“It’s Doctor Wang.”
Aiden rolls his eyes again.
“Indeed. Dr. Wang,” the POE officer’s grin is devoid of all humor. “As de-facto leader of this group, you are responsible for their conduct. Please keep them under control, as we generally do not allow riff-raff within city limits.”
Doc: Riff-raff?
Me: De-facto leader?
Chapter Nineteen
The buildings in Athos are two-story yurts, cylindrical with walls and roofs made of thick canvas and felt. External spiral staircases seem to be all the rage here. If a building has two stories it gets a spiral staircase, apparently. I see trees with staircases, billboards, restaurants and shops, guard towers and government offices – all with spiral staircases.
The first shop that catches my eye as we pass the Athos Flea Market is a booth of T-shirts with witty phrases that EBAYmazon will deliver in the RW. My favorite is, My Sigother Went To ATHOS & All I Got Was This STOOPID T-Shirt!.
I may have to pick one up before we skedaddle.
The city I like, the residents, not so much. Athonians, or more appropriately, Thuleans, are far from fans of Mrs. Hughes’ sweet baby boy. The hissing starts as soon as we enter the city – full on hissing, too. They turn to me, furrow their brows and stick out their little reptilian tongues as they hiss like scaly green teakettles. It’s like a non-stop field trip through Disgruntled Cat World, and Sophia doesn’t help any by smirking and agreeing with every hiss. Boy, is it ever a damn good thing I can’t equip something murder-y and get to doing what I do best. Starting with her. Maybe.
The sign that directs us to Athos Forest Park sends us down a road less travelled and I get a chance to walk off a little bit of my irritation. A series of dragon-shaped shadows cross our path at fairly regular intervals; the dragons that cast them are considerably larger than the droogans that gave me a light toasting – bastards – on our way in, but not Big McLarge Huge like Mirror. They grip over-sized raffia picnic baskets by the carrying handles complete with EBAYmazon logos on the bottom of the baskets. The dragons move at a pretty good clip, and I wonder aloud about the relative airspeed velocity of an unladen dragon.
“African or European dragon?” Doc asks.
“Neither.” Sophia remarks. “EBAYmazon delivery dragon. It’s a pilot program.”
“Craziness,” Doc says. “I read about this. It’s already successful in several Proxima Worlds.”
“What could they possibly deliver?”
“World-specific items. In Tritania, probably potions, weapons, amulets, charms, gris-gris, things of that nature. If there isn’t a merchant nearby, they can try the delivery service.”
“And they’re charged in rupees?” I ask.
“Free delivery with EBAYmazon Prime if you have a Proxima Plus subscription,” Rocket says. “Otherwise, it’s three dollars American for thirty delivery credits.”
A group of wooly Mûmakil stop at a four-way intersection and wait for us to pass. Their handler, a Thulean guy with a stern Tritanian Gothic mug waits patiently for us to pass. He doesn’t hiss, which makes a refreshing a change, but he does treat me to the obligatory Thulean stink-eye.
“They are having their Festival of Celestial Enlightenment at the end of the month,” Sophia explains as she floats ahead, “during which they release hundreds upon hundreds of varicolored tissue paper sky lanterns with candles inside. It’s sooooooo beautiful. Romantic too.”
Me: So, it’s a date then?
Sophia: !?
Doc: Sweet of you to ask, but only if I can bring Arnie and Sally to chaperone, you big so-and-so!
Rocket: I would love to, but, just as friends though – I’m taken.
Frances Euphoria: Guess who used the open channel – again.
Me: D’oh! Are we private now?
Frances Euphoria: I don’t know how many more times that particular cat can be let out of the bag without shredding up the place.
Me: I bet Schrödinger knows.
Aiden remarks, “I like this place a lot better than Valhalla. The people seem less pretentious here. I could do without the hissing though … ”
“Valhallans are pretentious in an ironic way,” Sophia says, “kind of like a hipster from Brooklyn at a dive bar in Austin. It’s cool to be cooler than others, but Valhallans recognize this, so they are being pretentious ironically. Get it?”
“Nope,” Doc says. “Don’t care either.”
