by Jenn Thorson
Mr. Beautiful was still standing there, tapping his beautiful teeth thoughtfully, with a beautifully strong, beautifully-manicured finger. “Mmmmm … I’ll have … Er …”
“Ask him if he would like today’s CapClub recommendation,” rang out Spectra Pollux’s bell-like voice from across the room.
“Would you like today’s CapClub recommendation?” Rozz asked flatly. She had to reaffix her smile, which seemed to have dropped off somewhere on the counter top. A glance at Big Momma earned a nod of approval.
“A recommendation!” the handsome man twinkled with delight. “That’d be stellar!”
“Today’s featured book capsule, featured by the Spectra Pollux Featured CapClub Feature-of-the-Day, is Zenith Skytreg’s best-selling autobiography, Underworld: New Heights of Under,” Rozz chanted. “Join Zenith Skytreg on his detailed examination of Skytreg’s personal journey, from his simple roots growing up in a modest 120-room home unit on Vos Laegos to eventually becoming the most popular Official Leader the Intergalactic Underworld has ever seen. Share in his joys. His triumphs. And more of his joys and triumphs. Does everything Zenith Skytreg touch shine like the Vos Laegos sun? Find out in this exciting tribute to Skytreg’s greatness.”
Rozz had eaten Skytreg’s book with breakfast this morning. It didn’t contribute to her knowledge base, just her acid reflux.
“That sounds cosmic,” said Mr. Handsome. “I’ll take it.”
She whirled on the wall of capsule dispensers behind her and chose the one labeled “Featured CapClub Feature-of-the-Day.” A single octagonal pill tumbled down the chute and plopped into her hand. She put that in a pretty, ruffled paper cup. She pushed a button on the Food Preparation Unit for the Mathgar Kidney PowerPunch. She hadn’t made one of these before and when she opened the FPU’s door, the thing smelled like protein and internal organs gone external. There was a green fuzzy foam on the top.
Grimacing and gagging, she tucked in a decorative straw and put the concoction on the tray next to the capsule. She slapped the smile back on again. “Here you go. That will be 147 yoonies. And your yoonie card please?” She held out her hand.
Spectra Pollux motioned negatively, her intangible garment flashing in a bright red solar flare, then shifting into cooler purples and blues. “For Mr. Antlia, my dear, it is on the house,” she said.
Mr. Antlia winked and pointed a finger at Rozz, as he took his tray. “Thanks, babe. Catch you later.”
Rozz pointed and winked back. Hopefully no one will catch me later, she thought. She wiped the counter of slopped mathgar kidney. She glanced at the exit. She glanced at the ICV lot outside. The unspent energy of anticipation zapped through her nerves like electricity through a powerstation. No, it wasn’t time yet. She could wait.
She could hear Pollux and her friends at the table.
“So you said she’s from where?” asked Stella Cygnus, taking a sip of Mr. Handsome’s drink. Her perfectly symmetrical features lost their symmetry in a wince. She handed him the glass at warp speed.
“Tryfe,” Spectra told her. “A small blue planet outside the GCU that I’m placing a bid on. If I win it, this young lady will be the first of her species in my LibLounge Leadership pilot program.” Her broad head gave a beaming turn to her Tryfling protégé. Her dress swirled into a soft yellow white. “I’m very pleased at the progress.”
Jet Antlia, meanwhile, was slurping his PowerPunch with vigor. He paused. “What I don’t get, Spectra, is why you’d want to start with some backspace, intellectually-inferior life-form—” Here Jet Antlia waved at Rozz cheerfully. “No offense, babe!” He turned back to Spectra. “—Instead of a well-programmed Simulant.” He returned his well-formed lips to the decorative straw.
“Jet,” began Stella in a calm, patient tone Rozz got the impression she used a lot, “we heard about the Simulants unionizing on the way over here. Remember? How they wanted higher wages, shorter hours and free on-site fluids infusions?”
He frowned over the straw. “We did?”
“Yes,” she said, with a strained smile. “And how it’s forcing companies to rethink their staffing choices because it’s getting more expensive to keep Simulants on the payroll than hiring organic life-forms?”
