by Jenn Thorson
She waved great log-like fingers at the stylish, implanted metal headband Rozz wore. A string of green lights twinkled from one end of it to the other prettily. That meant Rozz was staying within the sanctioned range.
It also meant she would not be receiving the paralyzing electric jolt to the cranium she experienced the one-and-only time she tested the range’s boundaries.
Rozz understood the fashionable head-hobble could be surgically-removed from her skull by a certified security agent with a specialized tool. That’s what Spectra Pollux said would happen if Rozz behaved. If she proved herself trustworthy. If she got with the program and worked harder to Be Her Best Her.
But the headband would never budge safely on its own. Rozz was convinced of that; a little experimentation with a makeshift pry-bar had left her one step from having some very serious ninth and tenth piercings. And unlike the others, these were holes she was pretty sure wouldn’t just close up.
So when Plan Three—trying to stow away in a mootaab milk delivery hovercraft—had gone FUBAR, Rozz set her sights on Plan Four. This involved sucking down enough infopills so she could perform a do-it-yourself tiara-ectomy. Preferably without her brain leaking out the sides.
She just needed to be patient and bide her time.
“Oh, I feel it,” Rozz responded, forcing a smile she hoped was winning. “I do.”
More giggles and snickers from the assistants.
Pollux surveyed Rozz’ face but looked unsure at what she saw there. “Well, I hope so, because we’re running out of time for you to start feeling it, Rozz. We will present our plan for Tryfe in just three Universal days.”
“The day after tomorrow, after tomorrow,” Rozz murmured to herself. She had been wondering when it would be. Somewhere along the way, her time in the Pollux compound had lost all sense of duration. It shrugged off the past and turned away from the future. It was an infinite, relentless Now filled with queasy information supplements, a ceaseless flurry of hired helpers, celebrity visitors, and customer service limbo.
In the evenings, she’d go back to her comfortable but sparse guest room, entirely too tired to even cry about her fate. Not that Rozz had ever been much of a crier. But the widening disconnect between her current life and her true emotions, which she was apparently hiding somewhere in her upper GI tract, was starting to become a little disturbing.
“When people see the Pollux name, they expect big things, Rozz. Very big things,” said Spectra in that smooth, monumental voice. It sounded like Hera giving a lecture to the Mount Olympus Women’s Association.
“Big things,” agreed one assistant.
“The biggest!” exclaimed another, pleased to get the last word in.
“So if we disappoint in three days … if we fail to wow them and secure this bid, well …” Spectra’s gown had shifted from pink to purple, to eggplant to blue-black in a heartbeat. It had become storm clouds on a night sky. “I’m afraid it will be a black spot on the Pollux star. I’m afraid I’ll have no further need for your services.”
“And you’ll send me home in shame,” Rozz sighed, drenching her words in forlorn embarrassment. It captured the fear of that black spot blotting her own rising GCU career … The dread of returning to her home planet a failure … The guilt of dashing the hopes and dreams of a whole world of aspiring baristas.
But Spectra Pollux’s response was unexpected. “Send you home?” she repeated meditatively, as if the words were in a strange, quaint tongue. A smile spread over the woman’s broad visage, slow and dark like the storm clouds gathering on her dress. “Send you … home? Why, Rozz—where is the incentive for you if I did that?”
A chill ran up Rozz’s arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps. It wasn’t the words so much as the tone. A tone cold and distant as space itself. It said volumes and yet, it said nothing at all. And when Spectra Pollux then told her to, “Now just be a dear and pop onto the Uninet and see when that new shipment of Leaf and Let Leaf capsules would be arriving, there’s my star,” Rozz almost wasn’t sure if she hadn’t completely imagined it.
The voice was bubbly. The dress had gone a calm aqua blue.
Rozz nodded, rose and hit one of the LibLounge’s Uninet terminals, her eyes once or twice returning to Spectra Pollux, docked there in that comfy armchair in her own personal café. She was decked in colors as warm and soothing as any Caribbean ocean and attending to bits of business with one of her select 37.
Rozz would ponder the exchange later in her room this evening, she promised herself. She would replay it and decide whether she had invested too much dark meaning in the fleeting look, the tone. Or whether for her own personal safety, Rozz Mercer needed to step up implementation on Plan Four.
