I desperately need to know about this EB named Wernt. And for that I require his thoughts. I must obtain them for my campaign and because I have an urge to know what and why he switches between somewhat pleasant and raging wild and back again. So right now it is time to consider this Peter Wernt in greater depth.
I do so only to chuckle at what I find after having removed emotion and upset from the equation.
Yes. He is interested in me. Yes. I do not know why. Yes. Like all tourists he is curious about our UWMD. True to form he rejects our political ideas. Yet despite these I am positive some campaign items found a home within him. What they are...I do not know. I dismiss him sit back and wriggle myself comfortable.
The beat of the Evac’s blades pulses inside my head. Thinking dives for cover and I doze off. I’m awakened by a change in their tempo. Looking out the open door reveals Sand Lake Flats Toxin Center. It’s a single story building built of adobe, painted medium-brown and located some ten miles southwest of the city.
The Evac lands amidst its own sandstorm.
Wernt and I smile at one another as we make our way into Emergency, each under his own steam. ER staff interview him briefly, conduct tests and affirm he can leave. On the other hand, needles as well as several probes find their way into me.
One is inserted where I least wish to be probed. I’m left to my own uncomfortable self sitting on a chair with no center cushion. A hole in place of a seat proper suffices.
Minutes later Peter is at the door.
He smiles in deference to the least favored probe I mentioned. He appears hangdog, sheepish and awaits my invitation. I wave him over. He enters and to my damn fine surprise checks over the new bandage around my head and asks in a voice thick with compassion, “You okay Once-Other?”
Chills meander up my spine threatening to freeze my brain. I halt them and consider the EB tourist before me. Now by all possible standards this Peter Wernt is damn smart. Perhaps smart enough to appear stupid, which trick—if you are very smart is not easy to pull off with any conviction.
He pats me on the shoulder and says, “Yeah. I figure we both need some time off. You more so than me I’ll bet. I’m okay with getting back to our tour Monday morning. Monday work for you?” He waits, a little boy who has asked for the money to buy what he was told he cannot have.
“Fine with me,” I reply.
He offers his hand and we shake.
Images flutter in. They break apart and fly around as though seeking to escape confinement. None of them makes any sense. A large wheel stuck in either white beach sand or snow. Overhead are darkened skies from which snowflakes drift. An infant wrapped in a shawl, a blazing sun over a desert. The images vanish as he releases my hand, smiles with a knowing glint in his eyes, walks to the door, waves and leaves.
Never in my entire campaigning career did I ever meet an Earth-Born as peculiar as Peter Wernt. I close my eyes hoping to doze off but a soft sound stirs me awake. The door swings open and Madsen enters—a growling irritation plastered across his brow.
“Round-n-about damn an’ all Once-Other. How can you be so incompetent?”
“Much too close a call Madsen,” I say ignoring the verbal barb.
“I’ve informed everyone including your ex—”
“Oh no. Not Deidre.”
“Not wrong Once-Other. An’ I know this is round-n-about the last thing you want. But. I’m told a massive a dose of poison got into you an’ all. You be in a troubling physical state. Too close, real close.”
He holds two fingers up pressed tightly together. “That close to wasting expensive training an’ all.” He taps my head. “You keep your body, mind and spirit together an’ all. I’m out of here. Way late. Got a long ride ahead dropping off your SandRider.”
He exits does a double take, glances back at me, chuckles and heads off.
Maggie enters hiding her concern behind a forced smile. Seeing her still dressed in her work uniform but without a counter between us lifts a weary heart.
“You’re sure a no damn good pirate sailing carelessly on this girl’s emotional seas,” she growls, her husky voice thick with emotion.
“Nice of you to come too, Maggie.”
She sits on the edge of the bed and takes my hand. “Not good an’ all! Head swollen like a Roanark Braer’s...three days dead in the sun an’ smelling ‘bout the same.”
