Once-Other

by Lawrence M. Nysschens

  A few dust-devils dance along the edge of a distant dune. None are dangerous though few not of Here-Born understand the suddenness with which they can grow into monsters.

  Across sand, all is clear this morning.

  I check closer to home.

  To the south lies the circus tent, the fairgrounds, and a carousel mostly occupied by tourists and performers. Westwards one has a clear view of the Mall, its east parking lot and entrance. To the north and east, open desert flows to the horizon and onwards to the barren northern mountain ranges and the Rocklands proper.

  I head back inside and check the anti-fly system located between displays of fresh pre-owned parts. Today its pump dutifully thump-thumps. A good sign for they are finicky appliances for which the flies are assuredly thankful.

  I remove older pre-owneds from coolers located beneath the counter and lay them out neatly along the special-deals counter. I check all hanging legs and arms for Neatness, ensure they are properly aligned and in formation, most are. Only the fingers refuse to hold still—there is just no Neatness with fingers.

  Despite this, my pre-owned business thrives as does sales from items on shelves and hanging racks. These are mostly paintings, potted cacti, stuffed wild animals and used pots, pans, secondhand Nomadi, desert clothes and SandRider parts. My slowest selling items are all but useless EB clothing.

  A quick glance to the rear confirms gray-blue Arzerns, stuffed birds of prey that is, are where they should be. Their counterparts, stuffed beige-n-brown sand bound Water Criers, cluster together in a corner under a tattered tarp. Around the walls and along walkways cacti stand to attention in tall flowerpots.

  Near the entrance, a faux blackwood table waits bolted to the floor and untouched since yesterday. I lay a single fingerprint in the thin film of sand before wiping it down. This I’d learned in prison—good luck for a day. With morning preparations complete, I relax at the table sipping ice-cold water.

  Across the parking lot, a Poip pair exits the Mall. They halt upon seeing me and lean close to one another in imitation of whispering. Unease swamps me.

  Has Madsen betrayed me? Why did he ignore my farewell wave at Jiplee’s funeral? Has he already committed a dastardly deed? Have I been compromised?

  I watch and even at a hundred sand-paces their incessant buzzing irritates. After several minutes, they head off. I sigh in relief. One of them glances back and my heart races. I bite my lip and gaze upwards. In the sky, the last traces of pink, turn blue. Unlike sunset, the pink of dawn often lingers until noon.

  Abruptly the environment tunes up brighter, sounds hit louder. SandRiders drone by at low rpm. Distant cries of laughter and fear waft across from the carousel. Tourist’s voices, sharp and edged, cut in from the parking lot. The red Mall doors slide open hissing protestations at the inbound rush of throat burning air. The waiting crowd surges forward, jostling and pushing to be first in, first out of the heat.

  I check the Mall parking lot and note a tall, slim built EB tourist headed my way. I examine him in detail as this is likely Peter Wernt, my new tourist. I also ponder whether he is more than a tourist for he could be an undercover agent of EB’s Poip.

  Wait and see, I advise self.

  His top-of-the-line, silver-gray fan-n-fit suit and a snug full-face helmet speak of a moneyed life. Its face-shield, closed against the heat, hides his eyes. His boots imprint loudly upon sand, his breath snorts through the helmet vents like a bull, head down pawing at sand eyes focused upon a bloodied matador.

  I swallow the last of the water and stand as he strides in. His boots pounding on the floorboards reflect a hint of military life. I smile as we shake hands and note this Peter Wernt is more confident than most.

  He slides his face-shield up, reveals an unsmiling face, glances around and wrinkles his long narrow nose as though a foul odor had drifted by. Now most all tourists shudder in disgust on seeing pre-owned parts for the first time. Some even present one with an impromptu display of recent meals—others simply faint away.

  Not this Peter Wernt though.

  His eyes flash like Poip lights as ideas skitter across his face.

  I reach for them but they vanish.

  Keeping a firm grip on my hand, he checks over my all white outfit—boots-n-all.

  “You Once-Other?” he asks in a manner indicative of another bad odor wafting his way.

