Hoven Quest

by Michelle Levigne

  “Poor fellows.” He gestured out the window, at the street performers strolling past two levels below us. The view through the transparent walkways was clear at that moment, no passers-by or carts full of flowers or sweets rolling along the platforms. “I've heard rumors that jugglers and mimes are becoming old-hat. How will they make a living?"

  The performers were all men, young, perhaps in their second or third decades. They were working together as a group, but just like anything else at the Carnival, that could change in another lunar. They wore matching clothes, faces painted in the same designs but different colors. It took a moment of concentration to make out their individual features beyond the masking paint, but I liked the challenge, like trying to master the mazes in the park built on the roof of the Carnival.

  I thought my heart had stopped beating as the features of one of the taller jugglers suddenly became clear to me. Behind the bluish-black stripes and stars, I saw a face that was as familiar to me as my own. But one that I thought did not exist.

  It was at times like these that I truly believed I had inherited the visionary gift of the Fyx women. As if my dreams weren't a product of my imagination, but a way that my subconscious reached out to the world and gathered up information that could be used to help our people. As if, through my dreams, I communicated with the minds and hearts of other Hoveni lost across the world, maybe across the universe.

  A frown touched Uncle Max's face as he reacted to the tension running through my body and looked up. I pointed at the juggler who caught my attention, just as the young man took a bow. One of his companions passed around a little tambourine, and a passer-by or two dropped in the coin tokens used for sweets and games and entertainments at the Carnival. Uncle studied the man as he straightened up, his movements flopping his hair out of his face for a moment.

  “What about him?"

  “That's Meruk.” I tried to keep my voice down, feeling like I screeched at him. “That's almost exactly how I pictured him when I first started writing him. Not a juggler, particularly, but that's the kind of job Meruk would take."

  “Yes...” A slow smile lit his face as he turned back to study the young man a little more intensely. Uncle checked the chronometer in his tool wristband, and his smile grew a little wider. “The shift is almost over. They'll be going to the administration office to change their coins for credits in a little while. We can catch up with him then."

  “Catch up?” A jolt ran through me when I realized what he intended. I wished I had thought of it first. “He's perfect for the part, physically. But can he act?"

  “That's what I intend to find out. Most street performers I interview are hopeful actors, waiting for their big break, living hand-to-mouth until that time comes."

  “For most of them, it doesn't,” I murmured.

  Uncle nodded. We both sat still, watching the juggler until his little troupe passed out of our sight around a corner, with a fruit pretzel cart rolling in between us to block our view.

  “Only one problem that I can foresee,” he said, as he stood up and gestured for the waiter. “If he doesn't have a preliminary contract with the Network, we might not be able to hire him. At least, not right away.” His tight little smile let me know such a consideration would not stand in his way for long.

  Uncle operated in business, Network as well as Hovenu, as he did in everything else—unless he chose to tell people what he intended, he made sure no one could guess. We strolled down through the next two levels, looking in windows of shops, watching a group of tourists from Gadara continent shiver in the lower, moister temperatures we enjoyed on Romblu. I was used to Uncle's detours, and knew that his timing was always perfect, but I still chafed at the delays. I wanted desperately to see what the juggler looked like without his makeup. No one could look that perfectly like Meruk, could he?

  We didn't buy anything when we stepped into an import book store—real books, printed on paper and bound, with illustrated covers, as opposed to chips and downloads with optional holographic illustrations. Uncle always made it a habit to buy at least one printed book whenever he found a store that specialized in such archaic things. The fact that he only glanced around, picked up one book, put it down again without even looking at the title, and then left, showed me just how intent he was on the hunt, despite appearances to the contrary.

  The whole time we walked, I kept the performers in sight. Exactly at the hour, they emptied their tambourines, put away their scarves and bottles, knives and balls, and started toward the lift tube at that corner of the walkway, to head to the administration office. There were many rules and regulations for the performers and other people who didn't work at one particular location in the Carnival. The first was that they took payment in Carnival-imprinted token coins, never accepting credit transfer from someone's account to their own. The second was that halfway through their shifts, and at the end of every shift, they had to deposit their take. That helped the Carnival administration keep track of the people working there. And when the tokens were deposited, naturally the Carnival took their share, as well as the portion of tax money the government received. Records were kept, everything aboveboard, but the charm of itinerant performers that the patrons of the Carnival saw was only a facade.

  The troupe was just coming out of the administration office as we stepped out of the lift tube in the office level. I felt a moment of panic, not seeing my Meruk look-alike, until he stepped out from behind one of his companions. Most of his makeup was gone, and he talked and laughed with the others as he finished wiping it off with a blue-stained cloth. Uncle stopped short, really studying him now. The hunter had found and targeted his quarry.