“It’ll be here this afternoon,” Rozz told her, accessing the infopill system. “Along with Stella Cygnus’ Bibluciat Adoption Guide, Jet Antlia’s newest chapbook One-Word Poems, and Jor-Jan Chatta-Chu-Bular Meep-Meep’s Completely Unofficial, Unendorsed and Unintentional Autobiography: All About Meep-Meep.”
“Stellar,” the benefactress said, “Stellar! And how is my Featured CapClub Feature-of-the-Day being received by Heavy Meddler critics?” she asked. She asked this every day. Spectra Pollux had fleets of assistants circled around her, yet she always had Rozz check on the critics’ warmth to each day’s CapClub suggestion. She also had Rozz walk her pet zakari.
Rozz slung on her Inviz-i-lissin™ headset (“LibLounge Rule Number 15: Always respect LibLounge patrons’ digestion and discussion by keeping your personal audio and video devices personal”) and accessed the newsfeeds.
Box after video box popped up on the screen showcasing the events of the day. But where the thumbnail images were normally a diverse collection of hot topics from around the GCU—including the lady Pollux—now they appeared almost synchronized and cycled to different angles of one big event.
Or, rather, most of them were focused on a crowd of life-forms carrying picket signs. And highlighted in the center of that crowd, wearing a glaring, multi-colored hooded cloak, was a head-shot of the very familiar, very MIA, yet very much alive Bertram Ludlow.
“Ho—” erupted Rozz. She clamped a hand to her own mouth, before her full comment—dedicated to the sanctified spiritual properties of excrement—could violate LibLounge Rule Number 21: “The LibLounge is a family establishment. No vulgar language in any dialect is permitted, unless for artistic purposes or for edgy celebrity interviews.”
Spectra and the 37 were staring. “Ho,” Rozz said, putting on a smile. “Ho, ho. Very happy to see the positive buzz about today’s CapClub recommendation.”
She turned back to the screen and just caught the last half of the newscaster’s report. “—Tryfling intergalactic fugitive, wearing the stolen clothes of his Popeelie victim, is believed to be a key player in the recent mass protests assembled in front of DiversiDine Entertainment Systems and Aeroponics on Ottofram.”
The camera zoomed in closer on Bertram’s face and split-screened it with some grainy, black-and-white security camera footage shot through metal jail bars.
Now this, thought Rozz, her fingers seizing tight on a nearby dish towel, this was just too much. Tryfling intergalactic fugitive Bertram Ludlow?! Was the universe completely unhinged?
“But while a fraction of the protest propaganda does bear a ‘Life for Tryfe’ theme, observers have noted the crowd’s diverse and growing list of complaints with the Ottofram-based conglomerate. Various groups have stepped forward claiming responsibility for the 5,000-life-form-and-growing impromptu demonstration, from the Coalition for Non-Organic Rights and the United Smorg Growers Association, to the Wholly Disgruntled Labor Party and the Not-Quite-So-Disgruntled-But-Fairly-Annoyed Party of Workers. It seems the only group that actually hasn’t taken credit for the chaos here on Ottofram today is the Intergalactic Underworld Society. Zenith Skytreg comments.”
Here Zenith Skytreg, sitting in a Vos Laegos casino lounge with a heaped plate before him from the all-you-can-digest buffet, told
the press, “It’s not in the Underworld’s best interests for DiversiDine production to be at a standstill. About 20% of our profits come from stolen DiversiDine goods. We have a team that specializes in it. We’d have to completely rethink our territorial piracy structure.”
The broadcast cut to a life-form labeled, “Eudicot T’murp, CEO and Founder of DiversiDine Entertainment Systems and Aeroponics. “Today DiversiDine represents the same quality technology and freshly grown snack foods we have always been proud to offer. We are also aware of, and are currently in negotiations with, the Non-Organic Simulant leaders about their benefits concerns.”
“What about Tryfe?” shouted a reporter in the press conference audience.
“I think GCU teenagers should stop buzzing it. It’s unfair to the backspace life-forms. Thank you. No more questions, please.”