“Yes...way close,” and she smiles at my taking on her accent, “Wernt accidentally sipped milk instead of water an’ all. Nothing more.”
She examines me long-n-hard and asks, “You sure an’ all?”
“I could smell Crier milk. He regurgitated some...and then some.”
“I mean. Real accidental? We got the goldmine thing an’ now this.”
“Hadn’t thought on it in that way,” I say and consider her concerns.
A little wild I conclude. How can anyone plan to have me step on a refill canister to cause severe injury or death? And while they’re falling to boot! There’s few on Here-Born and none on EB. Period. Who in his right mind would drink Crier milk after a warning? None except those about to die of hunger and who would simply die of hunger while puking.
“I don’t....” I say but a nurse enters and indicates it’s time for me to rest and recover.
Maggie kisses my cheek, touches the bandage and then kisses my forehead.
“Take care you,” she whispers and leaves with a long look back.
The nurse smiles, tucks the blanket in and pauses. I frown at the strange mix of emotion emanating from her. “What?” I gently ask.
“Franciscoa is our uncle.”
“Oh. Our?”
“Maggie and I,” she says.
“Oh right! Sorry I don’t—didn’t mean to be....”
“It’s okay...he explained in detail before....”
“Oh. Yes. Madsen told me. Great benefit to us all...I hope. Let it not be in vain.”
“So do we Once-Other. It is the Time he said...for active self-defense. You know what that means?”
“May all EB citizens be warned,” I reply.
She nods grim agreement pats my shoulder and leaves.
I sit back and think over what is coming.
Yes, and true.
We the People are not happy.
We the People will not drink sand instead of water for as the idiom goes: A smooth tongue makes not water of sand.
Now it is time to rest and later...we shall see what we shall see.
CHAPTER 35
Of Our Monitoring Ensures Your Happiness
The Department for the Assurance of Happiness
Los Angeles Regional District
Motto: Our Monitoring Ensures Your Happiness
Date: Confidential—as are all
Document: 798-631
Document Type: Assurance of Happiness Transcript
Requesting Authority: Mister Warrent McPeters
Issuing Authority: Mister Warrent McPeters
Subject Matter: Peter Wernt, Number Six, Number Eight
Location: Here-Born Residentia, Here-Born in general
Methodology: third-eye camera/local Poip/audio-visual monitoring.
Transcript Processor: Ms. Agnes Soulone (pronounced: Soul-one)
Technical Disclaimer: That the button provided above when pressed plays the original audio-visual version of this report on the opposite page is quite misleading.
No warranty nor guaranty ensures that audio-visual will play. That technology is no longer valid. It’s been cancelled due to apparent bugs and the art of reading is substituted.
Refer all questions to the Dot Soft Corporation.
Thank you.
Transcript:
This is Agnes and please excuse my inserting how to say my last name. No one gets it right unless I do. Peccadilloes!
Here now I’ll start this transcript:
At last the wind has settled, the sand lies quiet and this monitoring record opens on the green and white striped sides of Pre-ow
neds Galore.
Feet splayed upon the sand outside of Once-Other’s store Peter Wernt takes a call on his Nomadi. He listens. His mouth twitches. His eyebrows bob. From inside Once-Other attempts to overhear the conversation but pretends he is not.
Peter Wernt, his back to Once-Other and both hands cupped around Nomadi, listens intently. Audio begins at the tail end of the call.
“...new Writ of Property is approved and confirmed with no modification to the current one, Property ID dash109.”
“Yeah!” Peter says and pumps his arm as though he had just scored a championship-winning goal.
Call ends and static squiggles wash across my monitor screen. Another recording starts.
Judging by the zigzagging of his progress as seen via his third-eye camera, Mister Peter Wernt is staggering through the sparsely decorated reception of the Here-Born Residentia drunk or incapacitated in one way or another.
His head bobs so much the camera POV weaves alarmingly. Personal opinions are not part of my job description but it makes me so woozy just viewing this.
Oh dear me!
Back to work I go.
