Twenty-one seconds,” Flower said. “You don’t want to know what commercial time during a live awards show broadcast costs, even during the low ratings part at the beginning on the Humans-only feed.”
“What if we get so much work that we don’t have time for our own show?” Zick asked.
“The educational games I have most of your fellow Bitters working on were a stopgap measure to keep them employed while we hunted up paying work,” Flower responded. “Those games may make a profit eventually, but it will be decades in the future, and I can’t keep all of the designers busy forever doing tech support.”
“We’re up again, Flower,” the Grenouthian called out, and the AI unmuted the feed.
A leathery Thark took the stage, accepted the list of finalists from Poga, and began to chuckle.
“It appears that two out of our three finalists didn’t get the memo about waiving licensing fees for award show clips,” the Thark said. “I’ll just mention their shows for the record. We Brave Few, produced by the Interspecies Mercenary Council Studios—wasn’t that a recruitment advertisement?”
“A forty-six-minute recruitment advertisement that ran into thirty episodes,” Poga informed him. “They probably thought the I.A.A. consent form was a prank.”
“And the pirate drama, Your Ship is Our Business, produced by Free Republic Studios. Ironic, pirates refusing to grant royalty-free clip usage,” the Thark said. “Fortunately, our winner for best new anime production is—”
“Start making some noise,” Flower interjected.
“Everyday Superheroes, from Flower Studios.”
The feed again switched to the scene of the party in the common room, where Irene was so excited that she smooched her surprised husband, earning them both two seconds of galactic fame. The Farling dropped his head below the table in hopes that the top of his carapace would go unrecognized, but everybody else hooted and hollered, pounding the tables and generally looking like winners were supposed to look at awards shows.
The feed cut back to the next presentation, and Jorb asked, “Are you going to keep your promise, Flower?”
“I always keep my promises,” the ship’s AI replied. “Which one?”
“You said that if we won at the awards, you’d put us all on the payroll as principal animation actors.”
“She did?” the Grenouthian director demanded incredulously. “Do you know what scale is for principal animation actors these days?”
“You double-dip,” the Verlock who played Slomo pointed out.
“I forgot about my own stand-in work,” the director admitted. “I’ll have to do the math as to whether I’m winning or losing in the end, since all of your raises are coming in part out of my points in the show.”
“I just received offers from a dozen ad brokers trying to lock us in for the next season at the old rates,” Flower reported. “Do they think that we aren’t watching the awards?”
“Can’t blame them for trying,” Avisia said. “Am I the only one who’s dying for a drink?”
“I’ll have the bots start serving as soon as the results for the last category we’re in are announced. I wouldn’t want a reaction shot going live that makes you all look like alcoholics.”
“But it’s supposed to be a party!”
“What else are we up for?” Harry asked.
“Best script for an intelligent anime drama series,” Flower replied. “According to the schedule, it’s on right after the award for the largest production staff.”
“They give an award for inefficiency?”
“The I.A.A. tries to encourage empl
oyment in the field of interspecies animation,” Yaem told them.
“I would have thought that Flower would be a finalist for that,” Harry said.
“They only count I.A.A. union employees.”
“There’s a union we can join?”
“…announce the award for the best script is Hynt, whose Math For The Masses anime script has won ten times in a row,” Poga was saying as the volume suddenly blared. “The academy wanted to give somebody else a chance, so Hynt was banned from the ballot this year, but he’s being a good sport about it.”
A slow-footed Verlock shuffled over to the co-hosts, accepted the list, and tapping his free hand on his chest to speed up his speaking cadence, began to read. “The finalists are, Beeloor, for Interstellar Ice Harvester. Multiple writers, for Everyday Superheroes. Ruke, for Open Worlds. And the winner is—me?”
“Let me see that,” Bunk said, snatching the sheet back with his tentacle. “Well, there you have it. Hynt wins again with Math For The Masses, even though the show wasn’t nominated.”