  And I’m thrown back to brown bars on doors and windows and wherein wheat fields at high noon hard faces drip with sweat toiling beneath a blazing sun. Backs bend tilling a desert sand earlier prepped for planting with a mixture of rich EB soil.

  A short distance away, empty drums of rich-n-moist earth stand in silent witness of hard labor. Digging tools thud, men curse the heat, empty barrels echo as they bounce tossed carelessly aside. I question how Peter’s innocent greeting managed to send me so far back in time, back to prison.

  Nothing comes to mind.

  Dismissing the unanswerable, I address his question.

  “I am, and you are Peter Wernt, right?” I reply.

  He takes a half step backward. “Ah? Well...oh? Yeah. I am.” He glances at the fairground, the Mall, the horizon. “Yeah! I understand why no pictures—only chat.”

  I brace up ready to defend self from this verbal stain when Franciscoa, an elderly and rugged Here-Born gentleman and my campaign slash shop-assistant, walks in.

  Peter raises an eyebrow at the sight of Franciscoa’s light olive coveralls, red cap, red shoes and strange face. He wouldn’t know why Franciscoa’s skin is stretched tightly across high cheekbones nor why the whites of his eyes are permanently yellowed. All in evidence of the damage wrought by excessive Crier poison upon his body when we were all very young.

  He had almost died out upon the desert on one damn hot day. At full howl, Franciscoa’s engine gave up the ghost and shredded itself when a connecting rod snapped at the small end, spun around like a helicopter blade and made minced-metal of the internals.

  In the next instant, the wheels locked up, launching him over the handlebars into a Crier warren. Six of them attacked him with their sting-claws emptying their poison sacks into him. Franciscoa survived because friends were there and someone had anti-venom, though not enough.

  He spent six weeks in hospital. Even now he still suffers. Yet as always he is aglow with life and perpetual cheer despite the continued presence of poison-induced pain coursing through his body most days and every night.

  I grin fondly as he adjusts his cap revealing a barren scalp shaved clean by the same poison. He rushes over, grabs my hand in a bony grip his eyes fixed on Peter.

  His face splits into a wide smile. “Now Mister Tourist—would you agree your education is your Foundation?”

  Wernt speaks rapidly but utters no sound.

  “Wow! This one pure swallowed his tongue,” Franciscoa says directly to me, chuckles, pumps my hand again and heads deeper into the tent. There he selects a canister of preservatives, holds it to his ear, shakes it, smiles as the contents slosh and goes to work.

  I turn to Peter hopeful of a something I have long sought. A missing something within every EB tourist I have met. Moreover, I again hope that maybe, just maybe this one will have it.

  Will he comprehend what their Department for the Assurance of Happiness is doing? My countenance hardens at the real meaning of their motto: Our monitoring ensures your Happiness. Wait and see I advise self.

  “Walk with me,” I say and his mouth snaps closed.

  Taking his arm, I head deeper in amongst my goods until miscellaneous wares surround us. I hold up, glance about and find current conditions sound. I turn and check Peter’s reaction when he is this close to my pre-owneds.

  At first, his face holds smooth and calm. However, within seconds a slow tick starts up around his eyes. It crosses to his mouth, leaps to his nose in a strange jerky fashion and for no reason I can fathom keeps on ticking.

  I wait for its demise.

  And wait some more.

&nb
sp; It ticks on.

  Perhaps he is a little low on calcium, or magnesium, or even vitamin C, or potassium, or perhaps all. I hide a smile from my lips, let go his arm and intent on accessing his mind walk deeper into my store.

  He reluctantly follows, examining my stock of pre-owned parts as his face smooths over. I stop-up, he steps in and stands close. I sense there is something further different with this one. To begin with, and it’s a first altogether, he’s relatively calm in the face of pre-owneds despite that manifest tick.

  We examine various pre-owned in silence for several moments. He touches the toes of one, snaps his hand away and grimaces. I reach over and check for his thoughts and find them blocked. Okay. Not a problem. Access to EB minds can at times take longer.

  I move on. “Most of my pre-owned stock is under this counter inside a cooling locker. Would you like to examine some of those, Peter?”

