The song was perfect. He knew exactly what he had to do next because the fractals "told" him. They said the time had come for the song to burst forth into the galaxy. Or something like that. It was more of a feeling than actual communication. And he knew it was dangerous. More dangerous than being a hacker. More dangerous than being saved at the last minute by a hot girl Celestial as the planet he was on was about to be destroyed. If nothing else, Fleek had been on a lucky streak lately.
The problem was what to do about it? Hire a bunch of private security like a big baby? Not going to happen. Then he got the idea. He would form a band. It was his song, and he would sing, of course. But the song needed plenty of other instruments. Then he could broadcast it to the galaxy. Illegally, spectacularly, and pirate-style, like a hacker who’d faked his own death should.
That's the way to make a name for yourself, Fleek. And isn't that the whole point of it?
He would have to find others like himself, music lovers. Except these would be hard-core and dangerous ones who also wanted to fake their deaths. Beings who wanted out of their worlds and into the world of music and art and space-legend. Beings like him.
Thoughts of fame, glory, and musical immortality filled his head as he dialed.
"Oi, who's this?" Carpe answered his cell. He looked around self-consciously. Luckily, nobody was paying attention to him. He hated getting phone calls at work. And he was always at work. He even hated digging the stupid thing out of his pocket and putting it on his face like he was some oozing commuter in a suit.
If he wanted to be some poor sap tethered to his phone he wouldn't be Regal, then, would he? Regal being the most violent organized crime syndicate in his part of the galaxy. He listened to see who was on the other end of the line so he could figure out the most appropriate way to insult and then hang up on them.
Screams filled the room, which interrupted the sound of the person on the other end of the line. Carpe couldn't hear, and he wasn't about to ask the warlord to keep the interrogation down. He stood, stomped into the bathroom, and shut the door. He sat down heavily and focused.
"Now then. I didn't get any of that, mate. You have fifteen seconds to tell me why I shouldn't trace this call, find your refracting ass and black hole you right back into the nearest star, along with your phone."
Satisfied, he took a breath and listened. This call was different. The guy on the other end was the first one to ever make it past fifteen seconds.
Fleek was jazzed. The conversation was going well. "I found your musical recordings. You're talented."
"That's not possible," Carpe said. "None of my recordings are available to the public."
"Your bass version of How Deep are my Synapses was masterful. I want to offer you a job."
"I got a job, ain't I? I'm Regal. If you were here, I'd rip your arms off just to show you. You have no idea what I'm like or what kind of people I work for."
"Oh, I've heard of them, alright." It's why I'm contacting you, Fleek thought, but he didn't say it. "And I'm not just offering you a new job. I'm offering you a new life. Nobody who plays as well as you do can ever be truly happy not playing."
"Even if I wanted to drop everything and become a musician—and I don't—why would I trust you?"
Fleek smiled. This was his favorite part. He ran his hands through his long Mohawk. He did this often to remind himself of who he was before, who he was now, and who he planned on becoming. "Because, mate. I faked my own death. And now I create music full time. As much as I want. On a Celestial ship."
"You're lying."
"It's the truth," Fleek replied. "And that's not even the best part. Listen."
Fleek hit go on his communicator, and let the song play. The song would speak for itself. The song was the key. Anybody who could listen to the song and walk away? Well, they weren't destined for greatness. They simply weren't worthy. Fleek waited for the song to finish.
"Well?"
"I'll admit. I've never heard anything like it." Fleek heard him sniffle. "What do you expect me to do? Just walk away from everything? You know what these guys'll do to me?"
"Oh, one more thing. And I think this will help you to decide," Fleek said. "I do understand. I'm going to tell you something I shouldn't. Something that could easily get me killed. My real name, my truest identity so far. Are you ready?"
"Sure. Go ahead, mate."
"I'm Fractal."
There was laughter on the other end of the line. "There's no way you're Fractal, mate."
