by Jenn Thorson
“It’s a simple case of you go your way, me mine. It’ll be safer for both of us in the long run. Believe me.”
But Bertram just grimaced, pushing at the sides of his temples. “And just how do I do that, when I don’t know how to fly a ship, I don’t have a ship, and I have no idea where Ottofram is?”
Rollie offered him that broad, serrated smile again. For its repetition, the effect never ceased to be chilling. “Don’t worry, Ludlow,” he said brightly. “I have just the ticket.”
Chapter 13
“Welcome to the Farthest Reaches® Cosmos Corral, Entrance Level,” said a friendly computerized voice over the PA system. In the long metallic channel that connected the ICV lots, dozens of moving walkways fed from multiple levels, transporting life-forms from every part of the galaxy to the Main Terminal—their first step to untold astronomical adventures. Above this, a sign arced across the great tube’s expanse. In glowing, blinking letters, the banner cheerfully proclaimed:
Farthest Reaches®—You’ll See Stars with Every Trip.
Bertram’s feet moved with the flow of the crowd—familiar feet though, technically, loaners. To the observer’s naked eye, a tiny, round old woman, with a kind face, three eyes and an ample, hairy mole had just entered the structure. Who would guess that behind this grandmotherly figure, intergalactic fugitive Bertram Ludlow was hidden and, for the moment, secure? What RegForce officer would ever expect the pair of Podunk’s Most Wanted had split up, sending a Tryfling—backspace and unsavvy—to face the GCU alone?
After the narrow escape from Vos Laegos, soon the old lady’s image would be flashed all over the Uninet. Maybe it already was. But Rollie had been right; in the Terminal, Bertram Ludlow appeared as just one solitary granny of many such life-forms. The GCU was self-aborbed. It had places to be. And so the aged female continued in her quest for public transit without attracting undue attention. For now, Bertram found peace of mind in that.
Only a little.
The planet itself was called Mig Verlig, Rollie had explained back at the ship. And it was one of the largest ports for interplanetary mass transit in the entire GCU.
“Why, the Cosmos Corral is the perfect solution!” the Hyphiz Deltan had exclaimed for the second time now since he’d proposed it. His smile was beatific. “It’s cheap, it’s efficient, the RegForce’d never expect it, and there aren’t even that many violent deaths on it each year.” The captain seemed to realize he’d oversold it with that last point and turned a pinker shade of pink. But he kept right on smiling.
“If it’s so great, how come you have your own ship?” Bertram had countered.
“Ah, well, the ICV … it’s more than a ship. It’s a portable home unit. Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “can’t very well carry cases of stolen goods round from place to place on mass transit, now can I? Lacks subtlety.” Looking relieved to have that settled, he moved on quickly, tossing the holowatch and a few yoonie cards Bertram’s way.
“Here ya go, Ludlow. Use the holowatch. Can’t say it’s a perfect plan, as a few of them RegForcers saw you in it. But they’re not looking for you by your lonesome yet. At least it’ll get you where you’re going.”
Bertram turned the watch in his hands. “Won’t your lady friend want it back?”
The Hyphizite shrugged. “She left with my PT-20 launcher. I call it even,” he said. “As for the credits, it’s all I can spare right now. But at least you got a few yoonies to help you on, yeah?”
Bertram nodded. Like Rollie’d said, it wasn’t ideal, but it was more than he’d expected.
“Stellar. Then—” Through the hatch window, Rollie scanned the Cosmos Corral’s ICV lot for potential law enforcement. To Bertram’s eyes, the lot appeared to be filled with tourists of varying species going on trips, returning from trips and seeing each other off. Rollie confirmed the security of the scene, turning back to Bertram with a brisk nod. “Guess this is paar too.”
Bertram had tucked the cards into his shirt pocket, searched for errant possessions—he had none—and rose. He paused at the hatch door, snapping the holowatch to his wrist, and he decided to satiate his curiosity this one last time. “Hey, what’s ‘paar too’ mean exactly, anyway? It seems like good-bye, but it never translates.”
The captain sniffed or snickered. “Deltan phrase. Came from the entertainment industry, I think. Literally means ‘may we meet again in the sequel.’”
