by Jenn Thorson
“Of course it was mine. Do you think these GCU wackos have attention spans long enough to write a title that clunky? I was thinking on the fly, pal.”
O’wun cleared his throat. “It’s a Klinko Cranial Boundary Determinator, isn’t it?”
She tossed him a suspicious gaze. “Yeah, why?”
“Those are red lights flashing along its decorative outer casing,” he observed.
“I’ll take your word for it.” She tried to catch her reflection in the dusty metal of the display case. “So?”
“It’s not armed,” he said.
“What?” Bertram and Rozz made it a chorus.
“It’s listed as part of the errata in the latest edition of all their technical manuals. A product-wide miscommunication in the instructions.” He sighed, adding, “A common problem with using non-native Klinkon translators who aren’t always able to apply cultural context. In the Klinko star system, red is the color of freedom and joy. Now if it were lit green—”
Bertram gave a strained laugh.
But Rozz’s face was almost as pink as her hair. “Are you shitting me? This thing works, I assure you. It’s shot so many volts through me I microwaved my own tongue.”
“Perhaps it was armed,” said O’wun patiently, “But it’s not now. I imagine when they adjusted the programming for you to be able to come here—”
This was all Rozz needed to hear. She’d latched on to Bertram’s wrist and yanked him to the exit.
“You’re welcome,” O’wun called, moving to catch up. Bertram hadn’t realized Non-Organic Simulants had a sarcasm app.
“So this is your doing,” Rolliam Tsmorlood told Eudicot T’murp over the barrel of his XJ-37. “You hired the Seers of Rhobux to arrange the kidnapping on Tryfe. You’re the reason those sightless slaggards went offline and off-orbit without blanking my archive. And you’re the reason the RegForce is ready to send me to Altair-5.”
An explosion rocked the field, not of his making, and Rollie glanced over his shoulder to see its cause. Three sections over, the lady from Dootett had cheerfully zapped out the RegForce ICV ramp, just as they were about to deboard. The ramp retracted and jammed the exit hatch with a whizzz and a metallic groan that echoed throughout Skorbig Stadium.
It was a nice effort and Rollie was glad for the extra time. Especially when he tended to get so wrapped up in his own work. Any card-carrying member of the Underworld would tell you: you rush a delicate armed coercion opportunity, you get scab results.
With a nod of thanks, Rollie returned his full attention to DiversiDine’s CEO. “So because you set me up,” he continued, “you’re going to make it up. You, T’murp, are going to give me something I want.”
“And what’s that?” asked T’murp warily. Half of DiversiDine had abandoned their stadium seats for less volatile views of the action. The other half was frozen with trepidation. That seemed to include T’murp.
“Power,” Rollie said simply. “Power you leverage to blank me—with them.” Here he pointed to the RegForce ICV. The exit hatch and attached ramp were wildly lurching open and shut, open and shut, like hungry jaws. “That done, you’re going to tell me where the Seers are. Me and them need a meeting of the minds.”
Rollie wasn’t sure what reaction he expected from the man—possibly pathetic begging or blatant denial—but it wasn’t the one he got. “Gosh, Rollie,” mused T’murp quietly, “you seem to be taking this awfully personally.” He sounded surprised, and he addressed this primarily to the Deltan’s hand-laser.
The businessman’s mild tone and the offensive lack of perspective lit a small new fury in Rollie’s mind. “Personally?! How in Altair’s tarpits is this not—”
“I didn’t choose you for this job, you know, Rollie. The Seers did. And I didn’t decide who picked up Bertram Ludlow and got things launched, either. That was the Seers, too. Of course, now that I’ve seen your work,” T’murp smiled warmly, one of the buds at his right temple flowering out into something purple, perfumed and pretty, “I agree, you were a stellar choice. I mean, the test groups love you. All that …” he paused, considering his words carefully, “… energy. Do you realize you’re on your way to being a household name?”
