A Swift Kick in the Asteroids

by Edward Zajac

  “What?” said Zagarat, glancing over at his desk. “Oh, yeah.” He grabbed his cocoa mug. “Can’t go on vacation without it.”

  Meris shook his head, chuckling. “You and your Dorian Cocoa.” His expression then turned more serious. “Zag, it’s actually a good thing you’re here. I wanted to say I’m sorry about last night.” Zagarat held up his hand but Meris continued. “No, it was wrong and we all feel bad about it. We even destroyed all the vids we made. I just wanted you to know that.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” said Zagarat. “Thank you.”

  “Enjoy your vacation.”

  “Thanks.” Meris turned to leave when Zag grabbed him by the shoulder. “Meris,” he said rather somberly. “It was good… knowing you.”

  “Okay,” said Meris, furrowing his brow. “It was good knowing you too. See ya, Zag.”

  Once Meris returned to his console, Zagarat pocketed his cocoa mug then headed directly for the maglift. When it arrived, he walked inside and requested the lobby.

  The doors began to close when a distant voice yelled, “Hold the lift!”

  Zagarat quickly depressed a nearby button because there was no way he was going through that hell again. The incident had occurred over two months ago and yet Anabel Gloob still glared at him whenever she saw him. But in his defense, Zag hadn’t feigned deafness just to be rude. His conference call with a corporate had been pushed forward an hour, leaving Zag little time to log into his corporate account, review his vid report, and drink a mug of Dorian Cocoa before daring to face that fearsome beast called Deus Executive.

  Besides, there was a reason everyone called her Anabel Attar, the Doyenne of Aromatic Warfare. Her perfume could make a sentient’s eyes water at twenty paces. That same perfume in a confined space could probably kill a sentient male.

  Alaya ran inside and turned to face the doors, saying, “Twelfth floor, please.”

  The doors closed with nary a sound. They rode in silence for ten floors before Alaya turned and said, “Zag, what are you doing here? Meris said you were on vacation.”

  “Mr. Gellad called me in for a meeting.”

  “Oh, no. I hope it was nothing serious.”

  Zagarat grimaced. “That’s yet to be seen.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Alaya. “I’ll talk to him. He and I are very good friends.”

  “Of course you are,” grumbled Zagarat.

  “What was that?” said Alaya.

  “Nothing,” said Zag, watching the floor numbers trundle down. “Nothing.”

  Just as the maglift was about to reach the twelfth floor, Alaya pressed the emergency stop button. Although the lift showed no signs of stopping, the floor indicator froze at thirteen.

  She turned, squinting ruefully. “Zag, I’m really sorry about last night.”

  What the suns, thought Zagarat. She was the fifth coworker to apologize for last night. At this rate, there was probably a “Sorry For Making You Look Like An Ass” cake waiting for him in the lobby, which for obvious reasons would be two vanilla cakes with a dollop of chocolate in between.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” said Zagarat dismissively, as he always did. He didn’t know why, but he always dismissed other people’s mistakes while invariably ruing his own.

  “No, it’s not,” said Alaya. “Meris heard you were regional champion of Dance Dancity Dance and we thought it’d be funny to capvid your moves. But it was wrong and I’m sorry.” She blinked her lovely golden eyes at him. “Do you forgive me?”

  Zagarat felt his anger melt in her gaze. “Is there a sent alive who can say no to you?”

  Alaya smiled. “You are so sweet.” She sidled closer. “And so sexy.”

  “What?” said Zagarat, his binary mind unable to process this analog statement.

  “I never noticed how cute you are,” she said, twirling his hair with her fingertip. “Your hair is so lush.”

  “What?” repeated Zagarat, a DOES NOT COMPUTE error registering in his mind.

  “Maybe we could go out when you get back.”

  “Wha…” Zagarat began to say when his OS finally processed the coding. “Oh, oh, oh. I get it. Ha. Ha. Very funny. But I’m not falling for it this time.”

  “I’m not joking,” she said in a sybaritic whisper. “I think it’s time I dated a different kind of sent.” She ran her fingers through his hair and Zag wobbled like Ilorken jelly. “Someone who’s nice and smart and sensitive.”