  As for me, I stood and stared, and even though I suspected I probably looked silly, I didn't care. He was gorgeous, and Meruk in almost every detail. This juggler's eyes were more a greenish blue than the gray-green-blue of Meruk. His hair was more wavy than the thick curls I had given Meruk. But otherwise, I could not ask for a better match. His features were a little more chiseled than I cared for, but that was likely from the near-poverty-level existence street performers led. If he got the job as Meruk, he would start eating regular meals—and likely sleeping better, too—and that problem would vanish. He had the wide shoulders necessary for Meruk's strength, the grace of movement that spoke of life-saving agility. I knew he couldn't move with the speed of a true Hoven, but that aspect could always be handled with special effects. He looked perhaps ten kilos heavier than a Hoven his age would be, but only a hairsplitter would quibble over a detail like that. After all, Hoveni did not, officially, exist in the present age, so how could we find an actor who fit all the physical requirements?

  “Kendle, you're starting to drool,” Uncle said, nudging me with his elbow.

  “I am not,” I snapped, just barely managing to keep my voice down. Then I heard the laughter in his voice.

  “Come on, let's meet our star.” He stepped toward the group of performers, just as they started to disband. “Excuse me, could I have a moment of your time?” he said, approaching our young man. I stayed a few steps behind, making it clear I was Uncle Max's companion, but not exactly hanging onto his arm.

  “Something I can help you with?” The juggler turned around, giving me my first close-up look at his face. He was definitely perfect for Meruk, including his voice.

  For the first time, I was glad Hovenu maturing cycles were slower than ordinary Humans. At that precise moment, anyone else's hormones would have been pumping out at hyper speed. I knew enough to realize how handsome, how sexually attractive this man was, but my body wasn't up to that kind of reaction yet. Fortunately. The shock of seeing my private dream becoming flesh and blood was bad enough, without having my body betray me.

  “My name is Amaxus Fyx,” Uncle said, holding out his hand to shake. “And yours?"

  “Right ... Keerilaw's Folly was your latest show. I watched it three times.” He smiled, perfectly relaxed, and shook Uncle's hand. A chuckle escaped him. “Sorry. M
y name's Kel Brent."

  “You're up on the networks, then. Good. Would you mind telling me if you have a preliminary contract with FAN?"

  “FAN? I wish.” Kel shook his head. “I'll have enough experience credits to apply in another lunar.” His smile suddenly faded into that shocked, comprehending look I had seen too many times in comedy-adventure programs. “Is this what I think it is?"

  “Unfortunately, our timing is not the best.” Uncle let his disappointment show. “We're starting development for a new series on FAN, and when my niece and I saw you—” He gestured back toward me. Kel looked up and gave me an awkward smile. “You're the image of one of the characters, and we were hoping you were available to audition."

  “Story of my life.” He shrugged. There had been a tiny break in his voice, and I wondered how much disappointment he was covering at that moment. He was a very good actor, either way. “Well, if you haven't found anyone by the end of the lunar..."

  “Come to me as soon as you get that contract. I'll leave an open pass in your name at headquarters."

  Uncle shook his hand again, and suddenly it was over. Kel hurried off to join his friends and probably share the news, and we went back upstairs to the creamery, just as we had planned before seeing Kel.

  * * * *

  I had to sit in on a multitude of meetings. Normally, I would have been fascinated with the whole process. I was, until the people around me started speaking a language I only partially understood. After one day of feeling like an imbecile and dreading the moment someone directed a question at me, I borrowed some of Uncle's technical manuals and studied all night long. I had to be part of the production process, to understand everything that happened with the program. It was necessary for our mission, so there would be no problems, no misunderstanding, using the program as a cover for contacting and rescuing Hoveni.

  We chose the name for the series after only two lunar-quarters of discussion. Hoven Quest. The title was simple enough that no one would misunderstand the intention of the series, broad enough that if the series continued past the trial alpha season into beta, the heaviest time of the year for ratings, we could add characters to our hearts’ content.

  Uncle assembled the production crew with the same care and consideration he gave to some perilous search-and-contact missions in other star systems, including the one pulled off under the nose of some pretty disgusting characters on a planet that belonged to the Conclave. He had total control over the choice of technicians, makeup and special effects people, because he had that good a track record. The construction of a special effects team that was equal to the staff of the rest of the production team surprised very few people. FAN had a reputation to keep up, after all, and refused to accept the computer-generated special effects that most of the other networks relied on. Any competent hacker could pull apart the standard effects that other networks used, with just a few minutes of work. FAN executives—and their loyal audience—demanded effects that looked totally real, under the tightest, closest scrutiny.

  We knew we would have trouble with the transformation sequences, whenever Meruk would become some animal or change his appearance. Not in devising the actual process—that was the easy part for us, since we knew exactly how it was done, from the inside—but in keeping it believable, simple, and yet arresting to the public who did not understand Hovenu history and traditions. And we knew there were too many people who belonged in that last category.

