A Swift Kick in the Asteroids

by Edward Zajac

  Fletcher clapped his hands together, rousing Zagarat from his inner admonishments. “All right. Let’s get going. I still want to hit a few places before we meet with Bent.”

  Zag pocketed a few necessities and then equipped his PCD. “But why do I have to go?” he said, in what he hoped didn’t sound like a whine, but very much did sound like a whine.

  “Because you’re the brains of this operation,” said Fletcher, hustling Zag towards the door. “If you’re not there, spewing all of that technical mumbo jumbo, Bent might get suspicious. And we definitely don’t want that. Now, come on. Let’s go.”

  “But I still have hours of recompiling left ahead of me.”

  “Eh, you’re exaggerating,” said Fletcher, securing the door behind them. “It’ll probably take you two, maybe three minutes at most.”

  Zagarat’s mouth formed a perfect “O”. Once the shock of Fletcher’s ridiculous statement wore off, Zag managed to sputter, “Are you… are you serious? Do you have any idea how much work I have ahead of me? I have to recompile millions of layers before I can even begin to sort through the little information I was able to gather from under Leevee’s nose.”

  There was a DING as the maglift arrived. “Well, why didn’t you just copy the whole database while you were in there?” said Fletcher, walking inside. “Ground floor please.”

  “Why…we…wha…” Zagarat stammered, following him onto the maglift. “You can’t just… How do you think it works? Do you think I can just mirror their database onto a datacrystal like it’s a vid file or something?”

  Fletcher glanced over at Zag, his face scrunched up tight. “No?” he ventured.

  “Grant the man another level,” said Zagarat. “I had to snapshot the tiniest datalayers over and over again or Leevee would have noticed. There are millions of them and I still might not have found the information you want. It’ll take me hours, maybe days to recompile it all.”

  The vanilla-like scent of Ella Lilies filled the air as the magdoors opened unto the luxurious lobby of the Renalta Regency Hotel. Emerald granate tiles lined the floor, walls, and ceiling, illustrious streaks of Quoren gold grout separating each square like veins of gold in a granate quarry. Enormous bloodstone pillars reached to the fifty-foot high ceiling above, as if holding the hotel aloft with its massive stony hands.

  But the hotel’s extravagant splendor was currently lost on Zagarat. He was too busy sightseeing in his favorite vacation spot known as ZagLand, where nothing was ever easy and no issue, no matter how insignificant, was ever too small to ride the anxiety rollercoaster.

  “Is that all you’re worried about?” said Fletcher, marching directly towards the hotel’s entrance. Or exit in this case. “Aurora can take care of that in no time at all. She’s great at that kind of stuff.” He stiffened. “The ship, I mean. The ship is great at that.”

  Fletcher smiled at the concierge then continued on without breaking stride.

  Zagarat quickened his step in order to keep up with Fletcher. And it wasn’t easy. Fletcher was walking at what the Universal Universal Dictionary defined as a Nurse’s Pace–a newly discovered gait somewhere between a stroll and a lope. A strope if you will where even though the walker seems to be ambulating casually, he, she, or other somehow advances as if sprinting towards his, her, or other’s destination. Anyone who has ever walked behind a nurse in a hospital will be quite familiar with this pace.

  “Even so,” said Zagarat, following Fletcher outside. “It’ll still take some time.” He gave Fletcher’s shirt a quick tug. “And could you please slow down a little bit? My legs are killing me.” He glanced down at his leg. “I wonder if it’s a blood clot or something.”

  Fletcher whipped around suddenly. “Why do you always do that? Why do you always think the worst of every situation?”

  Zagarat considered the question and then answered sincerely, “Experience.”

  “Well, no more. From now on, you’re going to be Mr. Chipper. Mr. Always Looks on the Bright Side. Now, repeat after me. Everything will work out just fine for us.”

  “But I don’t know that everything will work out just…”

  Fletcher grabbed Zag by the shoulders. “Repeat after me,” he said, annunciating each word carefully. “Everything will work out just fine for us.”

