The Twiller

by David Derrico

  The guard seemed impressed, nodding in agreement with Ian’s hastily-invented platform, and it waved him through the turnstile and into the library.

  Inside, vast bookshelves made of dark wood rose nearly to the ceiling, several stories above. As Ian got closer, he saw small, spider-shaped robots perched at regular intervals along each bookshelf. Their padded arms seemed perfectly suited to grab and retrieve books on the upper shelves; however, they gave Ian the creeps, and he resolved to only look at books within his reach.

  Once again, with the Twiller’s help, Ian found the history section and selected a large tome entitled “WMD for Dummies.” Ian opened the book and briefly skimmed the introduction, which explained that:

  The planet of Wosh Mington Deecee, customarily abbreviated WMD, was named after the first president of the colony, the war hero General Wosh Mington. Wosh Mington was much revered for numerous gallant exploits, the more well-known of which were when he skipped his credit chit across the Pot ‘o Mac River, when he used a plasma torch to cut down a tinklefruit tree in order to sell the wood to finance his first campaign, and his promise to “have the planet named after me,” which swept him into office.

  Ian yawned and skipped past chapters on the founding of WMD, its ancient history, something about variants in parallel universes (Ian had no idea what that had to do with anything), its revolutionary government system, and its civil war, settling in to focus on the more recent chapters, all of which discussed the political system on the planet.

  Ian paged past tables of thousands of elected posts and their election days, but in skimming, he did see a “Tip” in a gray box in the margin that told him the average term of office was about 10 days. It also mentioned that some contrarian scholars implied that such brief election cycles lent themselves to short-term thinking at the expense of the long-term good, and that, since your average campaign took several years of fund-raising, elected officials spent nearly all of their time campaigning, which left relatively little time for the actual “governing” part of running the government. However, the tip box helpfully pointed out that those mundane government functions were efficiently farmed out to private companies.

  Ian skipped ahead to a random page and started reading a footnote that caught his eye.

  This revered document, maintained at the WMD National Museum, serves as the basis for the entire WMD political and economic system. In it, our founding colonists set forth the four branches of our government and their respective powers. During the course of its restoration, for which the OmniSupreme Corporation won the contract at great expense, their expert document restorers uncovered several previously hidden clauses that shed new light on the original writers’ intentions. The most well-known of these clauses, titled “Article 3.5,” spelled out the powers of the fourth branch of government, corporations, including their power to administer and conduct elections, as they still do to this day. For more information on how OmniSupreme was awarded the first election management contract based on their astounding discovery, please see Chapter 39.

  Ian put the large book down and wandered over to the newspaper section in search of some more up-to-date information, and also possibly some comics. He picked up a thin electronic tablet and selected the first newspaper (the Daily Pontificator) from the touch-screen menu. It opened to the day’s headlines.

  Risk, Inc. and its CEO, Richie Pursestrings, received a favorable ruling from the Federal Bailout Board today when the Board’s chairman, for whom Risk, Inc. is a primary sponsor, broke the tie and voted to award 47 trillion bucks to the company in order to stave off bankruptcy after it wagered all of its investors’ assets on a long-shot in the Lytragian smickle-bird races. “The resulting economic calamity to taxpayers if we allowed Risk, Inc. to fail would have been … [Tap here to read more]

  Johnny Frumplewagon was elected today in a close race that pitted Frumplewagon against his former cellmate, Spotty McGraw. “I am proud to be elected as Chief Justice,” said Frumplewagon, donning his black robes of office, “and I promise harsh punishment for convicted criminals like Mr. McGraw.” Frumplewagon’s first official act was to pardon himself for all alleged crimes during his campaign and also for the numerous charges of … [Tap here to read more]

  In sports news, the UltraDyne Capitalists won the Corporate Cup in dramatic fashion when a late goal was overturned by head referee Sparky Umberschmidt, who was seen driving away in a brand-new luxury space yacht with UltraDyne license plates. Capitalist halfback Nafis Beck scored three goals and … [Tap here to read more]

  Ian was interrupted by some noise coming from the entrance of the otherwise-silent library. There, he saw a tattooed politician arguing with the desk attendant, who appeared confused and clearly flustered by all the excitement of what normally seemed to be an excruciatingly boring job. It scratched its head with a scaly, spatula-shaped hand, scraping off layers of skin that flaked off its forehead.