  Some of the people on the production board who were not part of Uncle's inner circle wanted to make the transformation special effects all flash and brilliance, something that in reality would attract the attention of the Set'ri or their counterparts for fifty kilometers around. We had a hard time talking them out of that idea. Pointing out the cost for each transformation helped. We ended with a script rule that Meruk would only transform a maximum of three times per episode, and I had to write in a silly, totally false piece of history, saying the transformation took up too much energy to be used more often than that within a twenty-eight hour day period.

  That last was ridiculous. Transformation relied on taking energy from the air and matter around a Hoven to compress or expand and change the structure of the present bodily form. Personal energy was only wasted when a Hoven was injured or in emotional stress. Unfortunately, when arguing the logistics, I couldn't exactly tell that detail to anyone who didn't already know from experience. There was nothing in publicly recorded Hoven history or the hints of culture that had been found to base that statement on. I would be challenged, and I could produce no proof. No proof other than transforming in front of a hostile audience.

  When we finally had the big details ironed out, we split up and began to work on our specific areas of responsibility. The effects, makeup and costume people were all part of the inner circle. No trouble there. All but one of Uncle's assistants were Hoveni. His name was Thaddeus Bayne, but Uncle trusted him. He also had a reputation for being so intensely involved in his work that he never saw anything else. A Hoven could transform right in front of him, and unless that transformation interrupted or interfered with Bayne's paperwork, he would never notice.

  I had trouble waiting for me, however. Only one member of the preliminary writing staff was Hoven. Jezra Glynndorf. And she was the data entry and proof person. After everyone else had contributed to the script, in story conferences, writing scenes, putting together the script, she would enter it in proper format into the Network computer and check everything for glitches in grammar, syntax, believability, and continuity. She would be of little help to me in story production before that point. After the three-hour launch episode, Uncle could bring in staff writers who were either Hoveni or at least friendly toward the concept. That did us little good there at the beginning, however.

  My problem would be dealing with people who knew next to nothing about Hoveni. Some of them didn't even know what Hoveni were, beyond childhood stories, until they sat in on the first production conference. I had to teach them, train them, get past their prejudices, conscious and unconscious, and indoctrinate them into what was possible and impossible.

  And, if they weren't malleable, or I suspected they might become a danger, I had to tell Uncle, so the problem could be eliminated. Someone else had the job of persuading the troublesome worker to quit the project, or Uncle had to find a legitimate excuse for transferring that person out of the team. And it had to be done without any suspicion or blame falling on me. This project was too important, for history, for our race, to let any hint of trouble get further than that.

  * * * *

  “Any questions?” I felt like an actress in a very bad drama, tending toward farce, about executives and people who rose to important positions without any training or talent. Emphasis on training. Uncle said I had the talent.

  I looked around the room at my writing staff. There were hints of resentment, maybe even rebellion in some eyes. After all, I was a nobody. My only claim to the position I held—over people with actual experience and training—was the freshness of the germinal idea and being Amaxus Fyx's niece. Only the people a few years older than me felt comfortable as my subordinates. Some of the more experienced staff had threatened to quit when they learned who would be their superior. Uncle confided to me that he wished they had followed through on their threats. These were the people I had to be careful of during the first few lunar-quarters of pre-production. After that, if they quit, all the better. My reputation and working conditions would be ensured by then. I simply had to weather the storms of the first two or three drafts of the script.

  Easy. Ha.

  “Wouldn't it be better, simpler, for Meruk to transform in a blinding blaze of light?” Burke Eversole barely raised his hand for attention before he started to speak. “That way, we wouldn't have to worry about special effects of any kind. Just overload the cameras for a moment or two, and then slip in the animal to take his place."

  “If you'll refer to section Four-A in the bio-historical report, you
'll see that would be impossible.” I opened my copy of the report that everyone in the team now possessed.

  Uncle had the reports printed so no one would need to refer to the full, double-sized report in the computer files. The report that had my name and four pages of recommendations and commendations from top historians and anthropologists as a prologue. That would be a little too much for my prospective enemies and associates to swallow at the very beginning. This anonymous, much smaller version, was supposed to make things easier for everyone.

  “As you can see,” I continued, when everyone had turned to that particular section, “the biologists all agree that the transformation of a Hoven was something closely akin to that of chameleons, both plant and animal varieties, on more then fifteen planets in this quadrant of the galaxy. It would be rather useless for those plants and animals to change coloring or configuration, if they attracted attention in the process. Sort of negating the usefulness of the change."

  I smiled and shrugged, trying to make it into a joke and soften whatever rebuke he might have seen in the statement. I intended none, but Uncle had warned me that these people were overly touchy at the beginning of a working relationship.

  “Most of the scientific report is speculation and hearsay,” Chiara Tesden observed, raising her eyes from the report with a lazy, slow movement. She was one of the troublemakers, from her flame-red hair to her painted toenails showing through her transparent boots. “I'm having a hard time understanding why we should go by this report at all."