by Edward Zajac
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© 2015 Edward Zajac
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ISBN 978-1-62007-966-9 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-62007-967-6 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-62007-968-3 (hardcover)
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The great philosopher Janheff Onnor once wrote in his definitive work, IF GOD IS INFALLIBLE, HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN MY IN-LAWS?, that all (insert your species here) in the known universe need passion in their lives to make life worth living. Otherwise, (insert your species here) are nothing more than congealed globs of primordial goop, leeching on the nutrients of the universe. But passion transcends (insert your species here) into something numinous, worthy of the celestial stardust from whence (insert your species here) came.
And it didn’t matter what that passion was as long as it made you feel alive. For some, it may be discovering the origins of the universe. For others, it may be finding glory in every piece of putative art. For the TSOMWSD (The Sisterhood of Mothers with Spinster Daughters), it was finding love despite all odds. After all, you’re not exactly getting any younger, dear, and no one likes buying wrinkly fruit with unsightly spots, now do they? So, why don’t you go get dressed and give this one a try? Unless, of course, you want to break an old woman’s heart. An old woman who sacrificed everything for her darling little girl. An old woman who gave birth to you, nursed you, raised you, and most of all loved you more than any other mother could possibly love… That’s my girl.
And Janheff Onnor was no different. His passion was to sell as many books as he possibly could in order to avoid a life of manual labor, which explained his subsequent books, ARE YOU TOO PASSIONATE?, ARE YOU PASSIONATE ENOUGH?, and AN ACT OF PASSION IS NOT A LEGAL DEFENSE IN THE COURT OF LAW.
–- An excerpt from the Nexupedia, keywords Philosophy, Passion, and Indemnity Clauses.
agarat Cole sat in his cubicle, cupping a mug of Dorian Cocoa in his trembling hands. Although Zag did not subscribe to Onnor’s philosophy, he did have his own passions in life. He loved vid games, the music of Ohan Metzler Gunt, as well as all things technological. But most of all, he loved Dorian Cocoa. He loved everything about it. The sweet smell of chocolate as it melted in the Solian milk. The explosion of flavor when the sumptuous mixture touched his tongue. The warm sensation that trembled down his spine as he swallowed that first glorious sip. For Zag, it was heaven in a glass. Or porcelain mug as the case may be.
And Zagarat definitely needed a mug of that heavenly libation right about now.
First of all, it had been about four hours since his last cup of Dorian Cocoa and Zag was going through what he liked to call “Dorian Cocoa Withdrawal.” This was a general feeling of ennui that could only be alleviated by drinking even more Dorian Cocoa, now with twice the chocolaty goodness.
But more importantly, he was about to do something absolutely insane, idiotic, and any synonym of the word suicidal.
He was about to steal 432,985 credits from the Deus Syndicate.
The words warbled through his mind like the chorus in a brand new musical entitled, ZAGARAT COLE: AN IDIOT’S TALE. I’m about to steal 432,985 credits from the Deus Syndicate. I’m about to steal 432,985 credits from the Deus Syndicate.
Then he added a refrain to the chorus: I am so screwed. I am so screwed.
The Dorian Cocoa sloshed back and forth as if trying to escape its porcelain confines. Zag closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the heady redolence of chocolate filling his senses.
“You can do this,” he repeated to himself. “You can do this. You can do this.”
Zagarat then shook his head. “No, I can’t. I can’t do this.” He rested his forehead on the rim of the mug, swaying back and forth as if intoning a prayer to the Dorian Cocoa god, Cocoalot. “What do I do? What do I do?”
As if in response to Zag’s supplication, a metaphysical angel appeared on his right shoulder, bathed in celestial white light. On his other shoulder, a whorl of smoke swirled then dissipated, revealing a tiny red devil dressed in an impeccable black Castani suit.
That was one of the problems with having a vivid imagination. Whenever Zagarat was nervous, which was more often than he liked to admit, his super-ego and sans-ego would make cameo appearances in his mind, giving form to his abstract thoughts.
Now, Zagarat, said the angel. If you don’t do this, your mother will surely die. And we can’t let that happen, now can we?
Zagarat mentally glanced at the devil, who merely shrugged. Hey, don’t look at me. I’m on your side. I think this is stupid, too.
Don’t listen to him, said the angel, cupping his hands together. What he thinks doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting the funds for your mother’s treatments.
Oh, but you matter a whole bunch, Zag, said the caviling devil. If you do this, they’re going to catch you and throw you in prison. And how do you think you’re going to do in prison?
“Shut up,” said Zagarat, aloud.
And that’s if you’re lucky, continued the devil. Do you remember what happened to Huber Wess? May God have mercy on his soul. And his legs. And his arms. And whatever other body parts archaeologists may unearth one day in an unmarked, shallow grave.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up.”
Just think of your darling mother, said the angel, and you will know what to do.
The memory of his mother’s glorious face brought the world back into focus. Zag took a sip of his cocoa, girding his resolve as he girdled his nerves, then placed the mug back onto the desk. After taking a deep breath, he furtively poked his head above his five-foot high cubicle, scanning the room from end to end. When he was certain that no one was paying him any mind, he sat back down, jacked directly into the network, and sent the prog that would reappropriate credits to the I Don’t Want My Mother to Die Fund. Tax exempt status pending.
