by Jenn Thorson
He’d already shifted some the Underworld sponsor money to cover it. But it wouldn’t be long before someone caught on to that. Rentar Proximetra had been named Underworld Treasurer for this coming year, and that woman was a stickler for flawless book-keeping.
She wasn’t known for her sense of humor, either.
But now this “Life for Tryfe” foolishness had been stirred up and seemed to be spreading like a Simmiparlor virus. There was a leak somewhere, and an unhappy, very vocal Tryfeman was adding undue complexity to the matter.
While the situation, thankfully, hadn’t happened before his re-election, Zenith Skytreg now wouldn’t have the chance to set the tone for the announcement about Tryfe’s sale and redevelopment. Instead, he was put in the position of doing damage control. And that, like knockoff Gapoochi spaceboots, just wasn’t his style.
The fire was almost out now. Just a thin flicker of flame gasped under the layers of quelling powder, soon to die out.
Perhaps the same could happen with this ridiculous “Life for Tryfe” business. If he could get some of his people to track down the Tryfeman and toss enough of the right metaphorical quelling powder on him … Well, Zenith Skytreg imagined the GCU would soon forget about such Tryfling concerns.
If there were anything he’d learned since entering Underworld politics it was that the GCU had an advantageously short memory.
Eudicot T’murp entered the conference room to see a large crowd of Making Things Up folks gathered around the holovision in rapt attention. Some life-forms were cross-legged on the floor. Some had pulled up cushions from the brainstorming room’s sofa. And others were perched on the conference tabletop. They passed around a bowl of Sleemy Snaps. A refreshments robot made rounds with cold beverages.
For a while, the shot on the holovision screen had been at a strange angle, focusing on what appeared to be the wall of a nicely-appointed ICV bathroom.
Now it displayed a control room console and a moving starscape.
“How’s it going?” T’murp asked.
“The Tryfling’s on his way to Ludd,” the head of Making Things Up said, offering T’murp the snack bowl.
T’murp politely declined. “Ludd? What’s on Ludd?”
“Bertram Ludlow has a line on someone who could tell him about the Yellow Thing,” said the Making Things Up assistant-manager. “He wants to dig up Tryfe’s sales history to find its owner.”
T’murp smiled at the Tryfling’s undaunted spirit. “Poor, confused Tryfe kid. If it were that easy to get Tryfe’s details, we’d have had that information ourselves U-days ago.” He took a seat. “But you have to admire his optimism. Is there any chance of his ‘expert’ giving him good information about the Yellow Thing? Our Tryfling friend finds out it’s a camera, and our show’s likely to get a very abrupt ending.”
“That kind of technical expertise on Ludd? Very slim,” said the Making Things Up head.
The refreshments robot was tugging T’murp’s pantleg and brandishing an assortment of DiversiDine-bottled juice choices.
“No, thank you,” T’murp told it and rising, he addressed the manager. “Looks good. Nice job so far. Just keep an eye on it for me,” he said.
“For you, Mr. T’murp, I’ll use all six.”
Chapter 22
From the air, it looked like a crazed Renaissance faire had attacked some major U.S. city, usurped power, and called in a decorator. But such was Ludd’s capital of Mallitt. Every building and skyscraper stood resilient in tiered and chiseled stone blocks. The roofs were thatched. Hand-sewn streams of pennants spanned the streets. The roads were cobble. The world was strangely quiet.
Xylith set the ICV down in a nearby field where trusting locals had parked their wagons. The only life in view was a bridled, segmented animal with six great thick legs and a back-end that looked identical to its front. It reared and shrieked as they stepped from the spacecraft, but it calmed as Xylith spoke sweetly to it and patted its hard-shelled back. It nuzzled her, pincers clicking happily.
They moved down the stone walkways like sole survivors of apocalypse, yet a brief slam of a shutter, or eye through a knothole signaled life did exist within.
Soon they reached the door of the Fezziwig Towers, an ornate, elegant example of Mallitt’s architecture, and at its threshold, Xylith came to a sharp halt.
“What’s wrong?” Bertram Ludlow was poised for new danger.
But staring at the entrance, Xylith’s laugh bubbled up with embarrassment. “Oh, I keep forgetting. This is one of those interesting old manual doors.” She pressed on the entry, and nearly toppled into the room as the doorman, who’d just come off break, rushed to let her in.