Sophia sighs, and in the tone of voice one would use to explain a simple yet important concept to a willfully ignorant dullard, tries again. “They’re pretending to be pretentious so that other pretentious people that aren’t pretending to be pretentious think that they’re really pretentious too, and not just pretending to be pretentious so that they better fit into social situations in other Tritanian cities. It’s pretty logical, if you ask me.”
“Still don’t care.”
“Hey, what’s up with this? It looked all flat and level when we came in, but we’re going downhill and the buildings are getting taller.”
“Yes” Sophia gushes, “There’s a reason for that, and I’m glad you asked.”
I give Doc a quick glance. “Um, I didn’t ask.” He grimaces, makes the shooty hand, and puts it against his temple.
“Great,” she says as she launches into a Doctoral dissertation about how one should think of the city as a giant bowl, and of course there’s a Thulean name for it that translates as Giant Bowl-Shaped City, and that we came into the city on the rim of the bowl, made our way down, and have now reached dead center, the Athos Park, and didn’t I notice the trees earlier? Even with the mesmerizing architectural extravaganza that is Athos as a distractor, I should have at least noticed we were descending a gentle grade and seen the green of the trees in the distance. As one travels through the city, the yurty buildings are built taller to maintain the illusion of a citywide flat and level roofscape and to match the height of the buildings on the outer rim. Of course, there is also a Thulean word for this not-at-all pretentious concept that no doubt rhymes with ‘dipshit’.
At this point, I tune out the Evil Doctor Brainulo’s lengthy description of Athos’ topography, topology, geometry, geography, fun city facts, Proxima celebrity homes, Zagat-rated restaurants and attractions – all I hear is an annoying buzz. The forest park that is our destination has my full attention. Anything’s possible in a Proxima World – I know that, and I’ve seen crazy, magnificent, eye-popping, mind-blowing scenery before, but the Thulean redwoods up ahead of us take my digital breath away. Big, tall, tremendous, enormous, none of these even begin to express the scope and magnitude of these arboreal giants.
Maybe this weekend I’ll visit a park with trees and flowers and chirping birds in the RW.
~*~
Commoners are queued up to get into the Athos Forest Park, but there’s a steady stream of downcast and disconsolate looking PCs drag-assing their way towards us.
“Bad news?” I ask as a pair of warriors approach. They’ve got that wild Dothraki look down, complete with braided beards, mascara, monkey mugs and angry eyebrows.
One of the numbnuts gets in my face and snarls, “You think this funny? You think this is a game?”
The no fighting rule keeps me from equipping good ol’ stag-handled item 33 and carving some politeness into him. “I didn’t say nothing about it being funny, lamb-man and yes, I think this is a game. I suggest getting the hell out of my face, or we could take this outside – the city that is – if you get my drift. Oh and the Dothraki look? 2015 called, and they want their pretentious, lame-ass, faux-tough fanboy look back. Talk about played out, talk about cliché. Let’s put it like this, bub – you don’t want it with me. You don’t want it with him,” I point my thumb at Aiden, “and you definitely don’t want it with the grumpy-looking faun in the tactical vest, and I haven’t even got to her. She’ll have you picking your own eyes out with your pinky fingers. And the buff kid in the ninja outfit? You really don’t want it with him.
He’s a RW hacker who specializes in algospells. How would you like to shit yourself every time you try to spawn in a Proxima World?”
Doc: Hey, that’s not a bad idea! Also, grumpy-looking? I prefer cantankerous, ill-tempered, or at the very least, curmudgeonly.
Rocket: I wish I could talk shit like you, Q Drama!
The Dothraki warrior takes a step away. “Damn, dude, I was just playing the role.”
“Of a twat? Yes, yes, you were. Now, is there anything you care to share with us about the Sage?”
He shrugs and kicks at the dirt for a moment. “We didn’t meet him, it was too complicated.” He turns to his counterpart. “Let’s get out of here, Moro.”
The two skulk away.
I’m seconds away from calling out that he forgot the ‘n’ in his friend’s name when a snow-covered baby falls from a tree.
