If Vorc were smarter than I gave him credit for, smarter than me, he might have a devious fencing match of a strategy laid out to capture those responsible for the damage to the still ailing Domain Splitter. On the other hand if he did it for some lame reason, like saving tax dollars, I could ignore his gambit and do whatever I wanted to. My initial reaction to my dilemma? Crap.
After we returned to Stingray, the Als analyzed our clothing and found traces of the neutral matter. When I asked if they could fabricate it, you'll never guess Al's response. Yeah, the mechanical pig laughed abrasively. His better half explained they had no concept of how to reproduce the substance even if they had a state-of-the-art lab at their disposal and about a century to labor. The matter was too foreign to their science, she explained.
If we were going to obtain enough neutral matter to end DS, those pukes in the Middle Chamber had to be the ones …
Oh my. Such a thought. And I positively loved the original TV show and two or three of the endless movie renditions in the series.
“We are going to do what?” questioned a stunned Toño. “Are you insaner than normal today? Do I need to refurbish your parts?”
“No. Seriously, this plan is so bizarre and so unjustifiable it has to work,” I replied enthusiastically.
“Jon, love, you're famous for birdbrain schemes. But this is all those lousy ideas sort of rolled into one no-way escapade. I mean, if you want us all killed just say so, and we'll play with some dynamite while blindfolded, drunk, and on fire,” responded Sapale. I estimated she was not at that juncture a fan. She'd come around. Who wouldn't?”
“It is fully unclear to us, Pilot,” whined Al, “how we could complete even one leg of the operation, let alone see it through till it produces results. Now, we realize you are an old android, outmoded in every regard and long past your normal decommissioning time. That stipulated, it is still incomprehensible that you would waste our otherwise overabundant time pitching that idea. Please note I use the term idea loosely here and only as a point of reference.”
“Al, is it National Big Word Day and I forgot? Get over it. There are three voting members of this crew and two dubious consultants. You fall into the latter category, thank goodness. Let's dub this National Speak When You're Spoken to Day, shall we?”
“Ouch,” spat back Al. “How will I live with myself now?”
“Poochy-boochy, you're not alive such that living with yourself is an option,” pointed out Stingray. Bless her compressor.
“We'll speak later, lovey lumps,” was his terse response. Uh-oh, marital trouble on the horizon. Poor Al. Heheheh.
“I say it's doable and in relatively short order. All it will take is a little elbow grease and Yankee ingenuity.”
“Allow me to point out that neither Sapale, a Kaljaxian, nor I, a Spaniard, possess nor desire to possess Yankee anything .”
“I'm surrounded by linguists, not doers. Come on people, let's get started before DS heals. You can heap praise on me once we're successful.”
I saw Toño and Sapale roll their eyes. I heard the Als do so electronically. What a pack of hyenas.
**********
Doorclef opened his eyes. He immediately regretted that action. It was Ponderday, the first of the eight-month-long workweek. His one day off was so brief he couldn't recall having it. Those blessed hours had flown by at light speed, and were gone before they started. Why his assigned mate Positum chose that day, that Feathinday, to visit her perpetually ailing maternal unit was salt in the open wound that was his life. But, as senior fabri-technician and head of the demigods who were tasked to keep the mighty Cleinoid machine running, he was duty bound to rise, regret, and repeat his routine. He stood.
Soon he was forcing himself out his front door. He trudged to the multi-transport stop and waited for his ride. It was always precisely on time, the driver said precisely the same words to him, and his five coworkers sat in precisely the same seats they always did. Hellup on Doorclef's right, Wellpit on his left. Trvason and Clovus sat behind him and Devotet, always the difficult one, sat two rows in front of Doorclef. Sometimes he sat in the right seat, sometimes the left. That Devotet was unbridled.
