Once-Other

by Lawrence M. Nysschens

  I need help.

  I blink and light returns.

  Peter still stands in front of me shading his eyes from our angry sun his gaze fixed northwards across the barren northern desert.

  A sound from below. I glance down. He is still tapping his foot, an impatient parent awaiting a reticent child’s response.

  I decide to visit a doctor as soon as possible. But for now I need to eat and ease my physical self and so, taking him by the elbow I set out across sand not realizing views north and south had switched without my turning around...or so it seems.

  Tongue still sluggish I yet manage to say, “Come on. Let me show you the Mall and if there’s time we’ll go down the goldmine museum around which this Mall is built. It is a real shaft, a played out mine.”

  He resists bringing us to a halt. “Only on Here-Born,” he mutters. “A Mall and goldmine all in one. Oh...how I sigh.”

  I drag him along gnawing at my tongue until pain supplants anger. “Some info for you. The main shaft plunges two-thousand sand-paces to the first Level or Drift.”

  He makes to speak. I wave him silent. “Underground, where a shaft ends is called the inset, plat or shaft station.”

  He sneers. “Two thousand sand-paces deep eh? Yeah! How truly uninteresting. Please, do keep going.”

  “Well...a second shaft descends another fifteen-hundred sand-paces. Oh? You got one sand-pace measures about five feet long?”

  He glares at me.

  “So you did. Okay. You’ll find out more once we’ve toured the Mall.”

  “If I must,” he says.

  Here now and for the first time I have cut short a campaign step and this for two reasons. One, I may suffer a serious health problem. Two, I am in a dogfight—a mental and spiritual one.

  Which fights can often escalate into violence. Similar dangers plague all campaigners. At this point though without Peter’s mind available I cannot judge one way or the other what exactly I’m grappling with. I need his thoughts—and fast.

  Hopefully, inside his mind reside the explanations I thirst for. May all the gods we believe in help me if this behavior is simply his primary personality.

  On the other hand, I do suspect a hidden agenda although it may also turn out to be a pathetic bargaining style on his part. Or, perhaps he likes to intimidate others and for no real reason at that—there are enough of such individuals to go round.

  However, I am lost without access to a mind and so too is this one-on-one campaign. How foolish we of Here-Born to have relied upon a single skill—our ability to access another’s mind. How dangerous when it fails. I calm self, sigh and decide, though more like hope, that Peter is nothing more than an abrasive character and who is grossly rough around the edges-n-more.

  We trudge across sand our footsteps louder than normal.

  But the voices and engines close by are muted as though afraid.

  In the parking lot, several riders search for an open bay. The Mall doors hiss as they open and close. Shoppers walk by, many chatting mind-to-mind. A few greet me, glance at Peter and nod a silent one to him.

  “So eerie...this silence,” Peter says.

  I’m about to respond when a Poip pair exit the Mall, check us over and abruptly march towards us, their odd and exaggerated stride on full display. The A-one hand-signals for us to stop.

  I take a deep breath, exhale slowly and say, “My goodness damn gracious. Didn’t I mention meeting Poip later? And here’s a pair right before your very eyes.”

  “I should care?” he says.

  In contrast, he examines them in detail.

  “Ah, Peter. Note how EB technology still has a damn long road to travel. You know what I mean?”

  “No. What?”

  “Look there! Poip sink up to their ankles in sand. See? They cannot walk well and definitely do not dare run unless urgent. And if they do...real slow they go. Need to lighten them up for walking on sand. You should test on EB’s beaches and deserts to see how that works.”

  “What’s your gripe?” he says.

  I ignore his question. “I never liked the empty black slots which are supposed to be their eyes. In the first place, they have no eyes. Now. The one with A-one indented in its forehead is...okay you figured that one. The B-one retrieves data and downloads to the A-one.”

  “I see,” he says rubbing his chin with a satisfaction I don’t quite understand.

  “They are a violation and represent all your attacks on our Rights,” I say.

  He jolts as though directly responsible. Gives me a searching look, seems satisfied, smiles and says, “Lost me Once-Other. Appears they want to speak with you.”