"I wouldn't be so sure I was a good judge of things if I were sentimental enough to make my password the birthday of the pet snake I had when I was seven years old," Fleek replied and then waited.
"How could you possibly…"
It was true. Before Fleek started watching Fractals, he had been one of the top five hackers in the galaxy. It was one of the few secrets his dad hadn't ferreted out when he’d unleashed the army of private investigators.
Hacker Fractal was wanted on fifteen planets. There was no way even his dad could have cut a deal on all of them; nobody had that much leverage.
Unable to catch him or figure out his identity, the policing authorities had finally given up and put a price on his head so high, they figured someone would turn him in eventually. Even though he had now faked his own death, lived on the ship with a Celestial agent believed to be a legend, and changed his appearance so completely that he no longer recognized himself in the mirror (hey handsome), it was still a huge risk telling people his secret identity.
"I'm recruiting my band. My crew," continued Fleek. "I'm inviting you to join, and I'm only asking once. After this, I'm going to disappear. What'll it be, Carpe? You in or you out?"
Fleek waited. He didn't want to deny the guy the chance to think it over. It was no small thing to abandon a life, although if Fleek knew then what he knew now, he'd have done it a lot sooner.
"Okay," Carpe said, "I'm in. Send me the coordinates."
Fleek smiled and made a triumphant fist pump. He had gotten to the end of the spiel more than half a dozen times, and this was the first time it had actually worked.
Chapter 8
With her boss at lunch—or clubbing baby seals, or whatever it was he was currently doing—and Ari fixing the files, Kirian figured she had a window to sneak into central records and find what she needed. This planet was getting on her nerves.
When she got there, a large reptilian creature sat at the desk, eating a take-out container in which the contents were moving. Its tongue darted in and out of the container while it casually read what looked to be an entertainment magazine.
Oh no. Anything but reptilian. It was one of Kirian's few fears. Once you cross a reptilian, you have no way of knowing how it will turn out. They were as deadly and obnoxious as they were unpredictable.
"Can I help you?" it said it without looking up. It turned a page.
"Oh, hello. You must be the Records Keeper." In Kirian’s experience, planets with hard copies usually had powerful beings guarding said records, even from their employees. It didn't make sense to Kirian, but then again, she was the entire reason for the extra security. For this, though, she took absolutely no responsibility. They did their job; she did hers.
“Who are you?” it asked.
Kirian met its cold, black eyes. She swallowed at the sight of rows of white teeth unable to be contained by the creature's face. One tooth that had poked free of its lip had something small and black wriggling in it.
"I'm Kirian." She hadn't bothered changing her name this time, having no idea the mission would take so long because they didn't have electronic copies of documents. "I'm new here, you see, and they sent me to…"
"ID badge."
"Yes, but I only need a few minutes to grab…"
"Nobody gets into Central Records." The Reptile spoke slowly, staring her down, memorizing her face for future encounters. "And I mean nobody. Not without an ID badge."
Stars. There was no way the sleep ray gun
would work on its thick skin, and no way it wouldn't love to chomp her into oblivion if she tried.
"And technically," it added for effect, "I'm allowed to eat anyone that tries."
Sounds about right.
Kirian stomped off. Hard copies. Reptilians. It was this sort of job that gave Celestials such a short life expectancy. And her time was running out. Kirian's shoulders sagged. She could do nothing except go back to her cubicle and find out how to get an ID badge. A job hadn't gone south this fast in years.
Ari left her office and crossed the hallway to see her boss. She had a file in her hand opened to page 5,394. She knocked on the door.
"Come in. Oh, it's you, Ari. I didn't expect to see you for a while; it's quite the odd puzzle that we have you working on."
Ari entered and sat. "It's true. In fact, I was wondering, are you entirely sure about these stats?"
"Way ahead of you," he chuckled, "I had accounting check them three times before I even advertised for your position."