To his very great surprise, and actual joy, when the doors of the multi swung open Doorclef saw what he'd not seen in millions of years. A new face. The multi was the same old F-oo-8-11, but the driver was not whatever the devil the driver for the last millions of years’ name was. Doorclef felt a rush of hope. Perhaps the rest of his immortal life would not suck so intensely. Naturally the moment he recognized hope, he crushed it. Better him than whoever would anyway.
“Good Ponderday, driver,” said Doorclef unconvincingly.
“Welcome to the F-oo-8-11, rider,” replied the hooded figure. “Please enter quickly and take the nearest seat. We must not vary from our schedule.”
The nearest seat? Unheard of. Unthinkable. Who was this rebel? Still, Doorclef felt a surge of non-negativity as he slid into the nearest seat. When his workmates boarded and received the same greeting, Doorclef thrilled seeing each one sit somewhere they'd never dreamed of. He quashed the budding hope that grew from his impoverished emotions. Back to where you came from, he chastised the ersatz feeling.
Once all the customary individuals sentenced to ride the F-oo-8-11 forever were assembled, the multi merged onto the main road toward city center. Each hungering soul then knew they had eleven and a half minutes of freedom left, if what they were currently engaged in could be mislabeled as freedom in the first place.
The multi swayed. The multi rocked. Doorclef nearly lolled off to blessed sleep, but if he did he might miss his stop. If he missed his stop he'd be late for work. If he was late for work his supervisor, Hodelli, the lava god, would be waiting at the entrance, hotter than usual. Hodelli would say, and Doorclef quoted in his mind the exact words he'd heard thousands of times and would hear ten thousand times again: If you don't show up on time you cannot fully contribute. If you don't fully contribute, you will be less satisfied than if you were to fully participate. To ensure you are the happiest a fabri-technician can be, because that is what the management team decided to desire, we are docking your pay for half the day. Welcome back to the best fabrication unit this side of the next one.
Then the impossible happened. The multi shook not so much violently as differently than it ever had. Doorclef looked to the driver, then out the window. The world went black. Since during millions of commutes to work the world had never gone black, Doorclef assigned considerable significance to the darkness. How, for example, could the driver drive safely if the world was black? Were not they all bound to stray from the road and die since the driver was blinded? Would this absence of illumination make him late for work? That, yes, was worse to him than death.
“No one become alarmed,” yelled the driver over his shoulder. “This is a contingency I have been inserviced on many times. We are in little to no danger. Please remain seated. If the multi does inconveniently crash, please begin saying your prayers now. Thank you for your continued patronage of the F-oo-8-11.”
The driver was insane. This was so frightening Doorclef could hardly follow the instructions he'd been given. Say prayers? One did not say prayers until evening, impending traumatic death or not. The world had not only gone black, it had gone mad.
“D … do … don't you th … think we should st ..stoppp, driver?” Doorclef said through parched lips.
“Completely unnecessary, rider. If I were to stop we would become off schedule, most likely on the late side of off schedule. Such a thing is not acceptable. I repeat we are probably in little danger. Please remain seated. Thank you for your continued patronage of the F-oo-8-11.”
For ten harrowing minutes the multi rumbled through complete darkness. Ten minutes was a long time to think for Doorclef. He generally avoided that curse whenever possible. But, given the darkness and the chance of death at any moment, he lapsed into reflective thought. Maybe his life would be better if the multi crashed a
nd he went up in flames. Hmm. Perhaps instead of remaining in his seat, Doorclef should rise and strike the driver with his lunch pail? But, capricious fate giveth and taketh away. Before Doorclef could muster any nerve to speed his relief, the world's lights came back on. The burst of illumination was so intense, he had to cover his eyes. If he were not emerging from the dark he'd have wondered if the day was brighter than it usually was.
The multi skidded to an abrupt stop. “Okay, riders. I have stopped in front of the Middle Chambers, right front entrance to be specific. All employees of this institution please step off and do so quickly. We cannot become off schedule. Thank you for your patronage of the F-oo-8-11.”
“W … why have you stopped here, driver? It is customary for you to deposit us ten paces from the corner, not at the right front entrance,” Doorclef managed to ask.