The lobby of the Fezziwig Towers was a highly decorative room. It was covered in hand-painted murals of everyday Ludd life, rich hand-carved woodwork, and blown glass lanterns crafted in the shape of local fauna. These last items bobbed like crystalline piñatas overhead.
O’wun’s apartment was one of two penthouse suites. They reached his floor by an elevator controlled by pulleys and counterweights. A cheerful hand-painted sign with delicate curly lettering translated to read, “Max weight: 433 toks. Mind the gap.”
As they stepped onto O’wun’s floor, Bertram could hear the chatter and the music from stringed instruments twanging down the hall. The door was open, and Luddites laughed and ran from one suite to the next, while the party overflow mingled in the hallway. The inhabitants’ clothes were brightly colored, painted, and beaded. They sipped from pottery cups.
As Bertram and Xylith passed, judgmental eyes fell on the lady in her metallic, non-natural fibers. Xylith noticed it, too. “Let’s just find O’wun and get out of here,” she muttered. “I forgot there’s an unofficial dress code.”
Inside, guests sat around a large sunken fireplace, where the loin of a once-great alien beast turned slowly on a spit, juices dripping, sizzling and smoking in a salivation-worthy reverie. A group of musicians played local instruments, while a swaying, giggling audience sang. All enjoyed ladled drinks of some thick liquid from a large blue kettle settled on one side of the room. Some danced.
Xylith scanned the room for familiar faces, but settled for tapping a tall stranger on the shoulder. “Excuse me, have you seen O’wun?”
The man turned. He was a sturdy middle-aged man with sandy brown hair that waved confidently over his brow. His jaw was as chiseled as the Towers’ stone walls. And there was something so … familiar … about his gestures and features, thought Bertram. Yet he couldn’t quite place it.
“Well, hello there!” The man was certainly eyeing Xylith up and down appreciatively. “Lucky me. Here an out-of-this-world celestial body comes looking for O’wun, but she feels my own powerful gravitational pull first.” He broke out in laughter.
Bertram thought Xylith seemed to be resisting the guy’s applied physics just fine. Her expressions had the planetary weight of Deeply Unamused.
The man cleared his throat. “O’wun’s gone to the greenhouse for polegrots,” he finally explained. “You know what they say: ‘a party’s not a party without plenty of polegrots.’” The man let out another explosion of hearty, manic laughter. “He should be back soon.”
Bertram was still struggling with who on earth this guy was and why he seemed so familiar. The guy turned to Bertram. “Hey,” he greeted. “You’re a Tryfling, too, aren’t you?”
And then Bertram remembered: Earth! Sure the face was different, older, more careworn, perhaps. But a decade ago, that face had been on the nightly news for months. It was a face emblazoned in the minds of millions of Americans. Yet it couldn’t be possible that same face was here, now. Could it? “Is that … you … Modean?” Bertram breathed.
At Bertram’s words, the face lit like rocket fuel. “Well, if that isn’t just a blast from backspace. Someone remembers!” he exclaimed and snapped to attention. He gave a little salute. “Major Thomas D. Modean. Pleased to meet you, fellow Tryfe Human. And you are …?”
“Ludlow
, Bertram Ludlow.” Modean’s handshake was like still-warm steel.
“And who is this shining star at your side, Bert?”
“Bertram,” Bertram corrected.
The astronaut had turned a beaming white smile on Xylith.
“This star is shooting. Out of this atmosphere. For less charted territories. Pardon me.” She indicated the drinks kettle and extracted herself.
Major Modean paused to admire her as she left. “Hard to tractor beam; I like it. Sleemy Snaps?” He offered a bowl of crunchy-looking green spirals.
Bertram shook his head. “So what actually happened to you on that spacewalk? There was this weird flash of light and you were just … gone.”
“Ah. Yes.” The man’s voice became suddenly heavy and his cheek gave a nervous tic. “I guess it all started when the equipment I was trying to repair exploded. The impact took out my tether and jammed the SAFER joystick.” His eyes gained a faraway expression. “No matter what I tried, I could not get myself turned in the right direction. Then the SAFER’s jets failed. Before I knew it, I was drifting … falling … floating weightless … farther and farther away from the capsule.” Bertram knew all this from the NASA footage, but he didn’t want to interrupt. “Years of intense training, and still there was nothing I could do,” Modean continued. “It was my biggest nightmare, come-to-life. In fact, I still wake up in a cold sweat dreaming about it.” The astronaut brought the pottery cup to his lips with a shaking hand and took a long, restorative drink.