“Exactly,” affirmed Spectra Pollux. “And what’s ideal about backspace people, like our Tryfe friend Rozz here,” she motioned to Exhibit A, “is that she was basically a completely blank storage drive for me to work with. I’ve taken Rozz out of her backspace surroundings, and I’m giving her the most practical education that infopills have to offer. She gets freed from the unevolved confines of her home planet, plus she gets new enlightenment and a broader perspective. In return, she works for me in one of the LibLounges and shares that knowledge in our discussion groups. Also, she serves drinks and cleans up a little. It’s win-win.”
“And how long will she do that? Work for you, I mean?” Stella asked with almond-eyed interest.
“Oh,” Spectra Pollux considered it like some fresh meadow breeze that had blown in, “Y’know, forever.”
“Forever?”
“-Ish,” added Pollux lightly. “Forever-ish. The Tryfling lifespan is only 70 or 80 years, you know, my dear. And she already has frittered almost 30 of them away on her home planet. But an opportunity like this isn’t cheap. And there’s not much point for me to invest in her training, in our partnership, if it won’t have longevity.”
“And you want to do this with everyone on the planet?” asked Stella Cygnus.
“If this works out, yes, absolutely. You know how many LibLounges there are around the GCU, Stella. Plus, don’t forget the pill manufacturing plants and other aspects of production. We have the Uninet show. We have the Featured CapClub Feature-of-the-Day announcement that goes out. Yes, as many of them who can make the trip, I’d be happy to give them this wonderful opportunity. Unless they’re too old, or feeble, or unwilling to see the value of my offer. In which case, we’ll just have to let nature take its course.” She gave that hearty Bacchus-like laugh.
“Your compassion is simply limitless,” Stella sighed, admiration shining in her luminescent eyes.
“Just helping more people Become their Best Thems,” Spectra’s grand voice projected. Her gown had gone a warm petal pink. “So what’s this I hear about you two breaking up again?”
It was perfect. As the dancer and poet began to rehash a list of injustices ranging from laziness to hair-scorching laser fire, Rozz gasped with shock at a capsule dispenser she’d purposefully emptied before shift. “Well, look at that! We’re almost out of Eudicot T’murp: Leaf and Let Leaf … Let me just pop in the storeroom and see if we have any more.”
Spectra waved her off, only half-listening, her gown pulsing a rich, neutral grass green as her friends relayed their relationship challenges. And Rozz ducked into the back room.
The great thing about the back room was the back door. Which led to the back path. Which led to the side path. Which led to the front path. Which led to the ICV lot of the private LibLounge on Spectra Pollux’s very own personal property.
This led to Stella Cygnus’ and Jet Antlia’s waiting ship.
Looking left and right, Rozz crept up the ramp and into the vehicle, her senses alert, electric determination zapping through her every nerve. Rozz Mercer hadn’t gotten a Master’s in computer science and a double minor in statistics and psychology in order to become a glorified bartender at the Café of the Damned. She hadn’t scrimped and saved and made her own way in life to spend the rest of it in indentured servitude acting as camp counselor for Interplanet Janet.
It was just not happening.
Rozz surveyed the layout. The ship’s interior was, not unexpectedly, the height of luxury, but given the sleek exterior, the taste in décor was a surprise. Rozz entered a room lined with rich fabrics and layered in exotic handicrafts from the very corners of the universe. It looked more like an alien Kasbah instead of the inside of a space-age machine, some foreign den of mystery and intrigue.
She hadn’t noticed the children at first. But then again, why would she? They blended perfectly into every scrap of fabric, every tuffet, every inch of wallpaper, every patterned rug they sat on.
Funny that with all the Heavy Meddler infopills Rozz had devoured, not one of them mentioned that the Bibluciats’ skin contained layers of chromatophores—letting them change their colors quicker than a politician doing damage control. Nope, in all the discussion of the plight of Bibluciat children, no one bothered to say they were born chameleons, a technique that had helped secure the continued existence of their race in an otherwise harsh environment involving war and blackmarket rocket-boot production.
What this meant was, Rozz had barely set foot into the ship before at least 100 Bibluciat children surged forth at her, aged from just able to walk, to ready to fly their own ICV. What had initially seemed like an empty room now felt like the floors … the walls … the very furniture were crawling to life, and a scream escaped her lips that would have earned her more than a walk-on part in any half-way decent slasher flick.