  He shakes his head and leans on the counter, chin cupped in his palm.

  “No. Well. Okay. Now—a couple of essential items. Tours are one-on-one. Okay? Also, I, ah, well...you are a magnificent tourist and we customarily give a reduced price too—”

  He stands tall and says, “Spare me the false compliments.”

  “One of those eh?” Franciscoa says the naughty twinkle of an old man in his young eyes. He stoops over and sprays a set of pre-owned feet with preservative.

  “Looks that way,” I reply and say to Peter, “I understand but I know you are. No! Please don’t deny it. Okay. Good. Hold it. Now. You’d like to know about this all and my pre-owned business as well I figure. Right?”

  I tune to his mind and nothing.

  “Weird Once-Other,” Franciscoa says. “Real dangerous.”

  “I’ll solve it, Franci.”

  “Make it fast,” he says and over sprays an arm.

  “Preservatives are expensive...ease up will you,” I say.

  “Money. Money. Money. Were you EB born Once-Other?” And he chuckles to smooth over the insult.

  I turn to Peter, who takes a half step closer and gazes down his nose at me. We lock fully head-on for the first time—and another difference is apparent.

  His eyes are as cold as last night’s Antarctic blower. Behind their frozen wastes resides a something I recognize but cannot place. It’s something—something I’ve seen before, but where? And the ice barrier shatters. In prison in the eyes of hardened criminals. My heart stutters like a SandRider running out of gas.

  I make a note to be more than careful with this one and to have Madsen check on whom this Peter is—in depth. “You want to know about our customs...my business?” I ask him my voice a little shaky.

  He rubs his chin, gives my stock the once-over and says, “Preservatives as well,” and waves at the sky and sand as he who knows of what he indicates—but actually does not.

  I begin my campaign.

  “Okay then...and briefly at this point. Preservatives make for pre-owned sales and the swapping out of body parts in general. But we’ll come to the details later—much later in fact. Now stay with me and pay attention, altogether.

  “There’s much you need to learn when it comes to surviving upon these heated sands—keep in mind that death stalks Here-Born incessantly. It can strike when you least expect it and it’s final. Which I’m sure you know—it being death and all. So, beware of Here-Born she’s a cruel and unforgiving mistress.”

  He pops a finger into his mouth, wets it, wipes his eyebrows down. “Yeah well, let’s find out who you are. So yeah. Cutting to the chase here. What’s the bottom line? We never did finalize.” He crosses his arms and waits tapping his foot.

  I examine him in silence.

  His eyes are still deader than any I have seen outside of prison and about as cold as the black slots Poip pass off as eyes. Caution bows in. I open the door to it, take a mental step backward, measure Peter’s hidden thoughts, consider his foul distemper...demeanor and make my calculations.

  In conclusion, I modify my price upward by several measures. With a flourish, I show him five fingers at one thousand per finger and cross them with three to multiply by. “The price of a one-on-one tour, Peter.”

  His chin drops like a rock down a mineshaft, his eyes sharpen cutting into me. But upon my face shines a confidence born of years of successful sales.

  I assuage his dagger eyes with a smile and certainty.

  Peter’s mouth works in silence and stops open. He closes it and says, “Fifteen thousand? Yeah. Ha! That include everything? We’ve chatted, but I am looking you in the eye. Some jump, eh?”

  My hard face confirms pricing.

  “Wow. Isn’t that like...high?” Franciscoa says.

  “Stay out of this Franciscoa,” I order.

  “Does Madsen approve?” he asks.

  I chop downwards with a virtual hand and say, “Do your chores. Price has nothing to do with him. This is my business.”

  “Still! You know Madsen.”

  “What’s with you today?” I demand looking in his direction

  “Oh? You noticed! Had a realization...last night—it consumes me. Tell you later Once-Other—maybe at the Drinks-n-All.”

  “I hear...you…,” I say and glance to where Franciscoa is staring, his mouth suddenly hung open.

  A demon is stabbing at Peter’s cheeks from inside his mouth, a steel punch desperate to escape. They grow larger as tiny volcanoes of skin thrust up, flatten and pop up again. All the while, his cold blue eyes never waver from mine and then the impossible happens.

