by S. Walker
Marker lines crashed together again, so sudden and violent she cringed downward into the chair even though no sound accompanied it. The portrait was back, but now in a slightly different way: Older perhaps, black lines spaced out to hint at creeping grey and white in a full head of hair. Whiskers ringed new lines around his mouth in a slight stubble of dotted black, giving the picture a slightly harried, but comfortable middle-aged appearance. He looked familiar somehow. Some shape of the eyes and cheekbones that caught her notice.
No rush this time: The portrait studied her with an avid interest, eyes clearly focused and taking note of her half-discarded skinsuit, missing boots and air cast. Jamet felt curiously embarrassed, like she wasn't meeting some sort of standard no one mentioned previously. Every version from Lower to Upper got a piece of that feeling as well, reacting with various shades of awkwardness (downstream) to "not again" and an actual "fuck off" finger-flip (upstream).
Am I speaking with Jamet Emcourt? He sounded strangely excited, but deeply respectful at the same time.
Both Uppers abruptly blinked out, the elderly stylish woman and her tattooed counterpart snapping out of existence with surprised looks. Two new women took their place. One wore a high-collared lab coat with elaborate rank slashes on the sleeves, hair pulled up in a tight bun and expression amused. The other had both hands on ample hips, exhibiting the weight gain and lived-in look of a mother multiple times over. They both glanced at the portrait overhead in shared amusement, then levelled knowing looks at Jamet.
"Uh. No. Close, though? This is Jamet Reals, do you have the wrong-" what the hell did she call this? Comm ID? Inbox? Grav relay? "-catastrophic situation?"
The portrait looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. Of course, my mistake. This is your present?
Was this a time loop? Could she just die already? "Here we go again. Yes, this is my present. Double gas giants, two asteroid belts, big flower ship coming my way, about to die with only one arm and operating a smelter with my feet."
A wry look slowly bloomed into full-blown laughter, marker lines edging every tooth and smile line. Even the crow's feet around both eyes got shading in just the right spots. It was honest mirth and so obviously not at her expense she couldn't help but smile back.
The middle-aged upstream version of her winked out. A skinsuited woman took the spot, helmet closed and one foot back in an automatic fighter's pose. Gloved hands came upward for a confrontation, opaque faceplate scanning for targets.
Well if I had doubts, they are dispelled. It truly is you, in your present.
"Glad we got that sorted out, jerk." Now she sounded like Emilia. When did she pick that habit up? "But about that rescue?"
Of course. The sh- the Tulip is yours, I have cleared the pilot from your present. Although you scared him quite badly.
"Uhh..." She glanced at her Middle, who shrugged. Both Lowers kept looking urgently between screens with 'collision imminent' warnings and Jamet in her Middle Management position. The Tulip was literally on top of them, ship outline eclipsing the smelter. If expressions had words they would be screaming to do something. Like she wasn't already trying. "Well, that's great and all. But what the hell am I supposed to do now? What's happening!?"
Do you believe in predestination?
Both Uppers nodded. Both Lowers shook their heads. Jamet tried to do both, chin going in confused circles. "What?!"
The room lit up, every overhead going to max brightness before popping from overload. At the same time everything jerked solidly as the Tulip scooped the whole facility, hard enough to catapult Jamet out of the master seat and kill her link with the ID reader. Safety systems screamed emergency alerts, every console around the room going into shutdown. She hit the floor on top of the air cast, enduring a horrible amount of crackling and popping noises that probably didn't bode well for ever being able to sign her name right-handed again. Pain torn through her like one of the drones, all sharp metal and evil intent. "Shit!"
Around the room hexagon visions of herself collapsed one by one, blurring out of existence until only the overhead portrait remained. It watched her with a kind, knowing smile.
Do you? Believe in it?
"No!" She rolled over, using bare toes and one good arm to get back on her knees. It hurt so bad she wanted to vomit. The painkillers were definitely off their timers now. "I don't!"
The airlock sheared off in a screaming roar of equalizing pressure, rancid air venting outward in a smelly cloud of crystal vapor. Jamet screamed, one good arm reflexively coming up and sure she was about to be sucked straight out into vacuum. But what hit her instead wasn't desiccating underpressure and boiling internal fluids: It was blisteringly hot, humid oxygen and glaring red light. Air so overly tropical sweat instantly began slicking everything under her skinsuit.
You always said that, presently.
Something immensely large, pink and sticky surged through the torn end of the room, filling it from edge to edge in an impossible wave. It hit Jamet before she could scream, snatching her into a floral-scented embrace that became a long downward spiral into dream.
It felt like fire. Like power.
There you are.
Chapter 45
A Better Person
Between one second and the next a terrified, angry and injured Jamet Reals went from chaotic abduction straight into a tastefully themed receptionist room. The moment she arrived a handsomely dressed man jumped up from a seat by her elbow, eyes bright and thousand-watt smile in place.