“Ah.” Bertram thought that sounded about right. “Paar too, then. Take care. Thanks for—” Bertram considered the kidnapping, stunning, and nearly being sold as a show animal, “—well, not for everything. But I hope you aren’t ripped to shreds on Altair.”
“Yup, hope your planet isn’t demolished or your people mass slaughtered or whatnot.”
“Cool, thanks.”
“All right.”
And with that, Bertram Ludlow trudged down the ship’s ramp to face the whole of space on his own.
Now, sliding forward on the moving walkway, the Farthest Reaches Cosmos Corral Main Terminal was just minutes ahead. He craned over the crowd before him and spied a sign down at the end of the concourse which read “Ticketing.”
Soon, he told himself. Soon. His little planet deserved a decent fighting chance; maybe that chance would be found on Ottofram.
A voice over the PA system announced, “As a courtesy to fellow passengers, Farthest Reaches reminds our guests entering the Terminal: please refrain from igniting combustible objects for oral pleasure … Solicitation on behalf of religious or private institutions is strictly prohibited …”
Bertram let the crowded walkway drive him further down the concourse.
“… Do not leave progeny or unicellular companions unattended …”
A hefty mauvish life-form behind him snorted steamy breath on his neck.
“… And for your safety, please do not hoverboard over the moving walkways.”
Bertram ducked as a smoking figure in a hooded, cowl-like tie-dyed robe passed overhead on a slim floating disk. Humming to himself, the guy was cramming slim digital brochures into the hands of everyone along the walkway. The electronic lettering read:
It’s the end of Life As We Know It …
“Ain’t it the truth,” Bertram muttered. Then the brochure flashed:
… And the Rebirth of Better Snacking!
Introducing new Jerky Divine®, the only snack food created from the regenerated and cloned cells of deceased Popeelie prophet, Chawtu Champs. Brought to you by MetamorfaSys Inc., the trusted Product Gurus who first lit the way with Pocket Pulpit® and Cloak-in-a-Can®, Jerky Divine is the Afterlife delicacy for after sports, between meals, or on-the-go!
Jerky Divine is the only snack that wards away both hunger and disbelievers!
With every bite, you’ll feel the spirit of the Munificent Popeelhonoromous inside you. It’s cosmically-delicious with our specially-blessed Sanctified Seltzer, too!
And now you can join the millions of Popeelies GCU-wide in the Popeelie “Mass and Mass Marketing” Jamboree. If you’d like information on how you can share in three weeks of Popeelie singing, prayer and product demonstrations, just send 19,995 yoonies to—
Bertram sent the brochure into a passing refuse containment robot. He imagined it would take more than divine dinner and sacred soda-water to help his planet.
An announcement from the PA system again interrupted the scene. “The shuttle to Marglenia will be leaving from Gate Stop 198 in approximately 30 Universal minutes …
“The shuttle to Ottofram will be leaving from Gate Stop 149 in approximately 20 Universal minutes …
“And to the passenger who left the head of their Non-Organic Simulant in the lavatory, would you please see the nearest blue courtesy vis-u for a message from your Simulant? … That’s Marglenia in 30 minutes, Ottofram in 20 minutes and—”
Ottofram!
Bertram’s heart leapt and he broke into a run. He slipped around alien families, leapt over robots and their piles of luggag
e, dodged elephant-like trunks and actual trunks, and wound through the Blumdec Blasters professional kachunkettball team. It was the sort of behavior you didn’t often see in the elderly, Bertram knew. But he’d made it to Ticketing and moved fleetly toward a free service counter.
The attendant smiled at him. She was a tall, flawlessly-skinned female with black-silver hair that shone like hematite. Bertram noticed the square emblem embossed into the base of her slender throat. The font was hard to read, but he finally made it out: “Natelle.” It seemed like one helluva way to wear a nametag.
He put on his best Grandma Ludlow voice, a raspy alto laced with a North Jersey accent, the mist of evening toddies and the musk of 50 years of Virginia Slims. “Why, hello there, Natelle. One ticket to Ottofram, darling, if you please.”