“Rip-off,” the Grenouthian director grumbled as the hologram flickered out. “I thought we’d be an easy lock for the best script with the Verlock out of the way.”
“Must have been the write-in ballots,” Yaem surmised. “There’s talk about getting rid of them, but then the awards would all go to insiders.”
“Hynt deserves it,” Flower said. “I’ve been using his show in the schools when I substitute teach math and the children love it. Quiet, now. My next commercial is starting.”
The hologram flashed to life again, and the word “Multiverse” came zooming forward, followed by, “Multispecies”, and stopped on “MultiCon.” Then the shot dissolved into a ballroom scene, where the dancers were all dressed as popular characters from various anime dramas.
“Isn’t that the same music as the ballroom dancing scene from the Flower’s Paradise commercial?” Irene asked Harry, who was nodding off.
“I used the same content and had the animators dress everybody up,” the Dollnick AI told her.
“MultiCon, sponsored by the multi-award-winning producer of Everyday Superheroes. Includes free tours of our production facilities, discount lodging, and plenty of fruit. Meet Flower at Union Station next cycle for the con of a lifetime.”
Six
The president of the independent living cooperative rose to his feet at the front of the giant shuttle’s cabin and pulled off his ear-cuff translator, which doubled as a wireless microphone. “Would all the new members of Flower’s Paradise who have never been on one of our field trips please raise a hand?” he spoke into the device, and his voice was broadcast over the shuttle’s public address system. Nearly a third of the people sitting in the oversized seats indicated that they were new to the experience, and Jack nodded. “That’s about what I figured. This is the first time we’ve stopped at Horten Sixty One, which was only declared an open world last year. The large human community here consists mainly of ex-contract workers from other Horten properties who have accepted Gortunda as their savior and moved here to be together.”
“Gortunda?” somebody called out.
“It’s called the Old Religion by the Hortens, and don’t ask me about the theology because it’s a closely held secret. All I know is that they hold regular revivals on Stryx stations and they give converts from other species generous discounts on the tithing requirement.”
“So we’re visiting a religious community?” a woman asked. “Will I have to cover my hair?”
“If you want to eat in their communal dining hall, yes,” Jack said. “It’s not a modesty thing, the men have to wear hair nets as well. If you’ve ever met any Hortens you’ll know they’re very sensitive about hygiene, and I’m told that the humans who moved here have gone native. The culture is an attractive fit for germaphobes.”
“Do we all have to stay together or can we explore on our own?” somebody else inquired.
“Keep in mind that this is an alien world and none of the Hortens will speak English, so if you don’t have a translation implant or the external ear-cuff version, it’s highly advisable that you remain with the main group. That said, there are nearly three hundred of us along on this trip, so we’re planning on splitting into smaller groups once we land and see what day trips are available. We’ll be handing out tracking bracelets when you exit the shuttle to make it possible for Flower to locate you from orbit should you get detached from the group.”
“Do those of us who aren’t with the independent living cooperative get the bracelets?” a young man called out.
“You must be from the group who hitched a ride to go to the gaming con at the spaceport hotel,” Jack said. “I don’t know if Flower provided enough tracking bracelets for everybody, so I’ll ask that you wait for the members of our cooperative to exit the shuttle, and then you can take a bracelet if there are any left.”
“Excuse me,” said a woman just a row back from where Jack was standing. “I don’t want to play the tattletale, but the display flyer for this outing in the common room said that we can’t wear perfume or cologne because the Hortens will stick us in isolation. I’ve been smelling something sweet with peachy overtones ever since we boarded.”
“It’s fruit,” somebody sitting halfway back in the cabin called out. “While we were entering through the front hatch, there were bots shuttling in and out the back stacking crates of peaches and strawberries. Maybe the Hortens like smoothies.”
“I’m paying our landing fees with fruit,” Flower informed everyone over the public address system. “This results in lower costs for me which I pass on to the cooperative.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. “Are there any other questions?”