“But the weird flash of light,” Bertram pressed.
“Qwaybop teenagers on a joyride to Tryfe,” answered Modean. “Pure luck they saw me and gave me a lift.” He gulped down the rest of his punch and slung his cup onto a nearby table. “I’ve been knocking around the GCU ever since.”
“We mourned you as a nation,” Bertram informed him. “You’re on a collector’s stamp.”
“Cosmic,” Major Modean said, but that may have been about the four-breasted blue woman who passed by.
Bertram struggled not to stare himself. “So, um,” he cleared his throat, “what brings you to Ludd?”
“Well, I’ve already done the GCU tourist thing. Experienced the … the wonders.” Modean’s eye twitched again, and he turned the full force of his gaze on Bertram. One pupil, Bertram noticed, was slightly bigger than the other. “But Ludd is simple. Ludd is pure. On Ludd, I don’t have to touch anything that will jettison or explode. On Ludd, Barry …” He latched a hand painfully onto Bertram’s shoulder, “on Ludd, I feel at home.”
“Bertram,” Bertram mumbled, taking a step back. “But what about Earth? Earth is simple, and you’d get a hero’s welcome. We still have anniversary tribute specials for you that interrupt regularly-scheduled programming and stuff. People care.”
“Go back? To Tryfe?” Tom Modean mused. “Oh, I’ve thought about it, Bernard. I’ve thought long and hard. But for me, Tryfe is a lot like a high school reunion. Sure, part of you might want to try to rekindle those old flames and stir up those old memories. But should you?”
The blue woman was eying him with interest from across the room. Modean gave her a salute. “Oh yes, I’ve known the GCU. I could return and share my knowledge with the people of Tryfe. But why disrupt their blissfully ignorant lives? No, I’ll stay here where things so rarely explode or jettison. I’ll keep my wisdom to myself. I consider that my final gift to them.”
“Well, you do realize that bliss may not last much longer,” Bertram pointed out. “It’s all over the Uninet; Tryfe’s being sold for redevelopment any time now.”
“I don’t have the Uninet. Or a holovision. Or a vis-u. Or anything mass-produced that could potentially jettison or—”
“Explode?” suggested Bertram, but Major Modean was now giving the blue woman his best “come hither” glance.
“All that’s not really not a part of Ludd’s … orbit … you know?” concluded Modean. He took an appetizer off a tray someone offered. “No: here, it’s about calm, connecting and creativity. We paint, we sculpt, we build, we blacksmith, we farm. In fact, I’ve got myself a great crop of whizzly leaf growing this year and, come harvest, you won’t believe the party we’re going to have. As the kids say: ‘supernova!’” He nudged Bertram with an elbow. “Consider yourself invited, Bart.”
“Bertram. Look, Major Modean—”
“Tom. Or Tommy. Or Toe-MAHS, if you get launched by the exotic. I get launched by the exotic.”
“—You could be a big asset to Tryfe right now,” Bertram persisted. “You know people in the GCU. You could make them listen. By joining me in speaking up for our home planet, you could help me preserve it.”
But the astronaut was now holding up and admiring a hand-crafted fruit bowl from a nearby end table. “You ever weave a Luddite basket, Barton? You just haven’t relaxed until you’ve woven a basket in the traditional Luddite style of weaving. I never felt such peace and focus until the day I wove a traditional Luddite basket. It’s like having the threads of the cosmos right in your hands.”
There was a gentle touch at Bertram’s elbow, and he saw Xylith had returned to his side.
“Major Modean isn’t operating on all rockets these days,” Bertram told her in a low voice.
But Xylith just pointed to the penthouse doorway. “O’wun.”
And Bertram noticed a tanned, middle-aged man with a receding hairline enter. He carried a basketful of something that looked like budding prickly-pear cactus without the spines. At the sight of him, the party-goers cheered.