Ari mulled this over. "It's just that what's happening with these numbers can’t be right. And if my theory is correct, it isn't legal, either."
"Oh," said the boss, rubbing his chin with his hand, "a theory. I'd love to hear it."
The turn of the conversation caught Ari completely by surprise. Nobody at her last job was the least bit interested in any anomalies she found in the myriad accounting, security, and interplanetary commerce reports she had access to. In fact, it was quite the opposite. She was used to hearing the equivalent of ‘shut your pie hole.’
Ari stared up into those giant eyes and decided she wanted to be a little more certain.
"And I will tell you," she began, "but, let me just triple check the results, okay? Especially since my working theory isn't going to win us any friends. I want to be sure before we go shaking any palm trees that we aren't going to be dropping coconuts on our heads."
"That's my girl," he said, waving a hand with a pencil attached to it. "Better safe than sorry, that's what I always say. But I want to know just as soon as you're ready, ok?"
Ari liked him. They were getting along just fine.
"Hey, by the way, what's this coffee-like drink you guys have? It's delicious."
He burst into laughter, clapping his hands and pointing to her. "This one, level eight, pretending she's never had coffee before."
Ari smiled and played along. It was very different from the boring coffee on her last planet. Exploring the galaxy was turning out better than she expected.
Kirian wore the shiny ID badge around her neck with a lanyard the new hire office had given her.
After collecting the ID, she had given Fish Tie Guy his papers; all organized the way he wanted. He had grunted at her and scurried off to a meeting. You're welcome.
She psyched herself up to go back to Central Records. You can do this. You can march right in there and grab those stupid hard copies and get the hell off of this planet.
Kirian smiled. For once, the scenes of destruction and craziness would make sense. That'll teach this planet for not having digital copies of sensitive information.
She thought about the hateful reptilian still in her way. She didn't want to do hand to hand combat with the thing. Because she would probably lose. But she was also running out of time.
Think.
One of the few weaknesses in the reptilian creatures was an intense sensitivity to light. It was a double pain in the neck when coupled with the fact that Kirian would need lots of light to find the files she was after. Management obviously kept the whole records department several shades darker than necessary or legal because nobody wanted to piss it off.
Lightbulb. Literally. She had an idea.
She tapped into her communicator and accessed her super bright, LED, ultraviolet unmasker 3000. One blast on high and Front Desk reptilian would be flailing around for at least five minutes, unable to see anything beyond shapes. If it did locate her, she was dead, of course. Still, it was worth a try, especially as a firm plan B. Plan A was to flash a smile and a legitimate security badge, and sweet talk her way in. Confidence coursed through her as she approached the desk.
Chapter 9
Floyd sat hunched over the paper on his desk, head down, arms at an angle until the paperwork was finished. Then he swiveled his head in practiced movements around the walls of his office which was nearly but not completely covered in mirrors.
Satisfied, he put down the pencil and checked his watch. Excellent. Nearly six o'clock. He stood and walked out to his receptionist, Rachel.
He could have buzzed his next meeting in, like all of his colleagues would have done, but it simply wasn't his style. When he had sensitive appointments, he always wanted to see exactly what he was getting into.
He glanced at and then ignored the large, angry, oafish being standing over Rachel and trying to intimidate her. Superficially humanoid, he looked hairy, with pointy ears and long fingernails. Dreadful. His gaze returned to Rachel.
"How are you, Rachel? Big plans for tonight?"
"Actually," she beamed, "I have a date."
"Of course you do. And he’s a lucky guy. This is my last appointment for the day. You go ahead and take off. I'll lock up."
"Are you sure? I mean, I can stay if you need me."
She looked a little worried. She's so sweet to be concerned.
"No need to worry about me, my dear. Trust me; I'll be right behind you. You have fun, okay? Stay safe. I'll see you first thing Monday morning."
Rachel gathered her things and headed for the door. Floyd waved and then turned his attention to the angry, hulking wolf-man.
