Mobius

by Vincent Vale

  “I’m greatly disturbed and infuriated!”

  “But you’re still a superior player. Otherwise they wouldn’t need to cheat.”

  “At least I’m reassured on this point.” The Master looked at the game-board with dreary eyes. “Who will I play now? I trust no one. Shall I sit here and twiddle my thumbs for amusement?”

  “May I suggest myself as your opponent? Since I’m unable to reach the game-board, you may be assured of my inability to cheat. However, you’ll have to move my figurines for me.”

  The Master laughed. “You know nothing of this game. Your skills and intelligence are insufficient to rival my own.”

  “I admit as much, and for this reason, I propose a modification to the game. Each time you capture one of my figurines, you’ll be required to consume three stout chugs of that fine yellow wine. As you, the more skilled player, capture more and more of my figurines, you’ll in turn become more and more drunk. Naturally, your abilities will decline and an equilibrium of skill will be reached between us.”

  “An interesting, if unusual, challenge. I accept!”

  As I expected, the game progressed at an accelerated pace. The Master of the house captured my figurines skillfully, while I only captured a few of his. By the time the Master had captured half of my figurines, he had consumed an entire flagon of wine and was totally drunk.

  On schedule, Palook entered the dining room with three bowls of butterbean porridge.

  “Halt,” I cried, stopping Palook in his tracks before he could dispense the porridge. “Your Master is furious. Can’t you see his goblet’s empty?”

  “This is exactly so,” slurred the Master. “Another flagon is required on this instant.”

  Before Palook moved to the cages, I again spoke: “It would be inappropriate to serve the lowly captives their gruel before you serve your Master his wine. I recommend you place those bowls on the table.”

  “Damn right!” said the Master with drunken anger. “I am, as my title indicates, the Master of the house, and should be treated as such!”

  Palook’s eyes blazed in my direction. He then did as I suggested and placed the three bowls on the table before heading to the kitchen.

  I was confident of my plan, since the bowls of porridge sat on the table directly beside the key to our cages. While the Master was busy assessing the game-board through his swollen eyelids, I focused all my mental energy on the key. It moved by my will, slowly but surely, up the side of a bowl, over the rim, and into the thick porridge. The Master, in his current state, was none the wiser.

  Palook returned with a fresh flagon of wine and then dispensed the bowls of porridge. When no one was looking, I rooted my finger through the porridge and retrieved the key.

  The game concluded with the Master being not only the victor, but too drunk to realize the key was missing. He propped himself up from his chair and presented me with a horse-toothed grin.

  “When you put forth this challenge, I neglected to divulge that I hold my wine exceptionally well. Your loss was inevitable.” The Master paused as a belch escaped his lips. “My victory will make each bite of you, at tomorrow’s feast, even more enjoyable. Pleasant dreams.”

  When all in the household were fast asleep, I made use of the key, opening our cages and releasing the metal rings that secured the hoods over our heads. Orsteen removed his hood and I noticed his strange gaze.

  “What’s wrong, Orsteen?”

  “The way you acquired that key wasn’t in accordance with the natural laws of the universe. I find myself reminded of the promise I made to intervene if I found the Fume’s influence overcoming you.”

  “You’re overreacting. I’m in control, Orsteen. We’ll discuss the matter later. Come, let’s leave before the Masters wake up.”

  “I agree,” said Morion, moving with fast footsteps to the front door.

  Orsteen and I followed behind. As Morion prepared to open the front door, I stopped him and looked to a nearby staircase. “Wait a minute, Morion. We’re not done here.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Morion.

  “We can’t allow these cannibals to continue.”

  “You’re right,” said Orsteen. “I believe the karma Morion had warned them about has found its way to them—through us.”

  “You’ve taken my words too seriously,” said Morion. “I was only venting my anger at the time. It would be stupid to risk further endangerment. The door is here; we need but step to the other side and we’re free and clear from this nightmare.”