Wait!
A glance out the window and the wind blows leaves along the sidewalk. Trams hustle by their lines blurred by dust thick on the window pane.
Never hear them, what with double glazed sound proof windows. Windows designed to reflect sound and prevent visual intrusion from those curious as to what exactly we at the Department for the Assurance of Happiness, Los Angeles Bureau are getting up and down to.
Secrecy is what it most of all is. Whoops! That’s a no-no.
Back to work I go!
Numbers Six and Eight are waiting in the dining room idly playing with their food. Why are they named Six and Eight? I don’t know. Let me research that.
On checking no data is available. Dear me! How odd.
Oh! You will need to excuse my transcription style even further if you are new to Transcript Verifications and Corrections. For those who judge my work you will soon notice I tend to ramble on as though I am speaking to someone. But you’ll get my meaning—so moving along briskly.
I must admit I like Number Six’s full body suit, dark green against a white top and red pin in her black hair—most becoming. Peter joins them and takes her hand firmly in his.
Number Eight growls discontentedly his eyes glued on their hands, his unease evident by involuntary motions. The poor fellow is pulling at his sleeves, combing his bangs with his fingers and checking his appearance in a wall mirror.
He’s apparently afflicted with low self-esteem despite the gaudy red and black checkered fan-n-fit. He still favors the arm injured when he tried punching Once-Other.
“You teach that Once-Other a lesson?” Peter Wernt asks him.
“I sure did,” Number Eight says.
“No, you didn’t,” Number Six says.
“Okay. Okay. I tried. I made the right moves—wrenched my shoulder. Still hurts!”
I pause playback and smile...that Once-Other sure is fleet-of-foot. Continue.
“Anything to report?” Peter asks Number Six and holds her hand the same way he held onto Once-Other’s when they first met inside Pre-owneds Galore.
“Once-Other is divorced,” she says. “He’s the sole owner of the store but with their business rules or the lax rules of Here-Born, I’d still get everything confirmed by him.” She squeezes his hand.
“Anything else?” Peter asks a little cold for all the handholding.
Number Eight passes across his Nomadi and Peter downloads. “What am I downloading?” he asks.
“His inventory, domicile and possessions. He’s got no debts.” Number Eight strives to make the information sound far grander than warranted.
“There’s no credit system here...no one has any debts,” Peter snarls exasperation easily traceable in his voice and on his face. The lens loses focus as it darts left and right making me nauseous and starts a little pain in the middle of my head.
“How’s that work?” Number Eight asks and crosses his legs as though his bladder is about to let loose.
Peter leans towards him and says, “You pay in full and up front for everything. What do you think?”
“That’s dumb,” Number Eight says and crosses his legs the other way. His foot starts twitching; he grabs it, holds on briefly then lets go.
Number Six shakes her head and rubs the bridge of her nose as though assaulted by a sudden headache.
Peter sits frozen in time eyes fixed but unfocused on a wall mirror. He wakes with a jolt and glances around as though unaware of his location. He notes Number Eight’s foot is twitching again, shakes his head and looks to the ceiling.
“Yeah,” he says and leans in on Number Eight, eye-to-eye. “If any of you had to suffer his endless going on we’d have left a no BS’ing a long time ago. His rants about so-called Rights and Here-Born’s other alleged treasures infuriate me!”
“Why not finish him off?” Number Eight asks and grabs at his own tongue as though there’s a hair on it and wipes his wet fingers on a sleeve.
“I’m enjoying his feeble attempts at figuring things out,” Peter says then snarls, “What happened? Once-Other turns up alive and well after he died at the bottom of that dumb-ass Museum. No call? You don’t figure on reporting in Eight?”
Number Eight’s voice whines like a fly caught in a jar. “I called, but you were out of range. I put the oil in his SandRider okay. You were there. You saw me. Where were you when I couldn’t contact you?”