A hundred Bibluciat orphans screamed, too, the sound stopping just short of shattering glass. A Bibluciat nanny came out of the woodwork in a literal sort of way, too, shouting, “Children, children, it’s all right!”
The chauffeur—not a Bibluciat, but dressed to the nines in fabric and pattern—raced in from the cockpit, weapon drawn. “Who’s there? Who are you?”
Rozz winced. She’d had the whole thing planned somewhat differently in her head.
First, nix the orphans. No orphans in this scheme, in camo or otherwise.
Next, hose the nanny. This was a nanny-free operation, and no plans had been made for the Poppins.
Thirdly, chauffeurs in the cockpit, stayed in the cockpit. No running into the main room like the friggin’ U.S. cavalry. Not cool.
Fourth, stealth. Rozz, getting up behind him and giving him the ol’ Thrusterfist Laserfinger move she’d learned courtesy of the Sum-Gai-Wowee Yup infopill. That was going to disable him until she could drag him out of the way. Then she was going to pull up the ramp, fire up the ICV, cloak it, and take off for Area 51.
She’d place the ship right in Uncle Sam’s lap and say, “Here’s the dealio, Unc. We have an alien problem,” and then let ’em know the score. She figured it was going to be pretty hard to call her a crackpot or a terrorist with an ICV steaming in front of their eyes. Then, before they’d get any ideas about dissection or debriefing, she was going to slip into the ship’s smaller shuttle pod, launch it, cloak it, and head back out into the GCU. On her terms, this time. The computer programmer gig was likely to be kind of a drag when you knew your whole Earthly existence was really an illusion.
That had been the plan, anyway. But she realized now that pill smarts shouldn’t have taken the place of proper reconnaissance. That was where she went wrong. Her plan had more holes than a Pittsburgh road in winter.
Holes like she was about to have soon, she realized, if she didn’t answer the nice man with the hand-laser. “I said, who are you?” he repeated.
“Oh, hi! I’m Rozz!” Rozz said brightly to the group, a kind of cheer that she normally locked away in sub-basement of her soul. “I work at the LibLounge!” She hooked a thumb. “Out there.” She punctuated it with an even bigger smile. It made one of the smaller orphans cry. “I’d just wanted to see if you all wanted anything from the bar. We have a wide selection of infopills: fiction and non-fiction. And all sorts of delicious and nutritionally-balanced beverages. How about a couple pitchers of Blumdec Seagrass Slushies? Mootaab Milkshakes? Or perhaps I can tempt you with a Mathgar Kidney PowerPunch? It’s all the rage.”
“The children just had lunch,” said the nanny. “We don’t want to spoil our suppers now, do we?”
“Milk-SHAKE, milk-SHAKE!” chanted a half dozen kids.
“I wouldn’t mind one of those Seagrass Slushies,” the chauffeur admitted, holstering his gun with an embarrassed smile.
“Coming right up,” Rozz said spritely. And making a quick exit, she scampered down the ramp and through the front door of the LibLounge. A little electronic bell simulated a bell tinkling.
It was there she faced Spectra Pollux, scowling from Rozz to the backroom to the front door to Rozz again. She seemed bigger, thicker somehow, when she scowled. And her dress had become a raging wall of licking orange-yellow flames. “Where were you? Mr. Antlia has been waiting for a refill.” She waved long shiny nails at Jet Antlia’s empty glass, green scum clinging to the sides.
“I was getting drink orders.” Rozz said simply, peering up at her with her most innocent face. She waggled a finger to the window. “I thought the chauffeur might want something.” She slapped the big beaming LibLounge smile on again and turned to the celebrity couple. “By the way, you have a beautiful family.” If you like happen to like kids who look like Bibluciat throw rugs, anyway, Rozz thought.
“You took an order from the chauffeur?” Spectra Pollux asked.