Rozz disconnected from the Uninet and slipped off her Invis-i-lissin headset, hanging it back on the hook so she could find it again later, which was always an issue with these designed-to-be-transparent technologies.
She was lucky she could even think that far ahead, she considered; she felt like she was in a trance. Bertram Ludlow was not only alive and roaming the Greater Communicating Universe, he’d been in prison, somehow escaped and was now an intergalactic fugitive.
Back home, the guy thought a kooky evening out was pizza with extra cheese and two-for-one Happy Hour beer specials.
Of course, back on Earth, Rozz also could go where she pleased without electrocution to the head.
Travel changed you, she supposed.
But it all came down to this: Bertram Ludlow really was in outer space.
And he’d been hella busy.
Chapter 19
“As I live and respire, I simply cannot believe you’re here sitting in my copilot chair!” Xylith’s right face gave a smiling sideways glance at Bertram as she directed the ship over Ottofram.
From the cockpit window, Bertram could see the crowd growing and surging around DiversiDine headquarters. Media ICVs and law enforcement ships hovered like giant wasps over the executive hive. She twiddled fingers gracefully at him. “Harness up now. There might be a bump or two.”
“Thank you for coming,” Bertram said for the third time since he’d climbed up the collapsible ramp through the hatch. He slipped the chair’s harness over his head and clicked it into place. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You surely have gotten yourself into one heap of trouble, haven’t you?” she asked gently. Her tone said that it didn’t bother her one bit.
“I had some help in that effort,” Bertram told her. He held up the fast food bag he’d been lugging around since Mig Verlig. “I believe this is yours.”
Her lavender eyes fell on it, and her right face gave a bemused eyebrow-raise. “Why, dear man, I’m afraid Entropy Burger and I have never quite seen eye-to-eye-to-stomach. But I thank you all the same.”
He shook the bag, which gave a melodic, monetary jingle. “Even to feed your yoonie card? As I promised, when we spoke earlier.”
“Ahh.” The planet appeared to be shrinking under them. Bertram felt himself finally begin to untense at the growing distance. “About that,” Zylith began, “how exactly did you find my vis-u connection?”
“Uninet directory assistance. A good old-fashioned name like ‘Xylith Duonogganon’ isn’t as common on Dootett as it used to be,” he said. Before hitting the right target, he’d made two erroneous connections to two very sweet elderly Xylith Duonogganons, one of which barely let him get off the vis-u and made him promise to comm again soon. The other was in the middle of a hot Emperor’s G’napps game in the Upper Dootett Retirement Units.
This Xylith worked to hold back a smile. “Why, you were listening to my secret and very personal voting information back at the Underworld conference, weren’t you? What a horrible invasion of privacy.”
Bertram shrugged. “We both know I’m trouble.”
“Oh, we do; indeed, we do.” She adjusted one of the controls. “Speaking of which, just where has your help in the trouble department gotten to, anyway? Why isn’t our Captain Tsmorlood taking you to … where’d you say you wanted to go again?”
“Blumdec.”
She nodded and programmed something into the sleek console before her. “Why isn’t our Captain Tsmorlood taking you to Blumdec, instead of me? Did that creaking container of metal he calls an ICV break down again? Why, once it left us high and dry on Vos Laegos and there weren’t any replacement parts for it for simply worlds over. He claims it’s ‘rare.’ Which, so far as I can tell, is code for ‘discontinued for safety reasons.’ But, of course, there’s no telling him anything. Especially when it comes to things no one in their right mind would ever want, like dusty old print and creaky old ships and …” She paused for breath. “Did you say it broke down?” Her voice rippled with a gentile eagerness.
“I didn’t say. But no.” Something told Bertram he should tread lightly here. It was unstable ground, likely to shake out in almost any direction. “He, um, he wanted to lie low for a while. He’s got some …” Bertram chose his words carefully, “… Altair-5 problems.”
At this, both of Xylith’s faces gave a huff. “Altair-5 … Well, yes, he would have pushed the RegForce to send him to Altair-5, wouldn’t he? I know I wanted to send him to Altair-5 a few times myself. Only I don’t have the connections.”