"Right this way," Floyd said, directing wolf-man to his office, "I understand you have some complaints."
"Got that right. This company has the worst customer service in the galaxy. Hypno-therapy my thorax."
Must be some sort of slang, he thought. This hairy guy didn’t have a thorax.
Floyd closed his office door. Sometimes these types of appointments got contentious. They both sat.
"So," said Floyd with a smile, "tell me your troubles, and I’ll see what I can do to help."
Hairy Guy set off on an epic rant. Blah, blah, wife left him, kids won't speak to him, random children kick him in the street. Boring stuff, really. Floyd had to force himself to nod randomly to stay awake and to keep Hairy Guy talking. The whole thing was a play for time, to see how long Hairy Guy could go on talking while the building emptied out.
At long last, he finally took a breath.
"Okay, then," Floyd jumped in. "What I hear you saying is that this whole seemingly unrelated and frankly bizarre sequence of events is the fault of the…" Floyd paused to check a calendar on his desk, tapping it when he found the correct entry. "Oh yes, here it is. You're advancing the theory that all of these problems are solely the result of four hypnotherapy sessions over the last two weeks? Is that it?"
Hairy Guy’s face turned red as Floyd raised an eyebrow indicating the implausibility of what he was suggesting.
"Well, it's somebody's fault, ain’t it?"
Hairy Guy was right, of course. Spot on. It was the fault of the hypnotherapy sessions. Floyd risked a smile. In fact, it was proof positive that the targeted experiments were working to perfection.
And by the sheepish expression on his hairy face, the side effects were so outlandish and unlikely that not only would the complaints not hold up in court, it was clear that none of the victims would ever take it that far.
Floyd leaned forward and steepled his long fingers. "I can tell," he began, "that things aren't going particularly well for you right now."
"Got that right."
"And I'm pretty sure I have a solution for you. Something that will solve all of your problems, once and for all."
"About time."
"But first, you need to know one thing about me. My name's not Floyd."
Not-Floyd flickered. He knew this because the mirrors covering the walls of his office were there so
he could watch everything—his own transformation, the terror of the victim, everything—from multiple angles.
After the flicker, he was no longer a mousy, suit-wearing average Joe; he was a giant Praying Mantis- Mantix species, whose head nearly bumped the ceiling. He glanced down behind the desk where a fresh tarp was laid out on the floor.
All of not-Floyd's attention was now focused on the victim, who had frozen.
Drat. No fun at all. Run, darn you. Make a dash for the door. At least dart out somewhere.
Not-Floyd stood, arms poised, head twitching from left to right, waiting for his prey to act.
Finally, Hairy Guy broke out of his stunned state and scrambled toward the door. Not Floyd's giant pincers snatched him up and pulled him behind the desk. The prey was screaming now, but he wouldn’t for long.
As usual, Not-Floyd started at the top, with the head, the noisy part of the victim. The screams turned to gurgling and then stopped altogether.
"See?" Not-Floyd said as the gurgling died down, “you'll never again have to worry about what's troubling you."
Feeling helpful, Not-Floyd wrapped the rest of the body in the tarp for later and pushed it out of view. Someone knocked on the door. He wasn’t expecting that.
"Just a minute," he called out as cheerfully as he could despite the surprise interruption. His heart was beating at twice the normal rate. By this time the building was usually empty. He wondered if he could even eat again this close to the first victim. He transformed into Floyd again and took a seat behind his desk, pretending to stare at the computer.
"Come in," he called as he glanced around at the mirrors. There was blood on his face. The door opened as he snatched a tissue and dabbed the blood away. A janitor entered.
"Yes?" Floyd asked.
"I thought I heard screaming," the white-faced janitor stammered, looking around the office.
"Oh no," Floyd laughed, "that was just me. I'm afraid I got a look at last month's profit margin. Grim numbers, those. I apologize, I didn't know anyone else was within earshot."
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