Nope, not a baby, a cherub, and an ugly cherub too. He’s got bloodshot eyes, beard stubble, a pointy goatee, a hammer and sickle necklace, and his pubes are dyed and shaved into a red star to accentuate his stubby baby’s pecker. He hovers into position in front of us, his little wings working overtime like a crack-stoked hummingbird’s as they struggle to keep his plump body afloat.
“A commie putto?” Doc cracks a grin. “It’s safe to say I’ve seen everything there is to see now.”
“Fraternal Socialist Greetings, proletariat comrades and immiNPC.”
Aiden snickers.
Doc: A Russian accent too? I’m in hog heaven here!
Sophia: Um, and maybe I shouldn’t ask this, but I have to know – why are you in hog heaven?
Doc: I was expecting something mind-bending and over-the-top today, but this is just too-too cool! Falkor in drag? Hey, it happens. Gandalf and Randalf, his conjoined twin? Sure, okay. Logen Ninefingers with eleven fingers? You get my drift here, but a communist cherub? It’s things like this that keep me from retiring to a goat and goose ranch in Texas and … oh, wait.
The commie cherub flaps his little wings. “Da, eet eez very great for you to be joining us here today. I choose word ‘us’ because zhere eez no individual; zhere eez only unity of struggle against capitalist oppressors and unity through collective collaboration for common good, tovarisch. Zhere eez pie in sky, and dialectic states pie in sky eez large enough for all peasants and workers and … ”
I stop him right there. “Can we skip the socialist commercial and cut right to the Sage, Trotsky?”
“You got a hot date at the Festival of Flying Fire Hazards or something? Give him a moment,” Doc says, “this is a hoot!”
Me: You ain’t buying this shit, are you?
Doc: Ain’t you? I’m ready to raise the red banner, institute a planned economy, give up my evil ways as a running dog tool of the capitalist oppressors and liberate Arnie and Arnette with forty collectivized acres and a good socialist llama apiece.
“Mr. Cherub,” says Sophia as she floats to a position slightly higher than the butt-faced Bolshevik.
“Comrade Cherub,” he responds, and floats up so that they are eye-to-eye level. Sophia lifts a bit higher and the cherub does the same. Soon, they are a good ten feet above us and still climbing.
Me: Sophia, might I suggest nixing the flying dominance games unless you want to end up in orbit.
Sophia: Fine.
She drops to the ground and the cherub does the same.
“Mr. Cherub,” she very deliberately begins.
“Comrade Cherub,” he very deliberately reminds her. Eet appearz you are of oppressor intelligentsia professional doctor class.”
Her eyes light up. “I’m glad you asked!”
“Nyet, did not ask. Only observe status as oppressor.”
“As a matter of fact, I have a PhD in neuronal physics from Stanford and a Master’s in Computer Science with a focus on digital algorithm theory from MIT. I did my undergrad in software engineering at John Hopkins, and I am currently doing post-doc research at Stanford focusing on NPC to Humandroid reverse spawning.”
He snorts, “Kharasho for you, elitist oppressor of working class. If were my choice, you would be picking of beets and milking of goats to instill sense of class consciousness.”
“My name is Quantum Hughes and I’m just about as far from the elite class as you can get,” I volunteer.
“Your handle name eez Steamboy_889. Who eez theez Quantum of whom you speak.”
I give Rocket the look.
Rocket: We’ll get it changed later!
“Okay, then call me Steamboy. Listen, comrade, as much as I’d love to hang around and discuss the ineveetable triumph of dialectical materialism, the many wonderful socialist achievements of the twentieth century, and the benefits of the Gulag system for rendering consensus of opinion, the five of us really need to get to the Sage.”
He shrugs. “Marx zaid one man hour eezn’t worth another man hour, but zhat one man during hour eez worth same az another man during hour. Are you heard deez?”
“No, I aren’t.”
“Da, I are,” Aiden says under his breath.
“Eez good quote for all struggling workerz and peasantz to know. Time eez everything, man eez nothing. He eez at most time only carcazz. ImmiNPC dispenser of proletariat justice knowz deez.”
Aiden nods, slowly and thoughtfully.
“Good to know,” I tell him, “but I’m not following you here, cherub.”
“Pleeze, Steamboy_889, you call me by patronymic: Vladimir Vissarionovich Ventura.”