  The A-one points at me. “Once-Other, citizen of Here-Born, recipient of income this morning. Please present your Nomadi for examination and validation of Toip.”

  I take Once-Other the campaigner by the scruff, shake him free and campaign onwards. “EB Toip-n-Poip are not legal here,” I reply.

  A-one shakes its head in disagreement, exactly as programmed.

  “Yes, they are!” I growl.

  “Hey?” Peter says. “Easy. A-one’s just asking a simple question. What’s with the biting attitude?”

  I glare at him and he backs off flapping his hands in faked angst.

  A-one says, “Here-Born’s Constitution was modified under the Earth slash Here-Born Trade Accord. From Section 1112, Page 7856...allow me to quote.”

  “Sure,” I say and note Peter grinning as though he had won something.

  The A-one hums lost in a binary trance. It awakens and says, “For the protection, development and distribution of Here-Born’s gold and oil resources across State and other borders or any boundaries, real or otherwise, Earth guarantees the following entitlements: Happiness, Security, Protection, Education and Monetary Equivalence.”

  “You’d best comprehend those simplicities, Once-Other?” Peter whispers. “Clear and sound when understood...keeps you within legal boundaries.”

  I glare at him. He waves his hands again and backs away.

  A-one says, “In exchange Toip as supervised and controlled by us Poip was adopted under a Here-Born Yes-vote thereby enabling both Toip and we Poip and the Assurance of your Happiness.”

  “I know!” I spit in return. “But Toip violates our Here-Born tax laws. And worst of all your Representative, Jimmy Cromwell, lied to us about the Bill we voted on. The copy given us had most of the Regulations damn well missing. We voters didn’t understand that—another violation in and of itself. And so too is regulations to follow.”

  Peter throws his arms wide. “Come on. You can’t change anything. We’re talking Poip for crying out loud.”

  Though I won’t be silenced, I do take note of the sudden familiarity Peter has with Poip. “Cromwell bought off many Here-Born politicians. With this devious act completed, all the votes of Here-Born citizens on Earth-Born were included in the vote.”

  A-one tries to interrupt, but I wave it silent. “Which appeared honest, but wasn’t. Cromwell and our own no good damned criminal politicians cheated by issuing all of Earth-Born’s citizens with Here-Born citizenship. Damn illegal immigration and naturalization and without ever arriving. Plus! Damn Voter fraud to boot.”

  “Our Monitoring Ensures your Happiness,” A-one declares coldly.

  “I am happy!” I snarl.

  “Once-Other provide your Nomadi for examination. I’ve noted an Argumentative Attitude Specific Simplex Syndrome...”

  “I’m more than familiar with what AASSS is,” I interject.

  “...which violates Mister Peter Wernt’s Constitutional Right to Assured Happiness. He does not appear happy at this moment. While you were speaking and with what you said his Happiness index has decreased. A final request is being made of you! Present your Nomadi for examination forthwith or suffer the consequences.” They brace themselves and edge closer.

  “I have the right to protest, to express my views,” I declare.

  “You should be more courte
ous,” Wernt whispers.

  Oddly, A-one pleadingly waves us silent and says, “Once-Other—my dear fellow citizen. Please. A timeout requested by Happiness HQ. Please allow us to present two bulletins from the desk of Mister Warrent McPeters, Director of the Department for the Assurance of Happiness, Earth. A moment as my partner and valued friend downloads for us.”

  They slip into silent mode.

  “You should be more respectful,” Wernt insists and adjusts his fan-n-fit just as Chef’s Call-out blows. His stomach growls in protest of its emptiness, and I smile.

  “We can have breakfast when these two are done with us. Keep in mind days on Here-Born are twenty-eight hours long.”

  He rubs his stomach and sniffs at the wind. “Where do those appetizing aromas come from?”

  “Out the southwest, but only when Chef’s Call-out gusts,” I reply. “Outdoor chefs set up and operate open flame broilers across there.”