  Just then, a voice came over the speakers. “Deus Lift Control. How may we be of service?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Alaya in an overly affected, cutesy tone. “I must have accidentally hit the emergency stop button. Could you get us moving again?”

  “Absolutely.” A moment later, the number twelve appeared above the doors. “Thank you for your patronage and have a wonderful day.”

  “Thank you ever so much,” said Alaya as the doors swished open. She turned back to Zagarat. “Just think about it, okay? And think about this.”

  She whispered softly in his ear then turned and walked away, her hips bounding from side to side as if swatting at flies on either side of her hips.

  “Shouldn’t you tell a doctor that?” said Zagarat, his wrinkled brow mirroring his bemusement. “I mean, it can’t be healthy to have no gag refle…”

  Zagarat’s mouth drooped open as the prurient realization finally dawned on him.

  Five minutes later, security was called when some weirdo on a maglift yelled at the top of his voice, “WHAT THE SUNS IS GOING ON?”

  agarat kicked open the front door and stumbled inside, carrying a CooChee handbag in one hand, a larger CooChee bag in the other, and dragging a Coo suitcase behind him.

  Together, a complete CooChee CooChee Coo set brought to you by Glibness, the makers of Ohwee Ohwee OLEO and Poopsie Woopsie Diapers, now with mint scented mister.

  He kicked the door closed behind him. “Sorry I’m late, Ma,” said Zagarat, lumbering his way to the living room. “It took me a while to pick out a new set of bags for you. But you’ll be happy to know I got a really good deal on…” He looked up and froze, the luggage slipping from his fingers and falling to the ground with a thud. “What are you doing in my house?”

  Fletcher Griffin glanced up from the datapad. “Your mother was just showing me some of your baby pics. Look at that cute little kid. You must have had him when you were eight.”

  “Oh, stop it, you,” said Margarat, slapping his shoulder. And she actually blushed, which totally unnerved Zagarat. Of course, the logical side of his brain knew that his mother had once been a young woman with… needs. But he preferred to live his life on the more creative side of his mind where everyone in the verse was good and decent, he would never die, and his mother was and always would be a pure and untouched soul.

  “Okay,” said Zagarat. “Let me rephrase that. What are you doing in my house, looking at pics of me as a kid?”

  “Your mother was just telling me a little bit about you.”

  “But you’re… you’re in my house,” Zag stammered. “You can’t be in my house.”

  “Are you sure?” said Fletcher. “Because the evidence says otherwise.”

  “And you let him in, Ma?” said Zagarat, his voice growing louder with every word.

  “Of course I did, sweetie.” Margarat caressed Fletcher’s cheek. “He’s lovely.”

  “Right back at you, Mags,” said Fletcher, winking coquettishly.

  “Mags!” said Zag, his face turning blood red. “Mags!”

  “You were right,” said Fletcher. “He worries way too much.”

  “He gets that from his father,” said Margarat. “He gets his looks from me.” She turned towards Zagarat, inclining her head with a regal grace. “You’re welcome.”

  But Zag barely noticed. He was too busy trembling as if going into apoplectic shock.

  “Oh, no,” said Margarat. “Here we go again. Zagarat. Zagarat. Zagarat!”

  She tossed a ball of yarn at him, striking him
in the forehead.

  Zagarat blinked the mania from his eyes. “Thanks, Ma.”

  “You’re welcome.” She leaned in close to Fletcher. “He does that sometimes.”

  “Good to know.”

  “So, you were telling me about this job,” said Margarat.

  “Yes,” said Fletcher. “I think it’s exactly what he needs. It’ll help build character and put him in the good graces of a very powerful man.”

  “I completely agree,” said Margarat. “It sounds like a wonderful business opportunity.”

  “It really does, doesn’t it?”

  Zagarat’s eyes darted around the room as he tried to figure out if this was reality, a dream, or a nightmare. He was leaning towards nightmare. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath as he composed himself, and said, “May I talk to you in private?”

  Margarat sighed. “If you insist,” she said, reaching for her cane.

  “Not you, Ma!” Zag took another deep breath. “May I talk to you, Mr. Griffin?”