“Out in the desert. Damn extension aerial didn’t work. Go Figure.” He leans across the table, grabs and pulls Number Eight nose-to-nose. “When I need you to know where I am, what I’m doing and what I think...be sure and understand...I’ll brief you.”
“Okay. Mister...Peter.”
Peter’s face twitches his nose jumping up and down.
Number Six smiles quietly to herself.
Number Eight wipes sweat off his brow.
Peter lets him go and starts eating.
Six and Eight follow suit.
I can’t stop staring at them eating.
Oh dear, the food...so good.
When last did I see real orange juice?
Behind me Skellumer clears his throat.
I force myself not to glance over my shoulder. I can imagine what’s on this face. Threats of being reported are what. Despite him, I’m excited by this new project my Supervisor awarded me.
Strange though, my Supe provided no info other than these Assurance of Happiness recordings themselves. Then again, he’s a mere two-day old baby on his first tour of duty down here at the Department for the Assurance of Happiness.
He’ll learn. Real soon.
However, there is something strange...no...something different...almost alien about him.
Hmmm? Yummy.
Oops!
I sigh and gaze across at our standard allotment of ADD-D suffers—a perfect mix of male and female. They watch TV all day because they are unable to work.
Dear me, how trying on them. Well, at least they are paid the same as we are making us all wonderfully equal. What happiness real equality ensures.
“Hallelujah!” I whisper in closing down another day here at the Department for the Assurance of Happiness.
CHAPTER 36
Of Once-Other’s Second Moment In Time And Deidre’s Concerns
Firm hands at the helm, canvas cleaved to the wind, brave hearts challenge the Cape of Storms with rudders, keels, courage and trust in their God alone.
The Atlantic Ocean’s temper, held high in all their esteem, takes no prisoners. Angered, she rises to tower overhead menacing all who dare sail upon her. For those who do climb her waves, dead ahead looms naught but a darkened sky.
These brave sailors confront mountains of water high as a Here-Born dune. After the face is conquered eyes widen as vessels plunge downwards like a SandRider charging into a capture-ditch. Those sailors who survive tell no tales—a silence
in honor of souls taken by the sea and there to keep others of a like destiny company.
Later came catamarans with arms to steady them upon the ever-changing ocean and with keels so deep before entering harbors or shallow coastal waters they are raised. From the plans of catamarans were extrapolated concepts of ships upon sand.
The Here-Born desert is too an ocean having no vegetation save cacti and rare patches of desert grass to bind it. Rivers of sand flow across her like those of water. Sandfalls plunge and thunder as loud as Niagara.
Her desert currents out power the cold Benguela current which is driven to full power by the South Easterly Trade winds charting a course from Cape Point northwards along the southwestern coast of Africa.
Tents were the first structures on Here-Born and are still the most common. Fixed to a hull they sail sand well enough if a storm is gentle. However, square angled houses and buildings break upon a violent sandstorm.
Yacht and Catamaran designed homes came later. They’ll ride sandstorms almost as well as yachts upon an ocean.
We build very few tent homes in these times based, as they are, on a shallow hull though hull enough to float if upright.
But whatever its design is...home is home.
***
Madsen races off towards the horizon. The dust plume that billows from his SandRider’s wheels swells larger and thicker. Halfway to the horizon he vanishes hidden by his own sand-cloud.
I’m still aggravated by what he’d said to me in the Toxin Center last night. What does he expect—for me to be infallible? With effort I dismiss him and his attitudes and glance about.
Saturday morning shines warm and windless. Yes, I am home once again and though worse off for poison, I am alive.
I find no messages from Karrell at my front door. I check Hellbent II and all appears in good order, engine oil included. I walk the exterior. Sand is smooth, clear of any footprints, the windows clean of smudges.
I scan the horizon but nothing strikes me as dangerous.
I enter home.
A fast inspection assures it rests level and no message waiting lights blink. Courtesy of Crier poison bombs explode, lightning crackles and needle storms needle inside my head and in concert with one another.
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