  Zagarat was instantly drawn to those lovely blue eyes. They were so calming, so mesmeric. “Everything will work out just fine for us,” he repeated dreamily, before amending Fletcher’s statement with the word, “probably.”

  “No,” said Fletcher, tightening his grip. “Not probably. Definitely.”

  “Okay,” said Zagarat. “Everything will definitely work out just fine for us.” He paused, his gaze drifting down to the floor. “Unless…”

  “No,” said Fletcher, shaking Zag until their eyes met. “No unlesses. No buts. No althoughs. None of that. Everything will work out just fine for us. Now, I want you to repeat that mantra over and over again until you start believing it.”

  Zagarat’s brow furrowed once more. In fact, his brow had furrowed so many times these last few days that it was somewhat surprising that a six-pack of muscle hadn’t formed in the middle of his forehead. “You mean you want me to say that out loud?” said Zag. “Because I’ll look like an idiot, sitting there in the restaurant, saying ‘Everything will work out just fine’ to myself.”

  “No, I just…”

  “Or do you want me to just think that for the next hour? Because if that’s the case, I can do that in the hotel room. Stars, I’ll do it for the next five hours if it means I don’t have to go to the restaurant with you.”

  “That’s not what I meant…”

  “Or if you want…”

  Fletcher grabbed him by the arms, shaking him. “Would you stop listening to me and just listen to me? Now, repeat after me. Everything will work out just fine for us.”

  “Everything will work out just fine for us,” Zag repeated, this time without amendments.

  “Good. Keep thinking that while I’m gone.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Zagarat.

  “I just need to get a few things from the store. I’ll be right back.”

  Fletcher disappeared inside a nearby store, leaving Zagarat alone with his thoughts, which was always a dangerous thing. Zag didn’t so much suffer from Attention Deficit Disorder as Attention Surplus Disorder, where he would consider a subject from every possible angle until all the horrible permutations drove him mad. His school psychiatrist had once called him “a sentient who could not discern the asteroid from the asteroid field.”

  But strangely enough, this time the permutations did not result in Zag fleeing for his life or quavering in place. In fact, he experienced a strange new sensation. It was the opposite of anxiety or abject fear. It was almost something like… hope?

  Zagarat’s eyes drifted to the stars above. Maybe Fletcher was right. They were just going to have dinner with Bent. A free dinner, which was always a bonus. What could possibly go wrong there? And after that, it was back to his mother and back to his normal life.

  A life where Zag would be 100,000 credits closer to repaying the money stole. He had every intention of asking for a larger bonus when this was all said and done. That was one of the things he had learned from his many years with the Deus Syndicate. No price was ever set in deusteel. There were always unexpected fees that had to be accounted for, even if they were unexpected fees fabricated by the accounting department. They were billable fees nonetheless.

  Maybe, just maybe everything will work out just fine for once. That could happen, right?

  Absolutely, said the angel on his shoulder. I’msure everything will work out just fine.

  Zagarat then glanced at the devil on his other shoulder, who for some strange reason was now dressed like Prince Beeflet in Oosa Olla’s play, Sarcasm Doesn’t Become You. But before the devil could recite the famous graveyard speech where the young prince opines on the notion of optimism by saying, “What are you, an idiot?
” Fletcher returned.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, tucking something inside his pocket. “It took a little while to find what I needed.” He held out a miniscule box. “Mintzay?”

  Zagarat stared at the box. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “No,” said Fletcher. “I’m just trying to be nice. Do you want one or not?”

  “Yes, please,” said Zagarat, taking a proffered candy. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Fletcher, clicking the box shut. “Suns, you can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.”

  Zagarat scoffed. “Says the hemorrhoid,” he retorted under his breath.

  A wide grin crossed Fletcher’s face. “That’s more like it. You gotta be more of a wise-ass, like me.”

  “I’m not a wise-ass,” said Zagarat, raising his head proudly. “I’m a smart-ass.”

  “What’s the difference?” said Fletcher.

  Zagarat clasped his hands together, piously. “You see, one may be born a smart-ass. But only through age and experience can one become wise of ass. It’s a well-known fact.”