O’wun smiled at the crowd and nodded his appreciation—a smile that transformed into delighted recognition as Xylith came to view. “Xylith! I didn’t know you were coming to the party. I’ll put these in the Food Preparation Room and be out in just a—”
“O’wun, we need a favor,” she said and ushered him into the kitchen, Bertram at her heels.
“We?” He set down the veg with a thump. Turning, his eyes fell on the Earthman.
“O’wun, this is my new friend, Bertram,” Xylith said.
Bertram gave a friendly nod.
The Simulant’s first response was an abrupt laugh. “Ah, so does the Captain know about your ‘new friend’?” O’wun rolled the polegrots into a sink and pumped water over them. “And if not, ” he looked up, grinning all too organically, “can I tell him?”
“Why, you really do have thrill issues, don’t you?” Xylith said, shaking her head. “Yes, Captain Tsmorlood knows Bertram. In fact, I wouldn’t even be here if our mutual friend, the Captain, had done the decent thing in the first place, and even remotely bothered to—” She stopped herself, closed two sets of eyes in self-reminder and held up her palm. “No. Nevermind. This is not the time.” She looked at O’wun. “So about this favor.”
“Anything. You name it. Hand me that knife, please?”
She did. “Bertram is from Tryfe. And I imagine you’ve heard all about how poor little Tryfe is being sold and redeveloped with innocent backspace people still living on it.”
“Actually, I haven’t.” He sliced the succulent thin, each slice the same perfect thickness as the other slices. “I don’t have the Uninet. Or a holovision. Or a vis-u. Or anything mass-produced.”
“Oh, but O’wun, my star …” Her tone had suddenly become smooth as caramel syrup. “… I know very well you don’t need any of those silly things. You’ve got this great big beautiful machine right up here.” She tapped his temple with a gentle hand. “You can’t tell me you don’t connect from time-to-time. Get a bit of that ol’ juice running through your system and—”
“Shhh.” His eyes darted to the small window off the counter that opened into the lounge. “Will you please respect where you are?” he hissed.
“Well, we were wondering if you might not be able to use that great, big, gorgeous mind of yours and tell us something about this.”
At her cue, Bertram held up the Yellow Thing.
O’wun barely glanced at it and went back to chopping. “No. Abs
olutely not. I don’t recognize it, and that means it would require research.” Chop, chop, chop, chop. “My researching days are over.”
“But you could do it if you wanted to,” pressed Xylith.
“This is Ludd. And when in Ludd, we do like the Luddites do. No research.” Chop, chop, chop.
Bertram stepped forward. “It was given to me by the Seers of Rhobux,” he explained. “And right now it’s the only clue I have to saving my planet. Anything you could tell us would be invaluable. Xylith says you’re a whiz at this sort of thing. Better than any other Non-Organ—”
A knife flashed through the air and pressed Bertram’s throat. “Any other what?” O’wun’s face was right in his. You could have counted the pores of his skin, if he’d had any. “Any other what?!”
“Any other … any other …” Bertram’s mind ran quickly, “…completely retired programmers?” he suggested. He braced himself to be stuck like a pig, so it was little wonder he jumped like a greased one when the swinging door burst open.
It was as if Death had just heard the hot scoop on a potential murder-in-progress and didn’t want to be tardy for his cue. The tall, black-clad figure swept into the Food Preparation Room, purposeful and right at home, overcoat tails flapping behind with a cool self-confidence Bertram found just a little annoying.
“Ah. O’wun. There you are. Need a favor,” said Rolliam Tsmorlood. He looked from O’wun, to Bertram, to Xylith, and for a split-second, surprise widened his amber eyes. He burst out laughing. “Well, frag me senseless. If it isn’t Tryfe’s Most Wanted and Light-fingers Lady Duonogganon. What brings you here?”
“He’s going to tell me about the Yellow Thing,” said Bertram, indicating O’wun.
“He needed a lift,” explained Xylith, indicating Bertram.
“First, I need him to blank my crimes archive,” said Rollie, taking a seat on the counter.
“Does no one care I’m holding a knife here?” O’wun asked the cosmos. He gave a final, resigned snarl and tossed the blade into the sink. “I am not researching your Yellow Thing, and I am not blanking your archive. You’ve come to the wrong place. Now you are welcome to go right around back into the lounge,” here he motioned a circle in the air, “and enjoy some refreshments. But otherwise, I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave.”