  A-one awakes. “Bulletins are downloaded and have been transferred. Would you like a video playback of Mister Warrent McPeters in all his magnificent presence or audio alone?”

  “Audio only!” Peter barks in a harsh, strained voice.

  “Thank you for waiting,” A-one says. “I require your full attention in this matter.” They wait as twins do for our response.

  We nod yes.

  “Citizen Once-Other! The Department for the Assurance of Happiness wishes you a good day. Here for you is the information. Please maintain a sufficiently attentive mode.”

  It pauses, draws a heart shape in air and smiles. “Bulletin One outlines how exactly Happiness was legislated as a Right and an entitlement. No one may violate these Rights. Criminal charges are laid against those who do. Arrest and imprisonment will result...for as we all know...our monitoring ensures your happiness.”

  I nod.

  “Bulletin Two states...protests, undue concern with other Rights, expressed dissatisfaction, continuously harping against established Rules, Regulations, Laws or Trade agreements leads to making oneself very, very unhappy.”

  A-one pauses and looks at me with its head cocked to one side much like a mother gazes with fondness upon a somewhat rebellious son.

  “Once-Other. You are hereby being informed that new legislation prohibits you from making yourself unhappy...which conduct violates your own Right to Happiness. Arrest of self for violating the Rights of Self to the Assurance of Happiness is probable.

  “Thank you for your attention. Mister Warrent McPeters, Director of Department for the Assurance of Happiness, Earth and at this time, Here-Born. Have a nice day.”

  They nod to each other and A-one says, “Please present your Nomadi Once-Other.”

  I hand it over as always hoping Peter notes that Poip act here as they do back on EB. Nothing works as well as a real-time demonstration of Poip in action. Furthermore, foreigners will often realize something new inside of the familiar even though they had never thought to consider such when home.

  A-one plugs my Nomadi into a hip socket, scans it, nods as though happy and hands it back. “Once-Other, you have configured taxes due to Earth in the manner required. Thank you for your loyalty, your contributions to the joys of Assured Happiness, to the wonders of the Earth slash Here-Born Trade Accord and for exercising your Right to Obey the Law.”

  Peter whispers, “So simple.”

  The A-one examines and computes him.

  Peter thrusts a hand into his pocket and leaves it there.

  I assume he’s reaching for his Nomadi.

  A-one says, “You are Peter Wernt ah...”

  A burst of static noise cuts across the heated air and dies as suddenly. I am unable to spot the source of it.

  “…you are actually...welcome. On Here-born, we Poip monitor and ensure the Happiness of all persons of whatever race, color or creed. Enjoy your time here and have a nice day.”

  They salute, about-turn and head towards the carousel marching in step and ankle deep.

  “And now?” Peter asks.

  But I’m not ready for questions.

  I’m considering what just happened.

  That is the first time a new version Poip hiccupped in any fashion. And the burst of noise was possibly electronics kicking alive and controlling that Poip. Lost deep in thought I am jolted awake as Peter strides off headed for the Mall his boots crunching on sand.

  I look him over...am I going under...can this be happening? No! Impossible! What a wild idea—Peter able to control Poip?

  I quickly follow him, catch up, grasp his upper arm and pull him down to one knee. His suit clings silky-smooth to my palm. I shudder and release his arm.

  The corner of his left eye ticks. He rubs it. “Once-Other?” he asks in a shaky voice.

  “Look out across the surface. Tell me what you notice.”

  He licks his lips, looks at the endless expanse of sand, frowns and says, “Sand?”

  “That’s one damn fine important observation on your part.”

  I walk off leaving him kneeling, frowning.

  Moments later, he follows kicking at sand.

  But I am worried. It’s just a sense of something odd. Something out of place upon which I cannot place a finger, perceptive tendrils nor any other awareness.

  And questions rouse themselves.

  Why had Peter been so eager for audio only?

  I think it over but nothing makes sense other than his self-centeredness and his urge to change what others like or suggest...and probably just for the hell of it. On the other hand, am I missing something, something important?

  No answers present themselves.

  How strange such emptiness where before answers flowed.