  “But that’s impossible,” said the politician, whose facial ridges were swollen with the rightful indignation for which its species was famous (and very successful politically). “Because I am Senator Hurstbottom.”

  . . . . .

  After being kicked out of the Congressional Library (Ian had been terrified at first, but had simply been ordered to return the book to its shelf and pay a three-buck fine), Ian sat on a bench and pondered the odds that (a) the name he picked to impersonate a senator turned out to be a real senator (not very unlikely, considering the number of politicians on the planet), and (b) that particular senator would show up at the library at the same time as Ian (pretty unlikely). Ian shrugged. It’s not like he was getting any great information from the library anyway.

  Next door to the library was a similarly designed building that seemed significantly more popular. Lines of tourists extended from a set of ticket booths and several tour buses hovered outside. Carved into the stonework above the large main entrance were the words “National Museum.” Something in the back of Ian’s brain clicked, as he remembered reading something in the library about the National Museum, though he couldn’t recall quite what. Not having anything better to do, Ian waited in the ticket line for a while, where he was first forced to fend off campaign pitches from politicians that milled about nearby, and then had to rebuff the candidates directly in front of and behind him in line as well. He was rewarded for his patience by the blob-like thing behind the ticket counter telling him that Gideons got in free. On the down side, he had to pay for the Twiller, but, thinking quickly, Ian had gotten the child rate for his yellow friend. After all, how could anyone possibly disprove the age of a twiller?

  Ian entered the museum and was instantly bored. He wasn’t sure why he thought the history of some alien culture would interest him when he couldn’t stand museums back on Earth. The Twiller, on the other hand, seemed quite interested, zooming over to the nearest display and studying it intently. Ian tagged along behind his little friend, feigning interest in an effort to show that humans could be just as cerebral as the small marshmallow-shaped creatures.

  “Twiiiilll,” it cooed, reading a panel set before an assortment of ancient weapons and a holographic representation of some famous battle. “Twill twill,” it said, with great interest.

  “Mmm-hmmm” agreed Ian.

  “Twill,” it said, motioning to the battle scene and quivering enthusiastically.

  “Yeah, cool,” Ian agreed.

  The Twiller turned back to Ian with an annoyed expression. “Twill twill,” it said sternly.

  “I’m sorry,” Ian replied to the being who had a single-word vocabulary, “you’re right. I’m not being much of a conversationalist.”

  They walked to the next display and Ian found himself perking up, partly from the Twiller’s mild rebuke and partly because a small crowd was gathered around the next exhibit. Also, prismatic beams of light cast by projectors in the ceiling surrounded the area in a colorful glow, Ian had to ascend a small platform as he approached, and there were a pair of ste
rn-looking guards flanking the display case. Ian waited for the crowd to part and eventually nudged closer to the glass protecting the object of this key exhibit.

  As he got closer, he could read the large plaque that fronted the display before he could see the actual object itself. Interested despite himself, Ian read.

  What you see behind the twelve layers of Indestruct-O-Glass (don’t even try it, there’s no point really) is the original document that founded our great nation. Penned by a group of patriots that included the great Wosh Mington, the original drafters wanted a document that served as an everlasting reminder of the ideals they held so natural and intuitive as to be self-evident. Thus, they called this venerated charter the

  Constant Intuition

  The Constant Intuition is nearly 300 years old, yet its drafters had enough foresight to craft a system that persevered and adapted over the centuries. Through its system of “checks and balances,” it was ensured that each of the first three branches of government—the executive, legislative, and judicial branches—could be kept in check by the fourth branch, the corporate branch.