“It is my pleasure to assist, ma’am,” she responded. And as Natelle punched in the ticketing information, Bertram noticed a strange scent wafting from the girl. A scent like floral disinfectant spray and new shower curtain liners. He was just wondering if it were some kind of misguided designer space fragrance, when she paused in her typing and looked up with long-lashed, still-unblinking blue eyes. “Primary or Secondary Corral seating, ma’am?”
“Whatever ya got, sweetie,” Grandma Ludlow told her. “So long as I’m on that shuttle.”
“It is my pleasure to assist, ma’am,” she said again, looking at the screen before her. She tossed back that long, metallic black-gray hair. “I’m afraid the Primary Corral is booked, ma’am. But there is plenty of room in the Secondary.”
“Fine, fine,” Grandma Ludlow said, who normally would have traveled first class, enjoyed two complementary screwdrivers and lifted some extra pretzels to squirrel away in her purse for later. Yes, Lavinia Ludlow would have waited for first class. But Lavinia Ludlow also never had to save her planet; she didn’t know from deadlines. “As long as it’s leaving soon,” said the old woman.
“It will attach to the Primary Corral and embark in less than 17 minutes, ma’am,” the ticket agent said, and a ticket popped out of her console. “And how will you be paying for this?”
The old woman dug into her cloak and handed Natelle the yoonie cards. Or, rather, Bertram Ludlow dug in his shirt pocket and hoped no one would notice money appear from nowhere.
Natelle didn’t seem fazed; he imagined in GCU customer service you had to make a lot of allowances. She took the first card and scanned it. Then paused.
Bertram got the distinct feeling the girl would have scowled, but that sort of behavior was frowned upon at Farthest Reaches®.
Natelle grabbed up the second yoonie card and scanned it. Paused.
Yup. There was that invisible frown, again.
She took the third, scanned it, and … “I’m sorry, ma’am, these yoonie cards are invalid.”
“Excuse me?” said Grandma Ludlow.
“Yes, ma’am. Our system says that the owner of this account— the one who originally registered these universal credits—has had all of his or her yoonie cards cancelled. And that would include these, I’m afraid.” For being afraid, her expression showed nothing but the same unrelenting joy.
“Does it say why?” Grandma Ludlow asked, trying to peer around at the girl’s screen.
But Natelle just smiled. “It’s a 533.”
“533?”
“Governmental request.”
“Does it say which government?”
“It’s a 533,” she said again. “Governmental request. A 533.”
Bertram didn’t press it; he had a strong idea which government did the requesting. Soon, he imagined, the Hyphiz Deltan RegForce would hear about how a three-eyed old lady had tried to use Rollie Tsmorlood’s money cards at the Farthest Reaches Cosmos Corral to buy a ticket to Ottofram. Bertram didn’t have much time to waste.
But Natelle smiled patiently. “I suggest you report whoever gave those cards to you to your local authorities. This has become a popular scam targeting life-forms of advancing years, such as yourself. Do you have any other yoonie cards you’d like me to check, ma’am?”
It was tricky to do casually, but now the old woman pulled a wallet from the ether and leafed through it. She tossed the remains of Bertram Ludlow’s cashed teaching assistant paycheck onto the counter. “This is what I have, sweetie. My, er, grandson: he’s doing an exchange program on Tryfe and he sends his grandma money.”
“He sounds like a very nice young man,” Natelle said politely.
“Adorable.” In reality, Grandma Ludlow openly favored his brother A.J., but sometimes liberties must be taken.
“Unfortunately,” Natelle could brandish that white sweet smile like a shining sword, “the Farthest Reaches Cosmos Corral does not recognize Tryfe currency, ma’am.”
“Naturally,” sighed Grandma Ludlow.
“We do, however, accept paper and coin-based money from the following galactic monetary systems,” began Natelle helpfully, “A’Tau, Alpuck, Ambigodia, Armani …”
Dread swept over Bertram as he considered the difference between Earthling independence and horrific Evil Overlandlordship might just depend on a ticket to Ottofram.
“…Calderia, Chronos-12, Corgi Beta …”
“Look,” said Grandma Ludlow, “darling, sweetie, beautiful, there’s gotta be something we can work out.” Grandma Ludlow was not above slathering on the endearments when she wanted to get her way. It was how she got a serious discount on her condo.