  “Let’s first find our bags,” said Orsteen. “We’ll need our weapons.”

  On an impulse, I reached into my pocket. I was missing more than my bag. “Cassandra’s necklace! How could I forget? We can’t go anywhere without my necklace.”

  “Calm down,” said Orsteen. “We’ll find it.”

  We at last located our bags in the cellar among a collection of clothes, weapons, wallets, and other valuables acquired by the Masters over the years.

  Where is it? I panicked. Where’s my necklace? I can’t lose it. It’s all I have.

  “Here,” called Orsteen, holding open the lid of a metal chest.

  I sighed in relief when I saw the cobalt-blue gleam of the infinity spiral pendant on top a pile of old coins and jewelry.

  “Thank you, Orsteen. I’ve lost too much already.” I tucked the necklace into my pocket.

  Morion retrieved a purse of coins from the chest. “Excellent, we’ll need some native money for food and lodging when we reach the port city Neubius. Can we leave now, or do you still want to force the hand of karma on the Masters?”

  “Orsteen and I won’t be long,” I said. “Take this key and release the other captives. I assume they’re being held in the shed at the back of the house.” I paused. “One more thing, Morion. Give me your clothes.”

  Palook awoke in the predawn hours to see to the preparation of the evening feast. He fired the ovens and made a basting agent of pungent oils and choice spices. After all was in order, he went to the dining room to fetch the three main courses. In his attempts to remove the captives from their cages, he found them uncooperative and belligerent, flailing their arms while producing ugly, unintelligible sounds.

  “Cooperate!” said Palook, as he electrified the cages in warning.

  Still they struggled, grabbing at the bars and pulling on their hoods. Retrieving a club of considerable girth, Palook bashed each captive repeatedly on the head to tame their resistance.

  Palook transferred the unconscious captives to oversized platters and relieved them of their innards, replacing them with a stuffing of sweet fruits and nuts. Half the day passed as the three captives cooked, during which time Palook basted them rigorously.

  When dinnertime came, Palook pounded four times on a bell that sounded throughout the household.

  Felia was first to arrive in the dining hall. “It smells remarkable, Palook.”

  “Where are Masters?” asked Palook, rolling out the first course of the anticipated three-course meal.

  “How should I know?” replied Felia. “I’ve been frolicking along the pipeline most of the day, seducing travelers that walked by.” Her gaze fell upon the first course as Palook removed the white cloth that concealed it. “Palook, this specimen you’ve prepared seems familiar. It even wears a ring similar to—” Felia stammered. “You senseless brute, what have you done? You’ve cooked the Master!”

  Seeking his own verification, Palook removed the hoods that concealed the faces of all three courses. “No mistake. I cook Masters. How I know? They wore clothes of captives.” With a knife, Palook wedged open a Master’s mouth and looked within. “And tongue cut out.” After a few silent moments, Palook presented Felia with a bottle of wine. “Red wine circa ‘29 from special reserves?”

  “I have no doubt the Masters themselves would’ve selected such a luxurious wine to complement their own robust flavors.” Felia proceeded to sample a spoonful of fruit and nut stuffing that filled
the chest cavity. It had been thoroughly steamed and basted in the blood, fluids, and juices of her Master. She spoke with her mouth full: “Succulence.”

  SPACEPORT

  After a long night’s journey along the deuterium pipeline, we arrived at the outskirts of the port city Neubius. I moved forward with a slow gait. My bag hung heavy on my back. I felt fat and tired from the weeklong fattening regimen of butterbeans.

  The sun rose and a gentle morning light warmed us. We came upon a cluster of shacks that seemed on the verge of toppling to the ground. From the sky a silver air-car appeared. Its pristine condition was at odds with the surrounding slums.

  The vehicle swerved in our direction. As it approached, I noticed a colorful emblem painted on its side—a spaceship overlapping a blue and green planet.