“I am on my way to fragging Altair-5,” Rollie corrected, low and firm, “or an unfulfilled lifetime of uncharacteristic skulking and relentless paranoia. Both of which make me, in effect, dead. So you start filming your statement to the Uninet demanding that I’m blanked of all recent events—” Rollie snatched a pocket vis-u from one of T’murp’s less fleet-footed assistants who was trying to contact help. He plugged in the number of Bertram Ludlow’s “Life for Tryfe” Uninet site and tossed the device to the DiversiDine president. It wasn’t the quality video production they’d get through O’wun, but it would do. “—And you tell me where the Seers are. Now.”
T’murp looked hesitantly at the vis-u in his hand. It seemed that telling the whole GCU your plans through a Real Reality RealTime DocuDrama came a lot more naturally than pulling a few strings and setting things right for the fugitives you created.
And the more he thought about it, the more Rollie saw what he hated about mainstream business; there was no sense of honor, no higher understanding. He swallowed his increasing anger and peered at T’murp through the sight on his favorite weapon.
Even to himself, his voice came out too unnaturally calm, too unnervingly distant. “You realize,” he pondered, “one pull of the trigger at the right spot, on the right setting, and we’re, any of us, just so many particles in the atmosphere … Vapor on the breeze … Dust sifting back into the cosmic void.”
His finger flirted lightly with the trigger. The design was so smooth, so easy on the hand. It was elegance in advanced weaponry. It was beauty and brutality unified. It was temptation and terror in one cool metal package. “The philosopher Karnax called life-forms’ pitiful need to believe in our own enduring legacy as ‘untraceable whisperings in the Universal cavern.’” He considered T’murp carefully. “What’ll your whispers say, I wonder?”
Not that Rollie had ever given the launch to an unarmed sentient being before—at least not so he remembered. His more final laserings had been of the frag-or-be-fragged variety. But given the inconvenience he’d endured at the hands of T’murp’s pet project and the growing unharnessed outrage coursing through him, the idea was starting to have a certain hungry allure.
He toyed with the concept for a brief, entrancing moment longer before some more stabilizing Hyphiz Deltan brain chemicals stepped forward and reminded him that sizzling the fellow in front of everybody and Karnax probably wouldn’t do much to promote Rollie as your average, basically-decent fellow who got a raw deal. It suggested instead he sweeten the situation from a different angle first: diplomacy. He’d heard it worked for some people.
Likely people who didn’t own XJ-37s.
“Besides—” began Rollie slowly, trying to clear out the last mental images of fragmented cells dancing on the breeze. He offered a smile he intended to be winning, but judging from the way T’murp stared, it probably wasn’t. “—Altair-5’s a polite way of saying ‘death sentence.’ You don’t want one of your leading men thoroughly killed before your show even premieres, do you? How would that look to viewers?”
To Rollie’s surprise, this did seem to be more T’murp’s language. His leaves seemed to perk up, and now he was nodding. “I see your point.”
“Good.” Across the kachunkettball field, the RegForce’s hatch had come to a halt and was stuck half-open. The officers were now combining any and all lengths of on-hand cords, belts and blankets to create a rope long enough to descend. Rollie said, “Looks like you’ll be able to tell your tale to ’em directly soon enough.”
“On the other hand,” T’murp considered, greening further, “it’s not as if you really had a lot of screen time in There Goes the Galaxy.”
Rollie didn’t like this particular shift in tone.
“Yes, and think what a poignant DocuDrama finale it could be,�
�� input Zenith Skytreg coolly, now emerging from the crowd, “if you end it with a member of your own cast being sent to Altair-5.” Skytreg directed his hand-laser to the Hyphiz Deltan. “Sure, Tsmorlood wouldn’t live to cameo in any reunion specials. But I tell you, Eudicot, it would make GCU entertainment history.” Skytreg’s hand-laser had an overly-elaborate casing—-the kind only idiots with more yoonies than sense would choose—but at this range, it could still frag a guy’s skull into whisperings.
Surprised by this change in odds, Xylith directed her aim from the RegForce and the crowd in general to Skytreg in specific. It would have been a Mexican standoff, if this hadn’t been the GCU and the participants weren’t Vos Laegon, Hyphiz Deltan, Cardoon and Dootett respectively.
In the GCU they called it a “Jeff.”