He rounded on her like a green eyed, eager salesman. "It's so wonderful to-"
She punched him out with a smashing left hook that lifted both heels off the ground. Then kicked both wobbly feet from underneath him for good measure, sending a loafer flying over a nearby couch. Six feet of backstabbing privilege hit the carpet face first like a bag of wet sand, leaving behind a blizzard of floating paper and a sound like animals in distress.
Jamet spun in place, eyes wide. "Where the hell am I!?"
The room around her was straight Corporate, from the gray and blue carpet right up to the framed commendations on the wall. An oversized reception desk with a single chair blocked off a third of the space, guarding a paired set of doors set against the far right and left walls. Waiting areas with comfortable chairs sprawled in both directions off the main entrance, screened by large planters conveniently placed for easy line of sight to the main desk. Brightly colored flowers and curated ferns gave a modicum of privacy, while trade publications with Corporate-friendly headlines piled on every waiting surface.
"Wait, what?" She turned again, spooked. The entrance doors were faux redwood with carved inlays, closed tightly with polished brass handplates gleaming from frequent handling. A public console stood just inside the doors, all smooth ceramic touch surfaces and reasonably-priced appointment offers.
Jamet knew this room. In fact she knew this building; she'd been here often enough to have the entire layout memorized. It was the Corporate Headquarters office on Eblett. Specifically the meeting area of Corporate HQ, a place normally packed with Executives and sycophants alike trying to push agendas, secure alliances or engage in quiet blackmail. Or in her particular case outright betrayal, couched in small print on division ownership documents.
"No. This isn't real." Cold horror crept around in her chest like a serpent.
Paperwork slid onto the floor, revealing blonde hair in an expensively styled haircut. He rolled over, then slowly sat up with a pained look and a raised hand urging calm. "Um, actually this-"
Jamet crushed a vengeful knee across surgically-perfect cheekbones. He went from mostly vertical to horizontal again at the speed of hate. "Shut up," she didn't even look down, just snarled angrily at an undeserving abstract painting. "You're not Kent Parrel, but beating the shit out of you feels entirely too good. I can't help myself." Jamet frowned. "Which isn't very healthy, but I'm fine with it."
One arm slowly pointed vertical, index finger extended towards an expensiv
ely painted ceiling mural. "I don't want to do this any more."
Public announcement speakers overhead came to life, causing Jamet to leap diagonally for cover behind a caf table as a soothing alto voice filled the room. "Sorry, Under. You're the most qualified, and we don't have anyone else."
He didn't even try to get up again, just stared upwards in disbelief. "That's not fair! Nobody has ever done it before, isn't everyone equally qualified?"
There was a pause long enough for Jamet to start looking suspiciously at the trade magazines on the table. "Of all possible collective members, you have the highest percentage match." The voice sounded regretful, sad.
"How?!" Both hands flailed in the air. "Meeting a whole new civilization never happened before! Why me? Why not someone else?" Palms thumped onto the carpet in defeat.
"Participation in alternate reality-based social events was the largest contributing factor."
A long, barely audible moan of despair rode the carpet at knee height. Jamet ignored it with prejudice, teeth grinding and magazines in hand. She squinted at each publication suspiciously before deliberately riffling the pages and setting them aside with a nod of confirmation. "Blank. Right, got it. It's just a mockup of the HQ, not real. Some kind of trick." Then she did a doubletake, looking at both functional hands in worried surprise. "Oookay, that's a bit harder to explain."
A quick glance downward confirmed her outfit hadn't changed. Still two day old dirty uniform underneath the bright white of the Kipper's standard issue skinsuit, boots off and delicate toes visible. Sniff checks matched up with appearances; raw and rank, with a sour undertone that only large amounts of terror bleeding from stressed pores could generate.
Jamet was eyeing the large planter boxes with the vague plan of digging through them for cameras when she realized someone was talking. "What?"
Both arms were in the air now, thousand-credit tailored suit sleeves flopping back and forth with every motion. "I asked if it was okay to sit up. Trying very hard not to upset you right now because-- um, honesty here-- this is not going the way we all hoped."
"Then keep right on hoping," Jamet snapped, walking a wide circle around the paper-covered sphincter on the floor. She gave his shoeless foot a kick on the way past, then started looking behind the receptionist desk.
He jumped at the assault, but didn't try to get up. He tried sounding pathetic, instead. "Maybe we didn't start off very well?"
"Abduction and attempted trickery does that." She took the seat, then tried unsuccessfully to wrist the desk console to life. It stayed stubbornly dark, without even the usual angry buzz of incorrect authorization. "If you want to get back on track, start by pointing me at a console with a communication link to the Kipper."