  Fletcher chuckled. “Good point.” He paused, eyeing Zag critically. “You know, in a lot of ways, you’re a lot like your mother.”

  Many male sentients might have been embarrassed or enraged by the comparison. But not Zagarat. He knew how utterly amazing his mother was. She had worked three different jobs in order to feed, house, and clothe him, and never once complained the entire time. In fact, all she did was smile and laugh through it all. It was one of the reasons Zag wanted to help her now. Because she deserved a good, long life. She deserved happiness. In many respects, she deserved a better son than him. But since there was nothing Zagarat could do about that, he could at least help her live a good while longer until he could become the son she deserved.

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” said Zag. “Thanks.”

  “Well, you are,” said Fletcher. They paused at the intersection of Xayo and Zeyo. “And you kind of look like her, too.” Zagarat’s eyes narrowed. “What? It was a compliment. Your mother is very attractive. In fact, if she was ten years younger, I wouldn’t mind…”

  Zagarat grabbed Fletcher’s arm, whipping him around. “Hey, hey, hey. Don’t make me kick your asteroids.” Fletcher made an incredulous face. “Okay. Yes, you’d probably kick my asteroids in a fight, but don’t think I won’t take something out. You hear me?”

  Fletcher held up his hands, chuckling. “Loud and clear.”

  “Good,” said Zagarat, his ire somewhat betrayed by the smile on his face. “Because I’d hate to ruin your shirt by bleeding all over it.”

  “And they say sentient courtesy is dead,” Fletcher quipped. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat.”

  ebulae was a Neutron Star rated restaurant two blocks away from the Deus building. The restaurant had an air of casual sophistication about it, as if it existed for those sentients who spent thousands of credits in order to look absolutely ordinary. The decorators maintained the nebula motif throughout the restaurant, from the star-shaped chandeliers to the streaks of iridescent cosmic lights on the walls and on the ceiling. The most stunning piece in the entire restaurant was the vivid mural of the Ondooey Nebula overhead—an emission nebula, streaked with what seemed like every color in the visible spectrum.

  Zagarat had never been in a Neutron Star rated restaurant before. It was somewhat intimidating. It nearly felt like the restaurant itself was judging him and ruling him unfit for such sophistication. The place was immaculate. The people were gorgeous. And food was…

  “Are you sunning kidding me!” exclaimed Zagarat. “Forty credits for sunning noodles?”

  A nearby couple actually gasped at his impropriety.

  “Sorry about that,” said Fletcher to the couple. “My friend here suffers from Meret’s Syndrome. (Meret Syndrome was an unfortunate malady that caused sentients to tell the truth, no matter the situation. An affliction that had derailed many a would-be politician’s career.) It won’t happen again.” He leaned in towards Zag. “Would you stop it?”

  “Forty credits for sunning noodles?” Zag repeated, this time softer. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Relax,” said Fletcher. “Deus is paying for it.”

  “Still. Forty cred…” Zagarat paused when a waiter approached the table. An actual, sentient waiter, which amazed Zag. He never saw sentient waiters in restaurants. At least, not in the kinds of restaurants Zagarat frequented. In those restaurants, he rarely interacted with any sentients at all, save for the guests around the table. But here was a proper waiter, dressed in an elegant white suit that gleamed like the stars above.

  “Greetings,” said the waiter. “My name is Wooderick. I will be your waiter this evening. May I get you gentlemen some beverages while you wait for your guest?”

  “I’ll have filtered water, please,” said Zagarat. “Thank you.”

  Wooderick’s face darkened, as if he was already tallying his gratuity and finding the total utterly abysmal.

  “Actually,” Fletcher amended. “My friend here will have a Dorian Cold Cocoa Martini and I’ll have a Bylarian Sunrise. No ice. Thank you.”

  The waiter’s face immediately brightened. “Right away, sir.” With a bow, he left.

  “What are you doing?” whispered Zagarat, leaning forward in his chair. “That martini goes for thirty credits. Deus will never pay for that.”

  “Yeah, they will.”

  “No, they won’t. Trust me, I know. They refused to reimburse my travel expenses once because I ordered a Dorian Cocoa instead of water at a convention on Somnia. They’re stingy as hell when it comes to the all-mighty credit.”