  The vehicle stopped beside us and a large head popped out a window. “You lost? With those fine clothes, someone might think you’re from the Overworld.” He pointed his thumb up to the sky at the massive space station. “There are many criminals in these parts. They might take you for ransom, or at least steal your shoes and harvest your organs.”

  I pulled my Intersplit gun from my belt. “We’re already aware of the dangers. What’s your interest in us? Speak fast!”

  “I’m a courtesy taxi provided by the spaceport for off-worlders. Since I’ve just finished a fare and my taxi’s vacant, I’d be willing to take you away from this unpleasant area—for a small fee, of course.”

  That won’t be a problem,” said Morion, removing a small collection of silver coins from his new coin purse. “Will this be sufficient?”

  The taxi driver seemed to restrain a grin that pushed up at the corners of his mouth. “By coincidence, you’ve removed the exact price of the fare. Hop in.”

  We entered the taxi.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “We’re in search of a man named Fanbert Manderwall,” I said.

  “Unfortunately, the name isn’t familiar.”

  “How does one go about finding a stranger in these parts?”

  The driver tapped two fingers on his chin. “The only modern infrastructure in the city is the spaceport. They keep records of all who pass in and out of its gates, though it’s unlikely you’ll be given access to such information.”

  “We’ll get the information one way or another,” said Orsteen.

  “I wouldn’t trespass,” said the driver. “The spaceport is guarded by many armed men eager for target practice.”

  “Take us to a hotel near the spaceport,” I said.

  “I assume one of high quality,” said the driver.

  “You assume correctly,” replied Morion promptly. “We want a hotel with the softest beds and finest food.”

  As the taxi neared the spaceport, the condition of the city improved with the appearance of many street-side bistros, pubs, hotels, and storefronts.

  “Do you get many tourists?” I asked.

  “Very few tourists,” said the driver. “Most of the ships arriving from off-world are delivering and receiving cargo. The businesses around the spaceport cater mainly to the spacemen who wish to find a break from the long boredom of space travel.” The taxi driver motioned to a strip of kiosks at the side of the road. “It would be wise to ignore the solicitations of street peddlers. Their goods are both costly and cheaply made. They’ll rob you blind if you let them. I recommend you apply the same philosophy to prostitutes, who’ll squeeze your genitals only to keep you distracted as they reach for your purse.”

  “Your advice is appreciated,” said Orsteen. “However, we’re not here for trinkets or pleasure.”

  “As you say.” The driver brought the taxi to a halt. “We’ve arrived at your destination.”

  As I opened the door, I noticed a badge clipped to the driver’s shirt. “Are documents required to book transport off-world?”

  “Only a certified planetary identification card.”

  “How does one obtain such identification?”

  “You must apply at the registrar’s office, where you must show various personal information, including birthplace, current residence, age, and business. You must then wait until a spaceport agent can verify your information.”

  “And if one doesn’t wish to wait for such verification?”

  The driver pursed his lips. “Counterfeiting identification cards is a deed tangled in risk. The spaceport authorities punish severely for such acts.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Forgive me. I spoke merely on a whim. Good day.”

  The driver extended a greasy finger. “You give up too quickly. I was only attempting to express that such a service isn’t cheap. It’ll cost your friend half his purse for three identification cards.”

  “Only one is needed, for which we’re willing to pay a quarter of his purse.”

  “A done deal,” said the driver, extending his hand for payment.

  I pushed the hand away in a thrust. “Fortunately, I’ve adapted your earlier advice concerning street peddlers and prostitutes to also include greedy taxi drivers. You’ll be paid in full upon delivery. Additionally, I require the identification card to be issued in the name of Fanbert Manderwall.”

  “You strike a hard but reasonable bargain. I’ll return in five hours to this exact spot.”

  The taxi pulled away and Morion threw up his hands. “How do you expect us to afford comfortable beds and flavorful foods when you give our money away?”

  “You’re right,” I said, snatching the coin purse from Morion. “We can’t afford such luxuries. I’ll arrange the most economical room and board.”