  The drafters were also wise enough to “hide” some of the key passages of the Constant Intuition to be uncovered later. Historians generally agree that this was done in order to allow for one set of rules during the formative stages of the country, and then a new set once technology had reached the point where we could read the obscured passages. Pretty brilliant, those original drafters.

  You may notice as you read the document that parts of the text are illegible or faded away. While the OmniSupreme Corporation did a fantastic job with the restoration over fifty years ago, some of the text was too badly faded to save. Of course, OmniSupreme was wise enough to lock the original document in an unbreakable temporal stasis field, so that it could never again be damaged by later examination.

  Finally, a wide purple alien shuffled out of the way and Ian stepped up to the glass barrier and gazed upon the ancient document. For a moment, he felt a stunning sense of déjà vu, as if he had seen this document before. He shook his head to clear it, but the faint memory persisted as he gazed at the ancient words, scribed with care in a flowing script in two vertical columns.

  The plaque’s description had been correct: several of the letters were faded away, even in the title itself, so that all that remained from the original “CONSTANT INTUITION” were the letters: C-O-N-S-T-I-T-U-T-I-O-N. Ian continued reading, and the recognition slammed into him as he read the first words, causing him to stagger back half a step in shock. While he was hardly a historical scholar, even Ian recognized the three large words printed across the top of the left-hand column.

  “We The People ….”

  * * * * *

  Part XII

  Ian staggered out of the museum, the Twiller trailing behind him and urging him to stay. But Ian was too badly shaken; the nightmarish world of WMD was based all too clearly on the same document that served as the foundation for his own government back on Earth. Some perverted, parallel universe version, sure, but essentially the same. Ian even remembered the talk about the various branches of the government from history class. He had to get home, not just for his own sanity but also to warn his planet about the terrible consequences that could befall our government if it wasn’t careful. He had a vision of himself strolling into the White House and explaining things to the president, who, impressed with Ian’s other-worldly experiences and how quickly he had put together the whole parallel universe thing, would step down and appoint Ian as president in his place so that he could set the Earth back on the right track.

  Of course, the likelihood of any of that happening was about the same as finding an honest politician on WMD, but Ian didn’t realize that, so his newfound hope reinvigorated him. Ian had finally figured out his purpose. He even hoped that Colonel Sanders would call again.

  “Let’s go, Twill,” he said, stalking away from the museum and toward the ring of hovering tour busses that encircled the building. Ian looked about for a moment, then walked to the closest bus that had people getting on. He and the Twiller blended into the line, and Ian tapped his foot impatiently as the wrinkled aliens ahead of him slowly filed onto the bus. Eventually, Ian made it on board, and he made his way to the back as the aliens settled themselves onto the brightly colored seats. Ian selected a row at random and sat on a padded seat next to a loudly snoring alien. He checked the seat pocket in front of him to find a brochure of a pair of smiling aliens playing some form of shuffleboard, surrounded by a tropical beach. The brochure’s captions exhorted the “Many Great Activities” and “Relaxing Residential Communities” and “Lots of Sunshine.” That sounded just fine to Ian, so he leaned back in his seat and waited for the bus to hover off.

  A few minutes later, the hoverbus pulled away from the museum and headed for an express wormhole junction that had a long line of hoverbusses, space yachts, and commercial shuttles waiting to enter it. One by one, they entered the wormhole and winked out of existence.

  Tired from his ordeal, Ian closed his eyes and was soon asleep, and therefore missed seeing the Twiller come to an emphatic conclusion and enter a single, crisp command on his cell phone device. He also missed two rather boring movies shown on the monitors overhead, as well as a spirited game of bingo being played two rows back. He was woken up several times, however, by the elderly alien seated next to him, who needed to get by Ian to go to the restroom in the back of the bus approximately every 45 minutes.

  . . . . .

