by James Peters
“Mrrrroooow!”
A laugh from the crowd. Even the good Reverend smiled at that.
“I think we can take that as a vote of confidence. Do you have the ring?”
Marco strutted down the aisle in his little gray suit, grinning widely, his chin raised high. He reached into a pocket, feigned not finding the ring, then produced it. I swear he smiled at me when he handed it to me.
“Raka Varoule, do you take Gina to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold the rest of your lives, so help you God?”
“I do.”
“Gina Roberts, do you take Raka Varoule to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold the rest of your lives, so help you God?”
“I do.”
“Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride. We’ll have a reception line for Irma Gurd at the north side of the sanctuary, and a reception line for Raka and Gina at the south side. Please visit both, and please, if you have room in your homes and hearts, please adopt one of Irma’s kittens from the cage. We can’t keep them here.”
That’s how we ended up married and taking home a black and white kitten. We named her Irma.
Chapter 15
The Diary of Irma Gurd
Final diary entry for Irma Gurd:
Dear Diary –
What a beautiful day today! The sun is shining and the cats are so loving! It’s been two weeks since I adopted Mr. Kitty; the little orange tabby. He is so cute! The way he walks between my legs when I go down to the cellar is so adorable. He knows where I feed all the cats and he just wants to make sure that he’s the first to get dinner. I told him that if he didn’t stop, he’d be the death of me!
Of course he just said, ‘Meow.’
After I feed the cats today, I’m going to go into town. I’ve been talking to that nice widower, Mr. Carson. He reminds me of Bing Crosby! So adorable. I think today is the day I’m going to let him know that I’m interested in him. I may even let him give me a little peck on the cheek if he’s willing. Or is that too forward? These days you just don’t know what’s proper. I’ve made up my mind. Today is the day. I’ve going to feed the cats and head to town. Mr. Carson, here I come!
I’ll write more later…
Chapter 16
The Black Pen Strikes Again
Gina said, “Raka? Are you here, still working?”
“Oh, hi. Sorry. Did the time get away from me?”
“It’s after eight. Dinner’s been ready for an hour.”
“Sorry, sweetie. I was working on some things and my mind wondered.”
“That’s been happening a lot lately.”
Gina grabbed my hand and pulled it toward her face. “Your hands are cold.”
“Are they? I think you are just warm.” I gave her a short kiss. Her lips curled up into a smile as I looked at her.
Gina sat down on a work stool next to me, looking at the pile of electronic television guts spread out on the work table.
“Anything. What’s on your mind?”
“Something’s been bothering you. Will you tell me what it is?” She picked up a transformer from the pile of electronics, tilted her head, and turned it over in her hand.
“It’s hard to explain.”
I looked at Gina, studying her face, the smile lines on her cheeks and tiny imperfections that made her perfect for me. The years had been kind to her, but I saw signs that she aged at earth rate. We’d been married nearly ten years, and it had been good. I never expected to be this happy.
“That’s not an answer, mister,” Gina said. “Tell me the truth. I know you’re different, have for years. Tell me what’s bothering you and I may be able to help you.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you. You see, it’s the technology I’ve been seeing.”
“The technology?”
“Yes. The tech is not what I expect it to be. It’s changing, too quickly.”
“Are you having trouble with the new tech?”
“No. Not at all. It’s just changing quicker than it should. I’ve seen several generations of changes, or at least what should have taken decades to happen, occur almost overnight. It’s like we’ve skipped generations. It doesn’t make sense.”
“What do you mean, generations of change?” Gina said as she held up the transformer. “It’s not like these things have children!”
“No, they don’t. But neither have we.”
I saw Gina’s smile drop briefly at that. I could never have explained why I had been unable to give her children. Male children in the Empire are automatically sterilized via nanobot ‘magic’ and remained sterile until they requested the procedure reversed. A new shot of ‘bots and a month or so later you fired live ammo. No pain, no noticeable change in anything. Without access to Imperial medicine, I would spend the rest of my life sterile. She had a right to be upset with me but had never said a word. “Let me explain. The normal progression of technology is vacuum tubes, then crystalline ceramics, then transistor chips and digital circuitry. We’ve skipped right over the crystalline ceramics stage.”
“Crystalline ceramics?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t really matter, but it’s more of an organic technology of sorts. Rather than a binary, digital signal, it uses analog signals. Slower than digital, but more intuitive, more ‘natural’. We should be in the first decade of the crystalline revolution. Instead, we’re in the digital revolution.”
“Raka, how do you know that this isn’t right?”
“I’m something of an expert on technological advances. That’s why I’m so good at fixing things.”
“You’re being evasive.” Gina looked me square in the eyes. “Tell me more.”
“Okay. So we’re progressing at a rate that doesn’t make sense. Recently, I saw an article in a trade magazine quoting Gordon Moore, explaining that components on transistors had been doubling roughly every two years. At first, I didn’t believe it, but I had seen it with my own two eyes. This radio…” I pointed to a unit on the table, “is five years old. This one…” I pointed to a newer unit, “is last year’s model. The circuitry in them has changed exponentially. It’s not natural. It‘s what I call a Technological Singularity”
“Technological what?”