  “Well, they’ll reimburse me,” said Fletcher. “So order anything you want. Just don’t go Collate. (This referred to the Collate Company who spent well beyond their means in the belief that local governments and their fellow mega-corps would swoop in and save them should anything go awry for they were simply too massive and too important to fail. They were wrong.)

  “You’re sure about this?” asked Zagarat. Fletcher nodded. “All right then. But if they stick you with the bill, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Zagarat brought up the menu on the plastiglass interface. The Quolian duck looked interesting. It was a pan-roasted breast with an orsen berry reduction, whatever the suns that was. But it came with a side of homemade sweet Horato fries, and Zagarat loved those. Or he could go for the Bylarian scallops, roasted a scoomp a scoomp aloo.

  He looked the phrase up on his PCD. Evidently, it was just a fancy way of saying, “in butter.”

  Or maybe the Rellay steak. That looked good, too.

  In fact, everything looked good.

  “I have no idea what to get,” said Zagarat.

  “I’d recommend the Rellay steak,” said Fletcher. “Even though you’ve been inoculated from most major germs and pathogens, it wouldn’t hurt to play it safe.”

  “That makes sense,” Zagarat began to say when a thought occurred to him. “Wait. How do you know I received all my inoculations?”

  “Hmm?” said Fletcher, puckering his lips as he blinked innocently at Zag.

  “How did you know I received all those inoculations?”

  Fletcher blew out a puff of air as he considered the question. “Give me a second. I’ll come up with something.” He then began bouncing lightly in his chair. “Ooh. Ooh. I know. You just said you went to Somnia for a convention. That’s why. That’s why.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Zagarat, less than convinced. “How much do you actually know about me?”

  “Um…” said Fletcher, holding the note as if checking the pitch of his voice. It was somewhere around an F sharp. He blew out another puff of air. “You know, your name. Your date of birth. Your mother’s name. The usual.”

  “Uh-huh,” Zagarat repeated, still unconvinced. “Word of advice. Never play Corporation. They’d see you bluffing a light-year awa
y.”

  Fletcher laughed as he scrolled through his menu options. “Good to know.”

  Wooderick suddenly appeared beside the table as if he had warped through a wave gate. “Your drinks, gentlemen,” he said, dexterously slipping two nearly full glasses onto the table without spilling a single drop. Stars, the drinks didn’t even shift as he moved. It was pretty impressive, at least to Zag. “May I get you gentlemen some appetizers while you wait?”

  “Yeah,” said Fletcher. “We’d like an order of the duck liver and the raw meat.”

  “You mean, the foie de guasey and the Tessesee oon au pot?”

  “Uh, yeah,” said Fletcher. “Those. Thanks.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Wooderick, never once wincing at Fletcher’s churlish manner.

  “I like him,” said Fletcher. “He’s nice.”

  Zagarat kept his opinion to himself and took a sip of his cocktail. The drink was absolutely amazing. It was sumptuous and decadent, replete with chocolaty goodness. There was a hint of alcohol, but only the slightest, and a spicy finish that was oh so good.

  It took all of Zag’s strength not to guzzle it all in one, glorious swig.

  Fletcher’s Bylarian Sunrise was a bright orange drink with a billowy white foam floating atop it. An homage to the resplendent sunrises on Bylar Prime. Unfortunately, Zag didn’t have much time to admire the ersatz sunrise as Fletcher drank it all in one fell gulp.

  “There’s still something I don’t understand,” said Zagarat, placing his drink on the table.

  “Oh, you mean what you saw in the hotel room?” said Fletcher. “That’s perfectly normal. You see, in some cultures they like to cut off the foreskin while in others they really don’t care. It all comes down to personal preference.”

  “What?” said Zagarat, confused. “No, no. That’s not it. I was just wondering why we’re meeting with Bent again. I still don’t understand that.”

  “Oh,” said Fletcher, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “That’s easy. It gives me an opportunity to get some information out of him.”

  “Do you really think he’s going to tell you anything?”