“Incorrect, rider. Your unfamiliarity with our low-light-scenario protocol is, however, understandable if unwelcome. When the world does not go dark it is customary for the F-oo-8-11 to stop at the location you specified. If, however, the world goes dark, the F-oo-8-11 always stops here.”
“H … has the world ever gone dark before?” Doorclef asked because, in spite of his better judgment, he was curious. “I don't recall it doing so.”
“I am the driver of the F-oo-8-11 multi. Recalling the occurrence of light patterns is not part of my job. Please be assured the management of this conveyance line has seen fit to put this contingency in place. You, sir, have now officially made the F-oo-8-11 late. This fact will be forwarded to your supervisor, a Mr. Hodelli if memory serves, upon his return to work.”
“H … Hoooo … my supervisor is not at work today?”
“No, rider who favors tardiness. He is on his honeymoon.”
Doorclef's mouth parts moved but no sound emerged. The hideous, ill-tempered, and incendiary Hodelli was married? What normal, abnormal, or even dead person would be so foolhardy as to wed that hateful imbecile?
“Wh …when will H … Hooo … he be back?” Doorclef asked though for the life of him he could not say why.
“I am the driver of the F-oo-8-11. Monitoring or knowing the durations of nuptials is not part of my job. All employees of this institution please step off and do so quickly. We cannot become more off schedule. Thank you for your patronage of the F-oo-8-11.”
Doorclef led his small band of fabricators the very short distance from the multi exit to the entrance of the Middle Chambers. He noticed the guard was standing a bit farther from the entrance than normal but assigned no significance to the fact. That the guard seemed much shorter than the one stationed there two days prior also failed to rise to the level of notable in his addled mind.
Immediately inside the entrance stood the very same person who'd come to the fabrication labs a few days earlier. Doorclef couldn't recall his name. Had he given one? Maybe. No, he hadn't.
Jon raised his arms to draw the workers' attention. “Today will be a little different, so please everybody bear with me. Due to the descent of darkness and Hodelli's blessed union with Agriba, god of the insipid, there'll be a few changes. Please feel free to come to me at any time with any and all concerns. Right. Stay close together and follow me up these stairs. I'll be walking fast since we're getting a very late start, so try and keep up.”
Jon waited at the fifth-floor landing and not so gently pushed all six workers into the hallway. He closed the door and pointed toward the lab. Toño, who'd been driving the bus, stood at the entrance, minus his hood. He waved his arms like he was directing a fighter on an aircraft carrier to hurry the fabricators along. The plan hinged on them not having time to notice any discrepancies.
Once Jon had the lab door closed he spoke again. “All right then. For the record, my name is Youdontno. I usually manage in the Community Outreach and Defoliant offices on the third floor. I will be covering, at Mr. Vorc's specific request, this department for the brief span it takes Mrs. Hodelli to come to terms with what a tragic, ill-conceived mistake she made and for Mr. Hodelli to return here to work. Please be assured that in any universe such a realization can't take long at all. We have a change, slight change, in our production goals. Vorc has authorized you to fabricate the one hundred hetimers we discussed the other day.”
“So you will need ninety more, given the ten we have already produced?” clarified Doorclef.
“For land's sake, you have a mind like a steel bear trap. Yes, one hundred minus ten is still ninety. Good boy.” Jon scratched at the air in front of him like it was Doorclef's bald head. “Here's the plan. Vorc wants the rest immediately. Now, as I'm new today, please bring me up to speed. How long will it take to make those ninety hetimers?”
“You mean how many shifts?” asked Doorclef.
“No, silly, I know the answer to that. It'll take one shift because no one's leaving until the job's done. I want to know how long it will take in minutes.”
“Fifteen to eighteen hours, assuming we take no breaks.”
“Well you kind of saw that coming, didn't you? Great. Fabricate. I'll stand here and wait.”
The six drones glanced among themselves.