“Do we have to choose a tour, or can we go to the gaming con?” one of the retirees from Bits inquired.
“Uh, if you want to spend your field trip at the spaceport hotel that’s up to you, just don’t get too caught up playing a game and miss our departure. Flower is leaving orbit tonight, and while she might be willing to send a small ship to pick up stragglers, I wouldn’t push your luck.”
“Landing in two minutes,” Flower announced. “Please return to your seats and fasten your safety restraints.”
Near the back of the occupied section of the seats, Julie asked Brenda, “Are you going on a tour or coming to the con?”
“As much as I’d love to see how the human community here is adapting, Flower has already negotiated a deal with the con’s legal team to take a meeting with me and Maureen. I think she’s paying them in prune juice.”
“Don’t worry,” Geoffrey said from Julie’s other side. “I’ve been to dozens of Horten cons. I’ll keep you out of trouble.”
“Isn’t Yaem coming?” Julie subvoced to the Dollnick AI controlling the shuttle.
“He only sleeps every third night on the Human clock so he headed down with my first fruit delivery fourteen hours ago,” Flower informed Julie over her implant. “And please keep an eye on Geoffrey. He didn’t get enough exercise for years, and M793qK says that he shouldn’t stay on his feet for hours at a time.”
“Flower mentioned to me that you’re interested in becoming a writer,” Geoffrey said as the increasing deceleration pushed them down in their seat cushions.
Julie felt her cheeks turning red. “I’m really just a book addict who works mornings in the library. I’ve been trying to write in my spare time the last eight or nine months, but I can’t seem to finish anything.”
The science fiction author turned his head slightly towards her. “How close are you coming? Halfway? Three-quarters?”
“I have a bunch of chapter ones, a few chapter twos, and not many chapter threes,” Julie admitted. “I always seem to start strong, but then something just goes wrong.”
“Do you work with a plot?”
“Yes, I mean, I think so. I start with an idea that I really like, but it always runs out of steam faster than I expect. Maybe I should be writing short stories.”
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“Back when I was a twenty-year-old in the mercenaries and realized that dying is a lousy way to make a living, I decided to become an author. I mentioned to a friend that I was having exactly the same problem that you are now, and he asked me to describe my plot. I managed a few sentences about the hero and the enemy he was fighting, and then I realized that I didn’t have a plot at all, just an idea. So I sat in the mess hall for a few hours writing one-line chapter ideas on a napkin that took the story from start to end, and two months later, I finished my first novel.”
“Was it good?” Julie asked.
“It was a first novel. I eventually rewrote it as a prequel to my Galactic War College series but it didn’t sell that well.”
The passengers burst into applause when the shuttle touched down with barely a bump. Shortly after, a series of accordion-like tubes stretched from the spaceport terminal to seal against the shuttle’s hull, and Flower triggered the doors open.
Jack and Nancy positioned themselves on either side of the front exit, handing out bracelets to the members of the independent living cooperative as they shuffled out. “Don’t run off in the terminal,” Nancy cautioned every other person. “We’ll go through Horten customs as a group and Jack will take care of the bribes.”
Once all of the retirees were out, the management team for MultiCon rose to their feet, along with a few dozen hard-core gamers from Union Station who had come to compete in a one-day tournament. Julie and Zick spotted each other at the same time.
“Think you can win against the Hortens?” she asked him.
“I’m not here to play,” Zick replied. “Flower drafted me to manage a gaming track for MultiCon, though where she thinks I’ll find the time is beyond me. I volunteered to run the writing track instead, but she said she already had somebody.”
“Me,” Geoffrey said, stepping up to Julie’s side. “Is this your young man who I’ve been hearing so much about?”
Julie blushed. “No. Zick writes for Everyday Superheroes. I stand in for a waitress named Refill, though Flower promised to upgrade me to a principal animation actor this season since my char ended up looking and sounding just like me.”