  Our room was a shit-hole. Its complex stench was a layering of foul smells that told of the room’s history of drunken spacemen and cheap whores. A single bed with stained sheets and clumpy pillows was apparently meant to accommodate the three of us. We took turns to rest and bathe.

  Five hours had passed when I left Orsteen and Morion in the room. I stood on the street-side waiting for the taxi driver. At last he arrived and I got in the taxi.

  “Were you successful?” I asked.

  “Yes.” The driver handed me the identification card.

  I inspected it carefully, acting as though I had experience with such documents and could interpret the alien writing. “I’d like to see your own identification card for comparison.”

  The driver sighed. “There. Are you satisfied?”

  “It looks good.” I gave him the agreed-upon sum. “Here are a few more coins. Take me to the spaceport.”

  “As you wish.”

  “One more thing,” I said. “What’s the closest inhabited planet to Fallgate?”

  “That would be the world Illpheria.”

  We arrived at the spaceport and the driver let me off at the front gate. Over a hundred spaceships sat within the fenced perimeter. I watched as ships were loaded with cargo. The shipments going off-world appeared to be raw materials such as lumber and precious ores. To a lesser extent were exotic animals, edible vegetation, and a variety of simple goods probably made cheaply on Fallgate. The main resource was obviously the deuterium being piped in. Large tanker ships were being filled directly from the pipeline.

  I approached the gates, where two guards held weapons at the ready. “I’m here to book passage off-world.”

  “Prepare to be searched!”

  I remained calm as one of the guards confiscated the Intersplit gun at my belt. “We’ll return your weapon when you leave.”

  “Thank you.” I nodded and made my way to a facility at the side of the shipyard. There I was put to a second search.

  “What’s your business?” asked the guard.

  “To book passage off-world.”

  “Up the stairs, ten doors to the right.”

  There, I found a bald man with a great hunchback sitting behind a desk. Holo-projectors displayed an overhead map of planetary systems. The man was apparently plotting cargo routes between the inhabited worlds of the Crux Galaxy.

  “Pardon
me,” I said.

  The man looked at me through the hologram with a pinched-faced expression, as though he sucked on a bitter pill.

  “I’m clerk Bodel. How may I help you?”

  “I wish to book passage to the world Illpheria.”

  “One moment, please.” Clerk Bodel studied a view-screen embedded in the surface of his desk. “You’re in luck. The cargo ship Arobourou departs tomorrow morning. The Arobourou has set their cost for passage at eleven coins, and the spaceports fee for booking convenience is an additional eleven coins. This brings your total to twenty-two coins. May I see your certified identification card?”

  I handed it over. “I’ve recently changed residence. Your files may not be accurate. What residence of mine do you have on record?”

  Clerk Bodel examined the identification card and brought up a file onto the view-screen. “Let’s have a look, Mr. Fanbert Manderwall.” He reviewed the information before him. “Humph...” Clerk Bodel paused momentarily and then slid his hand under his desk.

  A great metal claw swooped down from the ceiling and caught me in its grips.

  “What the fuck!” I screamed, struggling against the cold metal fingers.

  Clerk Bodel pointed to his view-screen. “Apparently, you’re a walking and talking corpse.”

  “I assure you I’m alive and well.”

  “Not so! According to your spaceport file, you’ve been dead for over a century. Cause of death—old age.”

  I knew that as a Guardian, Fanbert Manderwall couldn’t have died of old age. “Your records are obviously wrong.”

  Clerk Bodel’s eyes nearly disappeared under his brow as his face pinched tighter. “Here at the spaceport, we’re thorough down to every jot and tittle. To suggest otherwise is a crime in itself. I believe the truth of the matter to be such—you’re a space pirate using a dead man’s identification card to gain passage aboard your next conquest.”

  “You’ve missed the mark completely. I’m merely in search of the man named on that identification card.”