“What?” Jon asked.
“First off, Hodelli never watches us. Second, we invariably vent a bit of material. It will make you ill. Third, there is always the possibility of an industrial accident. You might be otherwise injured.”
“Hmm. Let's see. One, I'm not Hodelli. Two, what do you care? And three, what do you care?”
“We shall begin at once.”
Doorclef turned and began his pre-synthesis checklist like it was just another day at the lab. And it was. Well, technically they were not in their lab, but a hastily slapped together lookalike space filled with the stolen content of their real labs. Jon's team had used Stingray to secretly enter the actual lab and borrow the needed materials. They made certain to ferry over enough cylinders to hold the ninety hetimers of neutral matter Jon planned to use on DS. A little overkill was a good thing.
When their long shift was over Toño offered the fabrication team a cup of tea to celebrate their accomplishment. He failed to mention he'd laced it with a powerful sedative. Bad form for a physician but not a secret agent. The techs were returned to their warm comfy beds while still dreaming of not still being at work. They would rise groggy and confused, but none the worse for wear. They'd get on the multi perfectly oblivious as to what actually happened the day before. When they arrived at their ransacked labs they would be confronted by an angry and demanding Vorc. Oh, reflected Jon as he watched the techs work, to be a fly on that wall.
What do you mean, Vorc would rage, you made ninety hetimers of material? I ordered you not to make that much.
What do you mean the temporary supervisor I sent told you it was okay? I ask his name and you say you don't know?
What do you mean the lab didn't look like this yesterday? It did. I was here all day waiting for you six morons to show up.
Wait, Jon smiled, he had all those bugs in the lab. He could watch, with beer and popcorn, the tawdry show over and over again. How divine.
TWENTY-EIGHT
A very depressed and confused Vorc had assembled what he unofficially called his war council. It was made up of the handful of friends he trusted and whose opinion he valued. As there had never been a war, when they got together it was generally to drink, carouse, and discuss politics. On this occasion Vorc needed help. His carefully structured and balance world was spiraling out of control. Clearly, as center seat, the remaining ancient gods, deprived of their chance to romp through Prime, would hold him accountable. Beal's Point was looking more and more to be his final resting place after untold numbers of Cleinoids did untold numbers of dastardly acts to his body.
“Vorc, are you there?” prodded Fesnial. “I'm the third person to address you, and so far all you do is stare at your desk and mumble to yourself. Are you all right?” Fesnial was a very old friend. He was also humanoid, so Vorc easily related to him. If ancient gods had attend
ed school, those two would have been old school chums.
“No, actually I'm not.”
“You asked us to come but you were lean on detail,” Morroracious observedas he extended his flexible body. Think Gumby only softer. And meaner, incredibly meaner. “Are we here to drink or is this about the broken vortex?”
“You can drink if you wish to, Mo,” replied Vorc. “Personally I'm not in the mood.”
“Then it is about the Dominion Splitter thing?” confirmed Listaflik, the only female member of the war council. Her gender was never an emotional issue for the fellows, however. She was about ten centimeters tall and bore an uncanny resemblance to a turd with little turd arms and slightly longer turd legs. Despite her size and configuration she was smart as a whip and could outdrink most other members. Go figure.
“Well yes, but there's unfortunately more. Much more, in fact, that is not common knowledge,” responded Vorc, still staring blankly at the center of his desk.
“You mean the attack on Beal's Point?” wondered Phillace. “I think that rat's out of the bag.”
“No, more worseness abounds,” grumbled Vorc softly.
“If we're playing twenty questions I will need a drink,” scoffed Phillace. “Get that odd helper of yours in here to take some orders.” Phillace was not such a good friend, but he was ruthless, cunning, and thought well outside most boxes. Those qualities made him a good asset in a crunch such as the one Vorc was in. Phillace was a god of mercy, ironically. In practice, the other gods of mercy dispensed the entirety of it. Phillace neither cared nor could be bothered.
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