Skytreg tossed Xylith a glance but instead focused his bright, too-close-together eyes on the Hyphiz Deltan. “I’m sorry to interrupt the morning’s intimidation meeting. As Official Leader of the Intergalactic Underworld Society, I do appreciate your efforts. It’s so rare I get to see really well-done duress in action these days.” He took a step forward. “I’d also like to add that the Society does have an excellent opt-in mental health plan; I know: I negotiated the package personally. So if you do get out of here alive and physically well, perhaps you’ll consider taking advantage of it. Regardless, I can’t let you kill my winning bidder.”
At the words “winning bidder,” a murmur rose from the crowd. Instantly, business plans shifted, budgets opened up, dreams were squashed, and T’murp looked like he expected this win all along. “Everyone loves a good DocuDrama,” he said modestly.
Skytreg smiled, holding aloft his own pocket vis-u in the hand not brandishing the laser. “Precisely! According to my sources here, our little Tryfe friend’s film is getting Uninet attention off the charts. Everyone’s entranced with the idea of There Goes the Galaxy. They love the Tryfling’s spirit. They love his determination. They even love his Tryfe accent. I wouldn’t dream of standing in the way of this entertainment phenomenon.”
Skytreg returned the vis-u to the pocket of his pearly suit. “But might I suggest two things, Eudicot? One: buy the rights, quickly, to the footage Ludlow released. People already seem to think it’s a teaser for the series. And two: what would you say to a full Underworld ad sponsorship to run during the show’s premiere?”
For Rollie, this was just too much. The Underworld of old would have focused on strengthening its blackmarket shipping network, upholding piracy with finesse, and crafting kidnappings done with a certain graceful mystery. Now the Society was sponsoring mindless mass-market programming? Rollie swung his weapon from T’murp to Skytreg. “That’s right. Wear down the Underworld’s nobility even further,” he growled. “Where are your fragging standards, Skytreg? You realize we wouldn’t even be in this spot if you hadn’t decided buying and selling inhabited backspace planets made for a nice side income.”
Skytreg laughed and folded his arms. “It seems your information is as skewed as your outlook, Tsmorlood. What makes you think I ever bought Tryfe?” He gave the same kind of smile he’d have given someone’s temperamental progeny, condescension wrapped in thin tolerance. “A desperate Farquotichian tossed it into the pot on the Emperor’s G’napps tables last U-year. It so happens, I won that round.” He moved his own laser to center on Rollie’s forehead. “Doesn’t serendipity just blow your mind?”
Now Rollie noticed the Vos Laegos showbeings, in their purple and red cheerleader uniforms, had clustered to form a tight wall around Skytreg.
Vos Laegons, he knew, were one of the few creatures in the Universe with the ability to change their shape into a stable, secondary form at will. Rollie had read once it had something to do with their evolution and the species’ natural ability to survive under harsh desert conditions, without a consistent food source. Millions of years ago, it was by luring in unsuspecting predators, only to turn them into quick all-you-could-digest buffets. These days it largely involved tourists, dark alleys and drained yoonie cards. But it was the part about the transformation and informal dining that tended to stick foremost in the brain.
So Rollie was not terribly surprised when they morphed into pearly-skinned horrors prepped for business.
“I see. Your fine ladies and gentlemen are going to do your dirty work for you,” Rollie commented to Skytreg. He kept his voice steady and his gaze on Skytreg because, frankly, the overall group effect was terrifying. “It’s just like the Feegar Rebellion, innit? Why bother to fight in a war when you can just say you did and stage the heroic photos later? So much tidier.”
Rollie waited.
Skytreg’s face grew grave with interest. “And how would you know I wasn’t in the Feegar Rebellion?”
“Because I was.” Rollie watched his expression. “I led one Klimfal defense group, Rentar Proximetra the other. I made it my business to know the troops. Mine and hers.” Rollie’s amber gaze was unflinching. “You weren’t among them.”
One of Skytreg’s silvery eyebrows raised, just a fraction. Rollie wasn’t sure, but he felt the man’s complexion lost some of its luster.