  A cobra’s head appears in each of his eyes.

  They hiss...long and low.

  CHAPTER 9

  Of Possible Illness, A New Economic System, Hidden Thoughts

  I wait for them to vanish. They instead extend fangs dripping poison. I blink. They are still present. But?! Are they imagination? Real? What to do?

  To gather some semblance of reality, I glance at Franciscoa busy spraying hanging Pre-owneds with preservatives. He slips in and out of focus. I shake my head in hopes of clearing it, but instead a cacophony erupts—bells, whistles, engines, screams, thundering sandstorms.

  Then silence followed by more painful noise.

  Bells toll as loud as a mile-long lane of cathedrals calling their congregations to Mass. My head threatens to split in half. Not feel good in any way, altogether. Whatever is going on with this tourist Peter Wernt is unique. The noise ends. I blink once again and this time the snakes and fangs do vanish.

  I should bail out and take my chances with Madsen’s foul disposition. Wait! I glance around. All seems normal. My heart beats steadily. The wind blows. The sky is blue. My tent has white stripes. But what to do?

  At best, I should end this tour. Yes. End it now.

  In an incomprehensible contradiction I instead say, “Yes Peter! Everything, and in all possible ways is non-negotiable at fifteen thousand and you pay immediately. Yes, you do!” Adjusting mind and thought I add, “We’ve got no credit system out here but if you like, please feel free to refuse and leave.”

  I step back with arms crossed and copy him by tapping my foot while presenting a stern countenance from behind which I inspect possible futures, a single question in mind.

  What is going on inside this tourist, Peter Wernt? No answer returns—indicating another failure to envision a future. Until I get his thoughts as I should, answers will be few and far between. This is more dangerous than any previous campaign—I am deaf. Caution in all I do is a must.

  Is there an alternative?

  Yes. I should send him off without hesitation. But who knows how important he may be. Especially if he has personal contact with hundreds, thousands or perhaps even millions back home on EB. That we need!

  Also, Madsen will soon update me on this Peter Wernt. If it turns out, he has vast contacts—that is hope. Hook into many from EB with the details of our Rights.

  Peter rubs his cheeks as though they hurt, grunts, smiles and says, “Direct eh. Uh? Oh yeah. Right. Okay. No credi
t system at all. Difficult to believe.”

  He hunts through his fan-n-fit.

  I take the opportunity to introduce him to something no EB understands. “On Here-Born we operate with a balanced economy, Peter. No inflation, no deflation. Balanced. So no credit.”

  “Impossible,” he says as they all do.

  I blip a mental throttle and change down into high rpm campaign mode. “Well. The quandary of credit and inflation is similar to the riddle of the chicken and the egg. Which do you think came first? Allow me to answer. Neither. They are created as one and at the same time.”

  “Yeah! You lost me Once-Other.”

  “No chickens without eggs, no eggs without chickens as far as the creation of chickens goes—all chickens. So. No inflation needed without credit. Both of which are created as the chicken and the egg. One has no role to play without the other.”

  He makes to speak, but I wave him silent. His eyes reveal he is not pleased.

  “Under your inflation prices rise faster than savings, Peter. So. You cannot run an economy using inflation without also having a credit system. You will not find much use for credit within a balanced economy because prices do not rise and rise.

  “And! Inflation is a manufactured condition—not a natural one. Your Foundation lies to you about the what, the wherefore and the why of inflation. Of course...there is the financing of massive projects by corporations. Investment returns solve that.”

  “I don’t believe—,” he says.

  A loud thud as Franciscoa stumbles drops a canister and kicks it. It rolls and bangs into a flowerpot.

  “What’s going on?” I ask him.

  “I’m a little edgy. Don’t worry.”

  “Keep the noise down, Franci. You’re interrupting my work.”

  I turn back to Peter, he to me and I say out aloud, “I know our economic system is hard to understand but the details are written in our Constitution. I’ll let you have a copy before you leave.”

  “Waste of time Once-Other. I would never read it.”