“Actually, there was a glitch in the system,” Bertram told her. “He was supposed to have his archive blanked, but the Seers—”
She swiveled in the pilot’s chair and faced him, doubly. Four-sets of eyes fell on him with interest. “And Rollie just dumped you off on Mig Verlig to take one of those germy Cosmos Corrals and navigate the ins-and-outs of the GCU all by yourself?” Bertram opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t give him the chance. “I don’t know how he lives with himself. I know I couldn’t.” She sniffed derisively. “I don’t suppose he said where he was going?”
“No. Just that he planned to lie low.”
“Typical.” She sniffed again, with both noses.
Bertram thought you’ve never really heard derision until you’ve heard it sniff with two noses.
On the tiny planet of Ejellan, the windows were dark at the Dax Q. Phlyjollee Traditional Public Library and Print Museum. Satchel slung over his shoulder, Rolliam Tsmorlood glanced at the sun, high in the sky above him, and frowned.
Midday, yet pitch black inside. Didn’t bode well.
Rollie stepped onto the moving walkway leading to the library’s door, but it didn’t roll. It didn’t budge. A sediment of mud, dust and weeds had caked itself into its crevasses. A family of hexabulons— an insect the size of a large Tryfan dog and with the multi-legged defense skills of Sum-Guy-Wowee Yup—had woven a canopy of silken threads spanning the streetlights lining the walk from the ICV park, all the way to the building’s dome. The strands glistened with the sun behind them. The dome was further snaggled with a thick layer of enthusiastic vines.
Someone needed to take better care of this place, Rollie thought. That Phlyjollee wasn’t getting his money’s worth from his staff. Someone fragging-well needed to have a little chat with them about responsibility and maintenance and remind them just who was boss around here. Remind them whose planet this blasted-well was, why they were here, and who generously paid their salaries.
Of course, money was something of a sticking point right now, Rollie considered, as he strode manually toward the front door. He’d stopped to fuel his ship only to discover his yoonie cards—even the old ones he’d tucked away before his unfortunate confinement on Rhobux-7—had all been sliced from the system. Invalidated. He’d cruised into Ejellan’s atmosphere on fumes, and the fact he made it at all was pure, beautiful luck.
But it wasn’t luck that Dax Q. Phlyjollee had some money stowed away. A few yoonie cards, a bit of good old-fashioned Deltan currency. That was planning. Enough tucked aside just for times like this.
Where Rolliam Ts
morlood had a criminal archive that could wrap around his home planet three times, Dax Q. Phlyjollee was a businessman and philanthropist with only hair-thin ties to the Intergalactic Underworld. Phlyjollee’s only real crime was collecting, trading in, and housing the now-forsaken and, in some places banned and illegal, hard copy print. Hardly enough for the authorities to get their astro-togs in much of a bunch over. And as for those rabid Forwardist slaggards who wanted to incinerate anything that didn’t come in capsule form, well, the planet of Ejellan only had the one thing on it: this library. No one else knew it was here, aside from his librarian and his handyman. And it was looking like they had forgotten all about it, too.
But someday, Rollie figured as he ascended the steps, someday print would become something life-forms would look back on more fondly. Not as something that held them back, but something they could hold. Right now they weren’t ready. It was too close, too soon. But sometime, someday, he was convinced, print would have a comeback.
And Dax Q. Phlyjollee would be waiting.
But Rollie’s alter ego was not the only one who waited this day. As he moved closer to the library, hexabulons descended from under the eaves of the entrance, graceful and sure. They made the eerily melodic plunk-plonk-plank-plink, like fingers dragging over the teeth of a Tryfan comb.
Rollie didn’t know Hexabulese, but he had the gist.
He had woken them. They had woken cranky. And they were famished.
Rollie had read once that a single pinprick’s worth of hexabulon poison, housed inside the sharp fine hairs on each of their legs, held enough toxins to fall a mathgar. They could extend those hairs upwards of four feet in order to reach and wrap around their prey.
Today, Rollie Tsmorlood wasn’t in a touchy-feely mood. He drew his trusty XJ-37 hand-laser from its holster and fired.
One, two … splut, splut. The hexabulons dropped like leggy, furry rocks.