  “Of course,” said Fletcher, pushing himself to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Mags.”

  “Don’t be too long,” said Margarat, slapping Fletcher on the backside.

  “Ma!” Zag exclaimed. Margarat simply shrugged, her face beaming like a solar flare.

  Zagarat shook his head then followed Fletcher down the hallway. “What are you doing in my house?” he uttered under his breath.

  “You can whisper all you want,” said Margarat, playfully. “I can still hear you.”

  “Damn it,” muttered Zagarat. He’d forgotten about his mother’s incredible hearing. He turned back towards Fletcher. “I thought I told you my answer was no.”

  “Oh, you did,” said Fletcher. “I simply reject your rejection.”

  “You can’t reject a rejection. It’s a rejection.”

  Fletcher made a slurping sound. “No, I think I can.”

  Zagarat sighed. “Mr. Griffin, I’m honored by the offer. I really am. But I can’t work for you. I’m taking my mother on… vacation. I’m sure Mr. Gellad will be happy to find you another tech.”

  “But I don’t want another tech. I want you. And please call me Fletcher.”

  “Why?” asked Zagarat.

  Fletcher’s brow furrowed. “Because my name is Fletcher.”

  “No, not…” Zag dragged his hand down his face. “I mean, why do you want me?”

  “Oh,” said Fletcher. “Well, there are a few reasons. One, you’re the best.”

  “I’m not the bes-”

  “Did you or did you not design and implement security for the Leranda branch?”

  “I was part of the team…” Fletcher stared at him. “Okay. Maybe I did. So what?”

  “So, that system is the most secure system in the entire Deus… well, system. Which means you’re good. Real good. One of the best, even though you might not believe it. And that leads to reason number two.” He glanced back down the hallway. “She’s sick, isn’t she?”

  Zagarat tensed. “No. We’re just going to Ferali for vacation. That’s all.”

  “Really?” said Fletcher, incredulously. “You’re going to Ferali for vacation? No one goes to Ferali for vacations. Hell, Feralians don’t go to Ferali for vacation. The only sents who go to Ferali are the ones who need experimental treatments by experimental physicians.”

  Zagarat grimaced as if someone had just kicked him in the asteroids. “Was it that obvious?”

  “Not to most sents,” said Fletcher. “But I’m not just any sent.” He paused. “Plus, your mother kind of told me about it.”

  “She told you?” said Zagarat, astonished.

  “Well, she told me she was going to Ferali for vacation. I deduced the rest. Then we talked about you. And your father. And how your father’s death affected her.”

  “You got her to talk about her feelings?” said Zagarat, both enraged and amazed. “I can’t get her to talk about her feelings. And I’m her son.”

  “What can I say?” said Fletcher, shrugging. “I’m me.”

  “And what a me he is,” came a voice down the hallway.

  “Ma, please!” exclaimed Zagarat.

  Margarat’s throaty laugh echoed down the hallway.

  Fletcher placed his hand on Zagarat’s shoulder. “Look, Zag you’re probably right. I could probably find another tech. But finding someone who would pass up an extraordinary business opportunity and possibly incur the wrath of one of the most powerful men in the known universe just so his mother can receive her treatments…” Fletcher bit his lip, shaking his head. “You have no idea how rare that is. But I do. So, here’s what going to happen. I’m gonna make you an offer. And before you say no, let me just say that I have nothing else going on in my life right now, which means I can spend a lot of time on Leranda. And a lot of time with your mom.” Zag’s face reddened again. “Relax, relax. I’m just screwing with you.”

  Zagarat’s nostrils flared. “Just make sure you don’t screw with…”

  “Oh, he can screw with me all he wants,” came a voice down the hallway.

  “Seriously, Ma!” Zagarat shouted. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  Fletcher grinned. “Can I just say, I love that woman?”

  “Right back at you, sweet cheeks,” yelled Margarat.

  Zagarat threw his hands into the air as he chuckled lightly to himself. Suns, that woman drove him mad. And made him laugh. Sometimes, most times, at the very same time.