“Singularity. It’s like everything is happening at once, at least from a big picture point of view.”
“Well, if it’s happening, and if it’s not natural, then what’s causing it?”
I almost saw wheels turning in Gina’s mind. “We’re getting the technology from someone. But who, and why?”
“Let’s just say that there is more advanced technology out there that we’re not supposed to have yet. Someone is leaking technology to industry. Probably to make money, for power, or both.”
“It’s the military, isn’t it? Probably the Army has this secret tech, a program like the bomb, and someone is selling it. Perhaps a scientist in on the program, or a spy. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“You are on the right track,” I said. I mean, what could I say? This is Empire Tech and Earth doesn’t have a clue about what’s really happening in their own galaxy? If the Emperor finds out about this, he’ll send half the fleet here to vaporize this whole little solar system so not a speck of it remains? I’m responsible for this happening? “Let me try something.” I pulled one of the newest chips from one of the stereos I had been working on. It had just been installed poorly, shorting out the chip and rendering it useless. I had been able to replace it easily enough, but I had kept it with the intent of looking closer at it. Using the tech from my guard’s suit helmet, I set up a micro X-ray image of the circuitry and focus down through the layers. When I saw it the first time I refused to believe it. So I grabbed another chip, a new one, and, did the same thing. Right there, etched in the chip in writing too small for any human eye to see appeared an image I had seen thousands of times before. The ‘snowflake’ of the Empire. A stylized emblem of a central hub and symbolic arrows (or spac
eships, according to some) pointing in twenty-six directions at once. At first glance, it looked to be a snowflake, each one pointing to a planet under Imperial rule. “Look at this.” I passed the eyepiece to Gina. “What do you see?”
“A snowflake.”
“Yes. A snowflake. I know that snowflake and what it means. It means nothing but trouble.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a symbol, like a logo. When this tech was copied, it got copied along with the rest of the information. It doesn’t do anything, other than to serve as a copyright of sorts. By being here, it’s proof that the circuitry was copied.”
“I’m guessing the people that own that copyright won’t be pleased that it has been copied.” Gina paled as she spoke. “That’s what’s troubling you. Are you in trouble, Raka? Were you involved with this?”
“No. I had nothing to do with the leak of technology. But some of my ‘friends’ might have. I need to figure out more about this.”
“But how?”
“First, I need to do some digging. Find out what I can, track down where this is being made, and find out where it’s coming from. I need resources, access to information, and credentials. Remember the Black Pen?”
“Yes, of course! Those were the days. You seemed to really enjoy getting the dirt on people and exposing them to the press. What are you thinking?”
“A long time ago, I got a note from someone. I don’t even know who it was really, but they noticed the investigative work I was doing. It was when I was really rolling with the Noire LaPlume work. They offered me a chance to ‘make it big’. If I’m lucky, they may still remember me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? You seemed to love that work. Why didn’t you pursue it?”
“It happened right when your grandfather passed away. I was at a crossroads; move on to the big city and make my way as an investigative reporter, or stay here with you. You asked me to stay; to never leave, and when I saw the look in your eyes, my heart broke. I couldn’t leave you. So I stayed.”
“You’re saying that I kept you from your dream? Why would you say that? Now I feel horrible.”
Gina’s face reddened.
“No, no. That’s not it. I had already had that dream, and it wasn’t what I thought it would be. My real dream, even if I didn’t realize it at the time, was to find someone like you. But not ‘like’ you, it had to be you. I didn’t know what I really wanted until the thought of leaving you to pursue my dreams came to mind. I couldn’t leave you. That’s when I really knew that I was in love. I love you, Gina.”
“I love you too, Raka. I hope you’re not disappointed in your decision.”
“No. Not ever. I’m happier than I ever expected to be. Even with that stupid monkey Marco bugging me all the time.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“He listens to you,” I said, watching a smile curve across Gina’s face.
“Marco loves you in his own way. I see things you don’t. When you go to work, he looks sad. When you are expected home, he starts to get excited. He may not always show it, but he’s attached to you.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Trust me on this,” Gina said, “I have a way with animals.”
“That is true.”
“So, now what?”
“Let’s go home, get some dinner, and I’ll see if I can find that note I was talking about. Maybe I can set something up. I’ll have to be careful, though. I can’t let anyone else know what I’m really looking for. I’ll probably need to work on some other investigations. Anyway, for now, let’s go home.”
“Deal. I made one of your favorites. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
“I can’t wait.”
***
That evening, I found the note. I had stuffed in in the back of a drawer filled with socks. Mr. Brown, in Charlestown, at the Gazette. I called information and got the number for the Gazette. I watched Marco a little closer that evening too. He did seem to almost smile when I talked to him.