He immediately jacked back out, shutting his eyes to the universe.
Nearly five minutes passed before Zag opened his eyes again. First, he tentatively opened his left eye, scanning the area around him for anything strange or unusual. He then closed his left eye and opened his right eye, as if cross-examining the lying emerald bastard on the left. Finally, he opened both eyes and slowly pushed himself to his feet.
He looked about the room. Most of his colleagues were sitting in their cubicles, trying to look as though they were diligently working. Kah’la-an, as usual, was hovering about the water cooler, looking for an ear to bend. At least, that’s what it felt like when he started talking about whatever amazing new thing he read or saw on the nexus. On most workdays, Kah’la-an spent a third of his day at the cooler, a third of his day at his console, and the other third walking in between the two.
Everything was absolutely normal. There were no alarms blaring. No well-armed guards looking for someone matching Zag’s description. No seedy executive who wanted “a word.”
Nothing.
Zagarat plopped back down into his chair. His eyes grew wide as the realization slowly dawned on him. In fact, the realization took so long that it seemed to dusk on him.
He’d done it. He’d succ
essfully sent his worm into the accounts receivable database without triggering a single alarm. Now, he just had to wait for his program to transfer the credits from accounts receivable to accounts payable. Then, after adroitly tiptoeing past the firewalls, which Zagarat had coincidentally helped install last fiscal quarter, it would deposit the credits in a dummy account in the Helpin Bank (Helpin you launder money since 2865). And once the money was all there, it would be remitted to the Ferali Medical Institute right about…
BING.
Zagarat flipped open his PCD, personal computing device, and read his newest message. But since he was happy with the size of his member and had no need for an “all-natural cream that is sure to please the ladies”, he moved onto the next message. Then the next. Then the next.
What the hell, thought Zagarat as he scrolled through his inbox. This new prog was supposed to block all these UTs (Unwanted Texts).
Finally, he found the pertinent message. Payment received. Thank you for your patronage. Ferali Institute.
Zagarat activated another prog on his PCD, purging the message from his nebula drive. There was a reason the Deus Syndicate had hired him straight out of college. He then sat back in his chair, the corners of his mouth rising ever so slowly in something resembling a smile.
It worked. It actually worked. Up to this point, it had all been theoretical. The prog. The transfer of funds. The dummy account. All of it. But it actually worked.
Just then, a hand fell on his shoulder. “Hello, Zag.”
“Aaahhh!” exclaimed Zag, holding out his hands as if fending off an attack.
“Whoa,” said Meris from accounting. “Calm down there, Zag. It’s just me.”
“Sorry,” said Zagarat, placing his hand over his rising and falling chest. “Sorry. You just… you just surprised me there for a second.”
“Yeah,” said Meris, chuckling. “I kind of noticed that.” He grabbed Zag’s mug from his desk. “I think you’ve had enough of these for today.”
“Hey,” said Zagarat, taking the mug back. “I can stop anytime I want. Not like Ann in SR.”
The moment he uttered those words, Zag felt a bit of bile creep up his esophagus. That was the third time this week he had said something absolutely inane, bordering on idiotic. And just like last time, his coworker laughed at his stupid joke. A joke that wasn’t even in the same galaxy as the word funny. It was almost as if there was something about this place that slowly morphed employees into blathering idiots. Maybe it had something to do with that environmental consultant Deus had hired last fiscal quarter. She was a great proponent of Argo Hannon’s Theory of the Ideal Work Environment.
According to Hannon’s research, there were three essential things every office needed in order to focus an employee’s mind, thus fostering a prolific work environment. One: each room must have fluorescent lights that flickered at just the right frequency so as to lull the workers into a sense of complacent inevitability. Two: every cubicle should have five-foot high walls so as to isolate each employee, thereby focusing all of his, her, or other’s attention on his, her, or other’s work and work related issues. And three: each office should have at least one employee in the Sentient Resources department who was an absolute cretin. Who not only squashed any talk of politics, religion, race, or anything that could be construed as controversial, but made even the simplest request into an arduous task. This way all the employees could unite, without necessarily forming a union, against a common foe.
When all these conditions were met, said office should subsume a more desirable social meme where employees would say the most inane things and think them absolutely whimsical.
And every time, thought Zagarat, you died a little bit inside.
“So anyway,” continued Meris. “The accounting department is going down to the Seventh Sense for a few drinks. Why don’t you join us?”
“Nah,” said Zagarat, his body still trembling from the rush of adrenaline. “I think I’m gonna go home, maybe play some UUUU (Universal Union of Unaffiliated Universes).”
“Oh, come on,” said Meris. “You can play that during your vacation.”
“That’s okay,” said Zag, somewhat perplexed by Meris’s enthusiasm. The accounting department never invited him to their parties. “Thank you though.”
“Come on,” said Meris. “Everyone from accounting is gonna be there. It’ll be fun.”
“Not my kind of fun.”