“Interesting.” Skytreg leaned in closer now, his fellow Vos Laegons making way for him. In a quiet, confidential tone, Skytreg said, “I wondered why your name sounded so familiar. I bet it was your war record I drew on. Only,” he considered, “in my version, I wasn’t left behind to fend for myself against the Feegars because my team scattered like scared snoogles. I didn’t get myself captured and tortured for … how many Universal weeks was it? And I didn’t sit around in irons waiting until my second-in-command eventually realized I was missing and came back to rescue me.” Skytreg smiled. “But it’s nice to finally put the name with a face.” He whirled around and gestured, shouting, “Here he is, Officers! I stopped Tsmorlood for you.”
As if following the Hyphiz System RegClock, the RegForce arrived on cue. Tstyko, with his driven scowl, dashed onto the scene like a man afire, and Mook brought up the rear, still winded from scaling down the side of his own ICV.
But the thing about Hyphizite Regimentation, Rollie thought, was its beautiful, boring predictability. It was easy to plan for this sort of entrance, in times everything else had gone south. And what Rollie liked in particular about his plan of combat today was its efficient, elegant simplicity …
Though some would also call it “blowing a whacking great hole in the risers below his feet.”
The blast rocked the seats. The showbeings fell over willy-nilly like the pins on an Emperor’s G’napps table. Rollie noticed Skytreg, the simpering, cowardly slaggard, ducked for cover like the slippery sludge he was. Xylith made a swift break for the exit. And the Hyphiz Deltan himself plummeted down into the floors under the seating with a thump and a clatter, bruised and battered on the chunks of rubble below.
Chapter 26
Rollie glanced at the empty circle of sky above, righted himself despite some interesting new pains, and dashed into the darkness. Funny, he thought, how his choices for ending this regrettably-detoured scene of restitution came down to vertical logistics: up or down? Down or up?
Things went south, and so did he, because Up was considerably more problematic. He’d never gotten around to investing in a good pair of jet boots; seemed frivolous somehow when his plain old boots still had some life left in them. And while he imagined he did have a grappling hook-and-line tucked in a pocket somewhere, laying hands on it quickly was the tricky part.
In truth, that was one of his greatest faults, he admitted now, as he ducked through Skorbig Stadium’s winding behind-the-scenes halls; he lacked organization. Having the right tools was one thing. Finding them in a pinch was something else entirely.
He could hear the thud as others made their way into the stadium inner-sanctum through his make-shift door. Running footsteps echoed, and he picked up the pace. Tstyko, he knew, could run—really run. Every few U-months, it seemed, Hyphizite news reported Tstyko winning this inter-solar system
marathon and sweeping that Quadrant competition. Why, W.I. Igglestik Tstyko was born running. Likely made for an exceedingly confusing delivery for the Hyphiz Delta Progeny Farm nursing staff, Rollie imagined. But on the plus side, it was over fast.
Rollie took a quick left, hoping twists and turns would buy him time. This path opened into a narrow hall, filled with benches and lined with rows of purple-and-red storage containers: the Skorbig Ergowohms’ locker room.
Even though it had been years since this room had seen sporting action, it still smelled of old shed armor, determination and discarded dreams. Or perhaps you had to have played kachunkettball yourself to catch the scent. Rollie had never been on a major team. But he had enjoyed the kind of roughhewn, back-alley, makeshift stuff unregulated progeny tended to embrace, particularly when it involved honing hand-to-eye coordination, strengthening important balance skills, learning leadership and teamwork …
Oh, and knocking other progeny hard with great metal implements when they weren’t looking.
Too bad this wasn’t the time for fond reminiscence, thought Rollie. He sprinted past the last of the lockers, took two long strides into the next room, and met with something that slid out from under his feet like a fruit peel in a Hyperbolea-3 pratfall competition. Around him items rattled and rolled, crashed and clattered. He struggled to stand, only to find himself toppling backwards once more in startled self-preservation…
He was face-to-beak with an ergowohm, razor-maw wide in a silent shriek.
He leapt in reverse now, and with safe distance came understanding. Its stillness. The glossy paint. The large crack running down its form. With spread wings, the creature was almost as tall as Rollie and had bumpers built around his haunches. One bumper sagged sadly off the side. It was a statue, a kachunkettball field obstacle, broken and forgotten, nothing more, and it was one of several.
Rollie caught his breath among the architectural salvage and returned it to its proper spot lungward.