A few days later, I found myself at the Gazette, standing before a receptionist’s desk. The blonde behind the desk wore a navy-blue dress with white trim, horn-rimmed glasses, and a telephone receiver rested on her shoulder that never moved. She’d press a button on a large faux-wood-grained box and say, ‘Thank you for calling the Gazette, what extension please?’, press a button, and repeat the process. I watched her for several minutes before I finally cut in. “I’m here to see Mr. Brown.”
“Hang on a second.” She said into the phone and pressed a button. Who are you here to see?”
“Mr. Brown.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“In a way. He invited me a while back.”
“Go up to the third floor. His office is three one seven. If he doesn’t want to see you, he’ll call security and have them lead you out.” She looked away and started her routine again.
I saw an elevator next to a staircase and saw a large group of people waiting to enter the lifting room. I decided to take the stairs and soon exited onto floor number three. I looked around to find a room number, turned left and found that the numbers went the wrong way so I turned around and made my way to 317. The door hung open, so I rapped lightly on the door frame to announce my presence.
“What is it?”
“Mr. Brown?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
“May I come in? A long time ago you sent me a note to come and see you, and I’m just now taking you up on it.”
“A note? What are you talking about?”
I took that opportunity to step inside his office, retrieve the note from my inner jacket pocket and present it to him. He looked younger than I expected, probably in his early thirties in Earth years, wearing a brown business suit with the jacket hung over the back of his chair. He had his hair greased back in a perfect wave and he sported a thin mustache, precisely cut, on his upper lip. I smelled a strong whiff of Aqua Velva as I handed the note to him. He took the note, read it quickly, and looked at me.
“I didn’t send this to you.”
“But you’re Mr. Brown, aren’t you?”
“That I am. But by the look of this note and the handwriting, I’d guess that this was sent to you by a different Mr. Brown. Howard Brown, probably. He worked here for years. Died about three years ago. He thought himself a private dick in reporter’s shoes, or was it a private reporter in dick shoes? I hated his shoes. Wingtips. Every damn day. Wingtips. One day I saw him at the grocery store in the summer. White T-Shirt with yellow armpit stains, brown shorts, brown socks, and Wingtips. Who the hell wears Wingtips with shorts? Those aren’t shoes. Now these…” He raised a leg from behind his desk and propped it up, crumpling papers in the process. “These are shoes. Italian loafers purchased a half size small and professionally stretched to custom fit my feet. The mold for my left foot is actually about 2 millimeters narrower and 3 millimeters shorter than the right. Millimeters. What the hell is a millimeter anyway? The cobbler works the leather with steam and mink oil, stretching it slowly over three days. Anyways, Ol’ Wingtip was always digging his nose where he shouldn’t have. Caused a lot of trouble, he did.”
I let out an audible sigh. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Brown.”
“Don’t look so dejected, er, Mister?”
“Varoule. Raka Varoule. Pleased to meet you.”
“Come in, have a seat, Mr. Varoule. Drink?” He motioned to a couple decanters on the table behind his desk. “I have Sherry and Brandy. Sorry, those are the names of the girls from last night. In these decanters, I have Whiskey and Gin. Pick your poison.”
“No thank you. I better not.”
“Mr. Varoule. You do know that it’s rude to force a man to drink alone, don’t you?”
“In that case, just a small glass.”
“Whiskey or Gin?”
“Surprise me.”
“Ice?”
“Yes, please.”
He dropped a couple cubes into a glass,
covered them with a dark liquid, and handed it to me. “Here’s mud in your eye.”
I sipped the drink. It burned down my throat. Whisky, and not a particularly smooth one. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” He tossed back a shot like he wanted to get the vile liquid into his stomach without it touching his mouth or throat. He coughed briefly, making some mention of ‘Hot damn’, and turned back to me. “So, a long time ago, the late Mr. Wingtip sent you a note. I suppose this LaPlume is a pen name? Oh, I get it, Pen Black, or the Black Pen. Cute. Why did he send you this message?”
“I’m an investigative reporter, and I’m very good at what I do. I made a name for myself for a while with some big stories, and Mr. Brown noticed.”
“Years ago. Now you show up and I’ve never heard of Noire LaPlume. Why now?”
“I took a break from work. Long story, but it had to do with a girl.”
“Oh gawd, don’t tell me you fell in love?”
“Sorry to say, it’s true.”
“Mr. LaPlume, are you a fool or an idiot?”
“It’s Mr. Varoule, Raka Varoule. I suppose I’ll take ‘fool’.”
“Ha. Don’t let it happen again. So, you any good?”
“At being a fool? Absolutely. Years of experience and a natural ability to set the bar higher than anyone could imagine.”
Mr. Brown smiled and downed another shot of whisky. This one a little sloppier in the delivery, forcing him to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He let out a small snort. “I like you. I have no idea if you can do anything when it comes to investigative reporting, but apparently, someone at some time did. Look, I can give you a chance on the freelance side of things. You find a good story, write it up, and bring it to me. If it’s any good, we’ll pay you the going rate. That’s the best I can do you for.”