But the ticket agent just folded her well-manicured hands and continued on with the list of worlds with acceptable galactic currencies. “… Hyphiz Beta, Hyphiz Delta, Hysgorgle-5—”
“Is there a currency exchange around here, Natelle?” the old woman pressed. “Or some kind of traveler assistance?”
Natelle stopped in mid-list. Bertram thought he heard a slowing whir. “There is a Galactic Monetary Exchange at the end of this concourse.” She pointed.
“Would it convert this?” The old lady held up her bills.
Natelle paused. Bertram swore he heard that whir rev up again. “I cannot affirm it, ma’am, as that system is siloed and I am not tapped into it.”
Bertram nodded. As he’d suspected. His first Non-Organic Simulant.
“I would not want to hazard a guess as to the probability,” she continued.
“But is there a chance?”
“I couldn’t tell you based on available data.”
Bertram had to hand it to those Simulants; they were nothing if not specific. “Fair enough,” called Grandma Ludlow, moving in the direction Natelle had pointed. “I’ll be back, darling. Hold that ticket!”
Galactic Monetary Exchange, Galactic Monetary Exchange … Bertram dashed past travelers from all over the final frontier, past restaurants wafting foreign spice, past souvenir shops with wares bearing the Farthest Reaches logo, past an 80s ATM …
Bertram backed up. Eighties ATM?
Okay, well, maybe not quite an ATM. But if anything had the look of alien retro technology, this thing did. The sign above the smudgy box read, “Galactic Monetary Exchange.” A smaller sign indicated a large red button and showed a stick figure with four stick arms pressing it with a stick finger.
At least, Bertram hoped that was a finger.
In fact, he hoped that was an arm.
Bertram’s finger pressed the button. And as he did, a blue fog clouded around his face. He instinctively recoiled. Was he being poisoned? Was this some kind of clever trap the RegForce had set up to ensnare him?
He sneezed.
The machine said in a motherly tone, “Sneeze contents verified. Nasal output identifies customer as chewer of Translachew brand translational gum 52.7 or greater. Vocal interface adjusted accordingly. Press 1 on the keypad if this analysis is correct. Press 2, if you would like to repeat Sneeze Verification. Press 3, if you would like to quit. Look confused, if you suddenly cannot understand this message.”
I have dialects in my nasal mucus now? Bertram wondered. He busied himself by pushing �
��1”.
The not-quite-MAC machine said, “Welcome to the Galactic Monetary Exchange, Valued Customer. When the money conveyance panel slides open, please insert the currency you wish to convert.”
The panel slid open. Bertram gave it his cash. The panel slid shut.
The panel slid open again so vigorously, it spit Bertram’s money out onto the floor. “We’re sorry. Currency unknown. We cannot process currency of indeterminate type. The Galactic Monetary Exchange does, however, welcome currency from all locations within the Greater Communicating Universe.”
“Of course it does,” Bertram snarled at the thing, “and I’d give you some, if I friggin’ had any of it, you stupid machine!” He glanced around to see if anyone heard him, then took three cleansing breaths. So this was it then. Unless he could beg a few yoonies from a sympathetic fellow traveler, or con security into just letting him on the Corral—probabilities both slimmer than Tryfe money converting in a GME machine—the quest to save his planet was all washed up. Finito. Sayonara. Kaput. Paar too, even.
(Tink-a-tink-a-tink-a-tink-a …)
It was funny, he thought, how a person could spend an entire academic career studying how people approach problem-solving and still end up stuck in an alien space port with a planet to rescue, no cash, and completely out of valid ideas.
(Tink-a-tink-a-tink-a-tink-a …)
He stooped to scoop up his bills from the shiny Terminal tiles. Maybe there was an off-chance he could sell them to an obscure currency collector, he pondered—(Tink-a-tink-a-tink-a-tink-a …)—when he noticed that metal, rolling sound behind him was sweeping in close and growing closer. (Tink-a-tink-a-tink-a-tink-a …)
Frowning, Bertram turned, searching for its source. Travelers hurried past, alien pets sniffed suspiciously, Farthest Reaches Simulants headed off to work after a brief recharge … It all looked like just another day in the GCU.
(Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka …)
The sound persisted and grew. Until …