  “I can see why you want to help her,” said Fletcher. “All right. So, here’s the deal. You’re going to cancel your Starlight reservation. In exchange, I will transport you and your mother to Ferali. While she receives her treatments, you and I will go and… do a few things.”

  “Things? What kind of things?” Zagarat narrowed his eyes. “Illegal things?”

  “No, no. Just thingy things. And once we’re done, I’ll take you back to Ferali. What do you say?”

  “And if I say no?” asked Zagarat, wearily.

  “If you say no, I’ll walk away and never bother you again. I won’t make you do something you don’t want to do. I’m not that kind of guy. But I’d like you to say yes.”

  “Um…”

  “It’ll save you money.”

  “Um…”

  “It’ll make Mr. Bryce very happy.”

  “Um…”

  “It pays 50,000 credits.”

  Zag’s head jerked up. “I’m sorry. What now?”

  “It pays 50,000 credits,” Fletcher repeated. “Plus a bonus once the job is done.”

  “How much of a bonus?”

  “20,000.”

  “50.”

  “25.”

  “40,” Zag countered.

  “30.”

  “35.”

  “Done,” said Fletcher, holding out his hand.

  Zagarat stared at it as if it might hold the Aruvian plague.

  And yet…

  85,000 credits. All he had to do was help this man out and he’d make 85,000 credits. The notion was oddly intriguing. If he added that to his bank account, he’d have over 125,000 credits. Not enough to pay back the Deus Syndicate, yet still a respectable amount.

  But then he wouldn’t be there for his mother. And those treatments were reputed to be painful, especially when they injected Kaymeleon serum directly into her spine.

  “What do you say, Zag?” said Fletcher. “You ready for a little bit of fun.”

  The word “no” was about to jump off the springboard of his tongue and belly flop into the pool of life when Margarat appeared at the end of the hallway and said, “Of course he’ll do it.”

  Fletcher slapped him on the back. “Good to have you on the team.”

  “But… but… but I didn’t say yes,” Zagarat stammered.

  “That’s because I did it for you, sweetie,” said Margarat, leaning hard on her opaque plasticene cane. “What time would you like us there?”

  “Come to slip 482655 at the Waretz Depot ten
o’clock sharp tomorrow.”

  “But…”

  “Ten o’clock it is,” said Margarat, nodding.

  “But…” Zag said again, as if his mental audio track was skipping.

  Margarat escorted Fletcher to the front door. “And make sure he brings his tech supplies. And a change of clothes. It always pays to be prepared.”

  “I will,” said Margarat, holding open the front door.

  “But…”

  “I promise you won’t regret this,” said Fletcher. He turned, waggling his eyebrows impishly at Zagarat. “Trust me. This is gonna be fun.”

  Zagarat opened his mouth to speak, but before he could add to the conversation with another trenchant “but”, the door closed and Fletcher Griffin was gone.

  “Well, you heard the man,” said Margarat, bracing herself on her cane as she turned. “Go pack your things. You have a lot of work ahead of you.”

  “But… but… Ma, I wanted to be there with you at the hospital.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be there in spirit, dear,” said Margarat absently as she walked away. “Besides, you don’t have any choice now.”

  “What do you mean?” said Zagarat, following her into the living room. “I can still catch Mr. Griffin and tell him I can’t help accept this assignment.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Margarat, easing herself into her chair. “You have no choice because you need the credits to pay for my treatments and we both know it.”

  Zagarat could feel the blood rush from his face. “But the Dysone Foundation is paying for it all,” he said, fearing that the tremolo in his voice belied his words.

  Margarat glanced up at Zagarat with that piteous look Zag knew all too well. It was the same look she cast him when he told her that someone must have planted all those vids of the Lerandan supermodel Rejeena Miles on his PCD because he certainly wouldn’t watch her do something so absolutely lewd over and over again. Or when he claimed that a recent scientific study proved that vid games were just as educational as homework. Or whenever he lied to her in general.

  That same look of piteous incredulity.

  “Zagarat, Dysone commed earlier today. I know they declined your request for financial assistance. I also know that you don’t have the credits to pay for the treatments yourself, which means you either took out a ridiculously large loan to pay for this procedure or you acquired the credits by some other means. Please tell me you didn’t do something stupid.”