  Wait and see I advise self.

  CHAPTER 12

  Of Sand, Colored Glass, Water Criers And Sand-Snails

  Black cargo containers hitched to sand colored SandMasters hurtle across the endless desert, a rumbling dust cloud headed for a setting sun. Cargo holds choked full of natural quartz sand, tax suspensions to the maximum. Tire footprints cut trails across sand deeper than any other Here-Born vehicle. Taking Here-Born into account, sand seems a worthless cargo.

  Yet, there’s a purpose to these cargoes destined to undergo a metamorphosis. They thunder onwards crossing basins, up and over dunes, barreling along old riverbeds for days while others travel for weeks.

  Their cargoes originate from five distinct areas each providing unique impurities which impurities dictate individual color and qualities.

  There is lead oxide to bring out the clear sparkle of crystal.

  Iron oxides shade green.

  However, no sulfur was present on the day—no amber nor hues of brown that is.

  In the requirements for the Mall of Sand Lake Flats designs demanded green and green alone. The architects insisted amber and brown be noticeable by their absence alone.

  After unloading and climbing mechanical hills, the loads fuse with fire. Liquefied quartz runs the finishing slope to float as sheets upon liquid tin. Passing through kilns each cools, is measured and cut into sheets of float-glass.

  ***

  I throw my arms wide embracing the Mall.

  “Some highlights Peter. Obviously, it’s an oval design with outer walls and the domed roof made of transparent green glass. Does the exterior shimmer as an ocean does? All the green tint, right? Hmm? Okay. Maybe not. A tourist once mentioned that those white columns along the walkway are replicas from a Greek temple or something?”

  He does not look nor reply.

  I point to the roof. “When you’re far back enough the steel headframe of the goldmine is visible.”

  He backs up but we are too close and he appears disappointed.

  We step inside to a cool moist climate, quiet and refreshing. Several toddlers play on swings in a kid’s playground. One sits with arms crossed bawling and kicking her heels. Nothing feels quite as strange as hearing a child cry mind-to-mind.

  I glance about for any danger but find none.
/>   Peter flips his face shield fully open.

  The conditioned breeze is sweet with the spices of India and Earl Grey out of England. Here and there aroma streams of pizza, hotdogs, peppers and BBQ waft by.

  From another direction, the occasional smell of chlorine from a swimming pool catches at my throat. In it, several teenagers splash and laugh as they shoot water at one another.

  Further EB voices cut the air jarring loud and hard.

  I point upwards. “Peter...the ceiling allows sunlight in but reflects heat—ninety-eight percent. The stores are all on the perimeter leaving the center open for aesthetic fountains, refreshment islands and kid’s playgrounds.

  “Note how the floor tiles start out black, shade dark brown, to brown, to beige across to brown and dark brown and return to black again. Granite tiles they are, rough to the touch—don’t slip here. They are born of Here-Born many ages ago. You have anything like this back home?”

  He laughs but not because he is impressed.

  I stroke my chin as though thoughtful. “Note the shoppers admiring kitchenware and those bent over peering at protective clothing. Get it? No. Okay. No one wears a dress or kilt out here. You would not want to be caught by wind let alone a sandstorm wearing one. Also. There’s the escalator for those who prefer their stair climbing be performed for them.”

  He sighs and taps his foot.

  “Up on the top floor...the finest Nomadi dealer in all the universe. You care to upgrade yours?”

  He taps his foot louder.

  I turn my back on him and that foot and head for the Top of the Mine restaurant. About to follow he pauses at a store window and examines some wildlife paintings. “What’s this?” he asks.

  I return and say, “A sand-snail...a delicacy for us...ah Crier food. They live out in the wild desert though some species still live close to town.”

  He moves over to a painting of a Crier. “Yeah. These are so weird. Beige, black, white. Crazy skin folds around its neck, thick hind legs, large back with that long hair covering it and hanging down its sides, sort of a wolf’s face and human-like eyes. I glimpsed them beneath the tarp in your shop. Is this what Water Criers really look like?”