“The socialist pet detective?” I ask. Doc chuckles – at least someone gets it.
“Pliz to be spikking plainly.”
“You got a nickname, bub?”
“Comradez in struggle of proletariat call me Pol Pot.”
His handle forms over his head: Vladimir “Pol Pot” Vissarionovich Ventura.
“Alrighty then, Pot, we need to see the Sage. So what do we have to do to make this happen?”
The pinko cherub strokes his little Lenin goatee. “Struggle to establishing Dictatorship of Proletariat never do end. It eez my thought when we work together zhat zhere eez change constant. On some day everyone rest for zhe good of all. Today I read book in my rest. Yes, Mao said to read too many bookz eez harmful, but I plan to reading his book, so no to harmful!” He chuckles at his own joke and Doc laughs even harder.
Me: Do we need to get Tailgunner Joe’s RPC after you, Comrade Doc?
Doc: The Third Red Scare starts in a Proxima World. It’s genius!
Rocket: To all those born before 2039, please keep the references current so I can laugh too!
“So what are you saying?” I ask Nikita’s nattering nabob of negativity. “Is the Sage closed for the day or something?”
He flutters his little wings. “Today, rest and read. Tomorrow, Sage will maybe meet with good socialist visitor.”
“What’s all this about hard work and brotherhood and comradeship if you can’t help someone in their time of need? I thought we were comrades, Pol Pot.”
“Who eez needing?” he asks me. “You and friends healthy and fat, seem like nice peoplez odder dan elitist doctor.”
He curls his lips at Sophia and she responds by saying a few words in Thulean that sound like gobble, gobble, gobble.
“Your Thulean mind tricks weel no work for me,” he tells her. “If eet were mine to do, you go for political reeducation in uranium mines.”
The one hundred and ten per cent red, white and blue war faun clutches his sides as he rolls on the ground, kicks his hooves in the air and guffaws himself helpless. “Comrade, please, stop,” he gasps, “you’re killin’ me here!”
Me: Can we fight him or something? You know how I just hate to resort to violence, but I’m pretty sure Mao said something about change coming through the barrel of a gun, or happiness is a warm gun, or something. Or maybe that was The Beatles.
Rocket: That was DJ The Beatles. Most definitely. He plays a choon called Happiness is a Warm Gun.
Sophia: We can’t fight Pol Pot. He
isn’t the NVA Seed, but he is level 99. Plus, the weapons ban. I agree, though, he is a little bastard.
Me: Language, Sophia! And who called him a little bastard?
Doc: There is one thing that always works with our good socialist brethren and cistern, and that’s money; money and power. Well, two things – money, power and a chest full of medals; all right, three things. They love getting medals. So make that three things – money, power, medals, and no other thing else. Got any medals in your list, Q?
Me: Nope, but I may have something he’ll really like.
~*~
Goodbye item 181, my briefcase full of solid gold Bitcoins, a souvenir from one of Two-faced Tommy’s blow-outs in Devil’s Alley. It makes a great bribe, drug deal payoff, or ransom payment, especially if you take a handful of the coins out and replace them with a golfball-sized lump of fullerene doped boomex and a wireless trigger, and then make sure you’re on the other side of town when you hit the goodbye key.
Pol Pot is paid handsomely – about twice his weight in gold Bitcoins sans the boomex, tempting though it is. With his high-value fungible exchange media in hand, his display of fraternal socialist zeal and peasants’ and workers’ solidarity is a thing of joy and wonder to behold; he couldn’t have let us in any faster if Yurovsky himself prodded him at bayonet-point.
“Good luck,” he calls after us. “Keep to shining path! Zhe Sage will be too happy to zee you!”
Doc smirks after we’ve passed the cherub, who has spotted another couple of questing wayfarers and is fluttering over to the group. “I’ll tell you what we should have done, we should have invited him back to the guild. He’d fit right in with the Brits, The Poo Fairy and Pippa the Angry Sheep.”
“I like his politics better than those National Bocialists with their boncentration bamps,” Aiden comments. His mask tightens as he smiles. “I think he’d fit right in.”
The Mechanical Heart: (Book Five) (Sci-Fi LitRPG Series) (The Feedback Loop 5) Page 19