“Come on,” Meris repeated. “We’re not gonna see you for like three weeks. Besides…” He turned Zag’s chair around. “Alaya’s gonna be there.”
There she was. Alaya, the goddess of the 85th floor.
According to Hannon’s theory, every office also needed at least one male employee and one female employee who were the apotheosis of beauty and perfection.
And this branch was no different.
On the male side, there was Trevin Hon (pronounced smug bastard) who literally made sentients blush whenever he smiled at them. On the female side, there was Alaya Benz—a beautiful Bylarian woman with crimson hair, a face that could not only launch a thousand ships but bring them back to port, and curves that could make a geometry teacher weep.
Her only fault, as far as Zag could tell, was she knew she was beautiful and used that knowledge to her advantage whenever possible. In the presence of high-level executives, she would invariably stand a bit more erect, which would only accentuate her already prominent bosom. Whenever she was around middle management, she would smile cordially, but keep her distance for the most part. And whenever she saw someone from the tech department, she would drop her head and avoid any eye contact which really wasn’t necessary because most of the techs were already doing the exact same thing.
But she could have at least smiled, if only once. It wasn’t like Zag was going to suddenly ask her to marry him. He knew his place in the universe. His choice of mates was limited to someone with very poor eyesight or someone who had just given up on life.
Or the perfect amalgam of the two.
“Well?” said Meris, waiting expectantly.
“What?” said Zagarat, turning. “Oh, no. That’s okay. I still have to pack all my stuff.”
“Oh, come on,” said Meris, as if that was the only compelling phrase in his repertoire. He waved. “Hey, Alaya. Come over here.” She smiled cordially to Holuwala, the regional assistant manager, and sauntered over. “Could you convince Zag to come to the club with us?”
“You’re not coming?” Alaya made a pouty face. “That makes me sad.”
Her gleaming beauty dimmed momentarily when she made that pouty face. “Thanks for the offer,” said Zagarat, “but I’m not really a nightclub kind of guy.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” Alaya placed her hand on his arm. “Please say you’ll come.”
Zagarat had always scoffed at the notion of an out-of-body experience. But that’s what he experienced at that moment. He looked down at her hand and heard someone who sounded a great deal like him utter the word, “Okay.”
“Great,” said Alaya, waving as she turned. “See ya there.”
She walked away, her hips bouncing from side to side as if striking an imperceptible drum in the hearts of men. And some women. It was entirely mesmeric. Artistry in its truest sense, worthy of an exhibit in the Museum of Very Fine Arts on Preylor V, which of course was better than the Museum of Fine Arts on Preylor IV because this one was very fine. Improvements were already being made to the museum on Preylor IV in order to make it the Museum of the Very Finest Arts so you can take your Very Fine Arts and shove it up your pretentious ass, Preylor V.
“Great,” said Meris. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Let me just log out.” Zagarat jacked into his terminal and officially ended his session for the day. He then disconnected his LRX cable from his internal router, quaffed the rest of his Dorian Cocoa, and stood, gesturing toward the door. “After you.”
As they left, the devil on his shoulder said, You’re pathetic, yo
u know that? All she had to do was touch your arm and you caved right in. It’s just like in high school when you did Pala Lamperre’s homework for a full semester just because she let you touch her left boob. Pathetic.
Then the angel added, You know he’s right.
Zag shook his head and followed Meris onto the maglift, all the while ruing the fact that he was Zagarat Cole.
agarat regretted his decision the minute he walked inside the Seventh Sense. This was a place for young and hip kidsters, or whatever the suns they called themselves these days. Not for miserable, awkward techs like him.
The nightclub smelled of alcohol, sweat, recrimination, and regret. The music roared at a decibel just below earsplitting, causing Zagarat’ s head to throb in syncopation with the bass. And the lights… ugh. They were constantly variegating rays of agonizingly bright light that swept across the dance floor as if searching for a lost dancer in a psychedelic new world.
How could anyone possibly like this? thought Zagarat. You couldn’t even hear yourself think over the bass and the music… He sighed. Suns, was he old. Evidently, 28 was the new 85.
Meris escorted Zag over to the VIP section where Alaya was holding court, surrounded by all of her colleagues, as well as a few enraptured strangers. Even the bouncer couldn’t take his eyes off of her, which probably explained why they were all sitting in the VIP section.
Zagarat sat down and was about to order himself a Dorian Cocoa (he could stop anytime he wanted to, he really could) when he noticed all the alcoholic beverages about the table. Meris was drinking a Bylarian Sunrise while Alaya was sipping an Armedian Virgin, which funny enough had four times the potency of a traditional Armedian Martini. A bartender on Aluna Station had concocted the drink when he noticed that it usually took about four Armedian Martinis before an Armedian Virgin became an Armedian Oh My God, What Have I Done.
Zag ordered a Loquacious Ale then picked at the appetizers on the table. Sarra, from accounts receivable, said something to him but Zag couldn’t hear anything over Ohan Metzler Gunt’s hit, “The Song That Has a Kicking Beat and Gets Sentients Out and About On the Dance Floor.” So, he nodded awkwardly as if he had heard everything then returned to his drink.