“Yes.” Rozz felt her heart pick up its pace to a jog. She felt the gaze of Spectra Pollux and all her 37 personal assistants judging her. “I figured they’d come all this way … er, that he might be thirsty, too.” Hold your ground, Rozz. Hold your ground … Don’t freak …
“Uh-huh,” Pollux said. Then: “See?” Big Momma turned to Jet and Stella, her gown swirling into a warm Caribbean blue which matched her hair. Foamy waves seemed to crash upon her considerable heaving bodice. “This is the kind of thoughtful quality service my customers would never get from a Simulant. I’m right, right? Am I not right? Right?”
“Yes, Spectra, you’re right,” agreed Stella Cygnus, along with the 37 assistants.
“What?” said Jet Antlia, who’d been daydreaming out the window. “Oh, yeah … No question.”
Spectra Pollux patted Rozz’s shoulder with affection. “Then get to it, my dear!” she commanded playfully, and Rozz slipped back behind the counter.
“Don’t forget my PowerPunch,” Jet reminded her.
She nodded and powered up the Food Preparation Unit. Maybe this was what had happened to Bertram Ludlow, she considered. Maybe right now he was in some other LibLounge pushing book pills and making Mootaab milkshakes.
If he were, more’s the pity for him. Rozz was already thinking Plan Three.
Chapter 16
“Breathtaking 20-bedroom Home-unit
on the Rings of Ragul-Sferra!”
“Get the Moon You’ve Always Wanted,
But Didn’t Think You Could Afford.”
“Stellar Fixxer-Upper 4 Sale,
Just Needs HandySimulant & U!”
Bertram had been sitting in the waiting-room of Alternate Realty for twenty minutes now, and he’d read the digitized property ads on the walls a dozen times.
“Darling Planet with Oxygen-based Atmosphere.
Rent to Own!”
“For Sale: ICV Park with Scenic Views!
No History of Meteor Crashes!”
“Planet Available in Up-and-Coming Solar System:
Going Fast!”
Bertram rose from his seat and approached the receptionist, a shimmering orange-scaled man with an aquatic dome over his head. On his black wetsuit, which undulated with the fluid inside, was printed a faux necktie, lapels and buttons in luminescent green paint. It was an interesting executive touch.
“Excuse me,” said Bertram, “but I’ve been waiting twenty minutes already. You’d said you’d put me in touch with the person who owned Tryfe.”
The receptionist’s blue spherical eyes rolled dramatically in their sockets. “I said,” he emphasized, ears fanning the liquid in short petulant waves, “I would put you in touch with the person who was selling Tryfe. That’s different.”
“How?”
The receptionist gave an irritable glub. Bubbles floated along the wall of the dome like someone had just tapped a water cooler. “The person who’s selling Tryfe is Mimsi Grabbitz.” He pointed to one of
the many headshots on the wall, that of a female life-form who resembled the Booboo the Clown punching bag Bertram had as a kid. Only this life-form also had red 3-D balloon lips and a wig. “She’s a trillion-yoonie agent you know, and Employee of the Month 17 times,” drawled the receptionist. “She represents Tryfe’s current owner.”
“And I prefer to talk to the owner,” Bertram told him firmly, “not an intermediary.”
“No-can-do, Sweetums,” said the receptionist, or at least that’s how it translated. “Our job is to protect our client’s privacy. You talk to Ms. Grabbitz or you can just take your little Popeelie-robed posterior on out of here.”
Bertram opened his mouth to protest, but the receptionist cut him off with an emphatic, “She will be with you shortly.”
That’s what he’d said twenty minutes ago. Grumbling, Bertram slumped back to his seat.
“Get More Meridian for Your Money
on Megamorgit-Beta”
“Black Hole Available:
Double Your Acreage in No Time!”
“Have You Seen This Planet?:
Rhobux-7. Last Observed: …”
Mimsi Grabbitz stepped in, clad in bright metallic blue. Her lips and eyelashes jutted from a head that seemed too egg-shaped to be true. The hair, Bertram decided, might be real after all, but it perched on top of the egg like a newly-thatched roof. He was so mesmerized by her appearance, he had to force himself to focus on what she was saying.
“So, I hear you have an interest in Tryfe!” she chirped, touching him gently on the arm with a cool hand. “Right this way, right this way!” And she led him back through the door from which she’d come, straight into a nearby cubicle. There weren’t actual walls in this cube, Bertram noticed, just a hazy pale blue energy that formed panels, following a mechanism along the floor.