  Ian awoke as the bus lurched to a stop and the alien in the adjacent seat poked Ian with a long, rigid appendage with a rubbery tip. Ian groggily got out of his seat and into the aisle, the cranky elderly alien following behind him. It walked on three legs: two sagging, fleshy stumps and the stronger one it had prodded Ian with. Belatedly, Ian realized it was a cane.

  Ian stepped off the air-conditioned hoverbus and was immediately hit by a wall of heat that seemed to slam into him and singe his eyebrows. The air was not only hot, but oppressively humid, and Ian staggered a few steps feeling like he was trudging through soup. The heat beat down on Ian mercilessly, and he shielded his eyes, but thought he could count four, maybe five suns, all of which appeared very large in the sky above.

  He looked to the Twiller, who seemed to be turning from yellow to pink to red before Ian’s eyes. He held out his elbow, and the Twiller gratefully swooped underneath its shade to escape the searing rays. Ian looked around and quickly headed under a nearby tree, where the temperature in the shade was merely miserable, but did not appear to be life-threatening any longer.

  “We’ve gotta find some air conditioning,” Ian remarked, watching as the elderly aliens finished filing off the bus and sped away in waiting golf carts. He was near an intersection, and he looked down the streets in all four directions until he spotted what he thought was a restaurant or tavern—it was hard to tell through the heat haze that rippled off the pavement, which actually boiled in places. “Ready?” Ian asked the Twiller, inclining his head in the direction of the restaurant. The Twiller nodded once and shot away, faster than Ian had ever seen it move. He ran after it, his terry cloth robe already drenched in sweat, and arrived under the awning just in time to hopefully avoid an epic sunburn. He quickly grasped the bronze door handle and pulled, and was rewarded by a glorious blast of cold, air-conditioned air as he stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him and his Twiller friend.

  Ian stood, panting, for a few moments as he flapped open his robe to let the cool air soothe his body. He almost thought he could hear his skin hissing as it cooled off.

  “Very nice,” said a hostess, staring at where Ian belatedly realized his underwear would be, if he had been wearing any, which he most certainly was not. He quickly pulled his robe shut and tried to stammer an apology.

  “Don’t worry about it,” the hostess said, casually flipping back a strand of purple hair. “We get lots of flashers in here.”

  “No, no,” stammered Ian, not sure if
he should eat at a place where flashers were such an everyday occurrence. “It’s just that I’m so hot. No, I mean, not ‘hot,’ I mean I’m actually sizzling.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” said the hostess, popping some bubblegum in her mouth. “You were okay. Above average, maybe.” The Twiller snickered and Ian shot it a dirty look.

  “That’s not what I—oh, never mind,” Ian sighed. “Hey,” he said, brightening, “is that a bar?”

  “Sure is,” she replied, waving a delicate hand in that direction. “The bar is self seating.”

  “Great,” said Ian, and he walked over to it. He then learned what the term “self-seating” meant in this sector of the Universe, as a barstool leaped up, grabbed Ian, and forcibly shoved him down on top of it.

  “Good enough,” said Ian, relatively unfazed by the experience. He was sitting at a bar, and that meant things weren’t all that bad.

  As he waited for the bartender, Ian’s stomach reminded him of its existence with a loud gurgle. He reached for a menu with the name “Flanny Gan’s” emblazoned across the cover and pored over it.

  “Does anything look good to you?” he asked the Twiller.

  Before it could respond, an alien seated nearby turned to Ian and looked him up and down. “Not particularly,” it said. “Although you do have a nice pink coloration to you.”

  Ian wasn’t sure how to respond to the creature, a largish freckled albino with fire-red hair. In fact, its hair actually appeared to be on fire. But, since it didn’t seem to bother the creature, Ian didn’t make a big deal of it.

  “Well,” Ian replied after a moment, “I certainly feel well-done after being outside in that heat. I think I know what a steak feels like now.” He offered a small chuckle, hoping that humor was the way to go.