"Sure, absolutely." He nodded seriously with a practiced look of helpful friendship on too-perfect features. It was wasted somewhat by being aimed at the ceiling mural. "I'll try that as soon as I can. My name is Under, by the way. It's so, uh... wonderful to meet. Who are you?"
Jamet slowly ground to a halt, hands poised over the desk as her vision slowly turned red. Memories stacked up, every one of them with Kent's smug face and oily, I've-already-won tone of voice. Who are you anymore, J? "I'm going to count to three. You are going to explain what is going on here." I can't be seen with someone barred from Upper Management. "If I finish counting before you finish explaining, I'm going to bury your dead body in the planters." I still have a career, after all. You understand, of course. "Start talking."
"This is really very unfair, you know! I don't know where to start, or why you're angry!"
She opened a drawer, glanced at the empty space within and slammed it like an accusation. "You should know. One."
Watching Kent fidget while flat on his back did a world of good for her sense of personal vengeance. "Okay, okay. Let me think! How much do you know about adaptive magnetic resonance imaging and concurrent shared experiences!?"
The top of the desk came pre-equipped with a host of props and decorations, every one of them an item Jamet could personally remember from visiting before. The receptionist-- contract worker, severe looking but deferential in all the right ways-- always made it a point to greet her on every visit. Small talk, little details that everyone enjoyed being asked about. Things like Saw your commendation the other day! perhaps, or maybe You seem to be in all the right meetings, how do you do it?
Meaningless talk. Looking back on it Jamet was fairly sure the woman did it with every Executive, a way of passively camouflaging herself in pleasantries. But it did work to anchor the woman in her mind alongside the items on her desk. In particular a very pretty looking glass timepiece, cut in the shape of a round crystal and perfectly palm sized.
She picked it up. "That sounds like you made all of it up." Good heft. You could really swing this thing. "One."
He started talking fast, hands waving in the air like there was a topic outline. "Your signal! We saw it while coming here to wipe out the Consumers. It was lit up like a beacon right next to one of their power sources. But then it stopped." A frustrated snap that time, like a visual cutting off. "No one knew what that meant, but you weren't getting attacked! So there was this wild idea that went around that we'd found some sort of... controller. Or something that cooperated with the Consumers without triggering them."
A quick glance her way, checking the current weather forecast. Kent's handsome face caught a glimpse of Jamet's ugly storm clouds and immediately veered off again to safer harbors near the ceiling. "Suddenly all everyone wanted was to talk with whoever had that secret. The collective took that decision and headed off. Right for you." Now he scowled, lines crossing artificially sculpted perfection. "And right into a stupid fight. Now we're all fighting and dying, everyone with half a qualification just dropping out. I'm the best that's left to talk with you and I'm trying very hard!"
Jamet got up, came around the desk and hiked a leg over the corner. She studied random art on the far wall with an unimpressed look, idly tossing the weighted glass sphere from hand to hand. "Halfway there. Now the other half: What's all this? Where am I?" Glass smacked on impatient palms, over and over. "Two."
Kent (Hey, baby J, let's head away) closed both too-perfect eyes and blew a long, controlled breath at the lights overhead. Both hands made flat palmed 'wait' gestures. "Alright. Here, now. Okay." He muttered something under his breath. "How about this-- do you dream?"
Her hand cramped so hard around the sphere she thought it might shatter. It's our dream, J! We could be Uppers, together. Jamet hissed through her teeth. "...not helping yourself, here..." Trust me. You'd be perfect to run a division.
"Think of this like a dream." He waved one hand vaguely, displaying a gleaming gold bracelet. "It's not completely real. The collective, the ship? You're on board with us right now! In our group, we're all suspended. But-" he licked dry lips nervously. "We have no idea how to talk with you! So we're just... letting your thoughts guide the ship experience. This? Me? Everything around? It's all your projection, it's a shared space. Out there, where this ends, is the collective. And we're getting killed, the Consumers are taking the ship apart and everyone is dropping out!"
Jamet thought about this, lining up her interior bullshit detector with current events. It matched up, a little-- especially details like the magazines being blank. She'd seen the covers, of course, but who ever opened them or remembered everything inside? Likewise the secretary's decorations: Completely filled across the top where Jamet’s memory supplied details, but not a single thing in any of the drawers or any place she'd never personally seen. Memories, recreated.
"Suppose I believe some of that. Why did you grab me out of the smelter? And what's with the do-or-die straight charge against the drones?"
"Does this count as a 'three'?"
Fake crystal met false wood with a bang that made him flinch. "Call it two and a half. And I will tear you into fractions, so hurry it up."
"I thought I just- wait, just... please. Don't go crazy." H
e seemed to be struggling with an idea. "Ummm... what is your collective like? Are you majority led or something like designated units first?"