Nashville Beaumont (and the Hyperbole Engine)

by Michael Hiebert

  The Orbanoan President of the UTSC standing on the podium beside Reno suddenly cocks her head sideways. She’s been alerted to something. The same thing happens to other Orbanoans stationed around the room. The crowd noise dissolves to puzzled murmurs as her head continues jerking. She seems distressed. Reno asks if she’s okay. Of course, she can’t answer.

  Across the room, Tyrone stands with his crew. He glances around, his eyes narrowed, concerned.

  Then he spots us, standing by the entrance.

  “Hey! They’re terrorists!” he yells, running our way. “Get them!” Orbanoans follow, gliding swiftly, yet still graceful.

  We don’t move.

  Two Orbanoans reach us the same time as Tyrone. “That’s them,” he says. “The terrorists.”

  But they’re not interested in us. They want him and his crew who, as of one minute ago, are in full breach of their species’ treaty with the Coalition.

  “Wait!” Tyrone yells as thick orange vines sprout from the floor, wrapping quickly around his legs and arms before hardening. The same thing happens to his crew. Even Lug can’t struggle free as the Orbanoans simply tip them over, and carry them out like fallen logs.

  They’ll be put on trial, and an enforcement team will launch for Earth to deal with the rest of the Compound. Likely, everyone involved will be sentenced to death.

  It has to be this way, I suppose. We’re no longer playing against ourselves. We’re in a league. Rules must be enforced.

  Still, I really do hate violence.

  Mindy Reno approaches. “What just happened?”

  We start explaining, but we can’t. There’s simply too much.

  It’s she who finally gives up. “Just tell me again. You’re sure there’s no presidential involvement?”

  “Yes. At least as sure as I can be.”

  “Well, thank God for small mercies. One thing—what changed their minds about you being terrorists?”

  I tell her about the Orbanoans passing by in the station corridor, gesturing as though conversing, but making no sound.

  She nods. “They don’t communicate vocally.”

  “No, they do. Just not at a frequency regular humans can hear. I can, though. They speak in voices just beneath microwave range. So loud, in fact, I hear them everywhere, especially up on the station. Before we left the Iron Heart to come here, I programmed my Digimate™ to analyze frequencies in that range, breaking out lexicon patterns while we made our way to the space elevator. By the time we were on the ground, it was able to splice together a rough message in their language.”

  I nod to Providence. She holds up my Digimate™ connected to the subvocal-set. “And she broadcast that message to the room.”

  Mindy Reno’s obviously impressed. “And what did the message say?”

  “The truth. We told them who we really are. And I knew the Orbanoans would give credence to it because they put extremely high regard in anyone taking the effort to learn their language and culture. Their society is built on respect.”

  She scratches her head. “Wow. And here I thought they were mute,” she says, tucking a fallen lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “Well, except that one who kinda speaks English.”

  Chapter 19

  click.

  I carefully consider my words before speaking. Doesn’t matter, silence compresses into one parameter: empty-time. Silence costs nothing.

  Sometimes.

  “My name’s Nashville Beaumont. My sister’s Providence Beaumont. Our father is Kidar Frenzid. Few people know we exist. Even fewer know our role in Earth’s signing of the UTSC Treaty.

  “This Digimate™ contains a historical record of everything I’ve experienced since my—” I stumble on the word only slightly this time “—birth twelve years ago. It also holds detailed information of an underground military facility so secret even the President of the United States of Americanada won’t know about it until the Orbanoans coming to Earth provide him and every other world leader a copy of this recording. I implore all of you to disseminate this information to every human citizen. Not for the sake of awareness—but as a warning.”

  “What happened in Texas cannot ever happen again.

  A handful of people cannot control an entire planet while everyone else sits idly by. In some ways, you’re as much to blame as they are—nobody has control unless they’re given it.

  “And people don’t have to be hurt. There’s been enough war. That’s why—for now—I’m staying here on Orbano with my sister and father.”

  .click.

  I reconsider my ending.

  .click.

  “My name’s Nashville Beaumont. My sister’s Providence Beaumont . . . ”

  “ . . . and we’re the reason you’re now free.”

  End

  Bonus Story

  The Hyperbole Engine

  THREE DAYS AGO THE dust finally settled enough for me to leave the Proog System without too many questions being asked. I tell you, waiting those weeks out was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Now, I’m maybe a fifth of the way home in some uncharted millipod in the Jahan sector, just looking for somewhere to lay low for a while. Somewhere I can get a drink, relax and not be bothered.

  Sectors like this, it’s not hard to stumble onto what I’m looking for. The important thing is to find a place that caters mainly to bipeds, humanoids or, at the very least, carbon-based life forms. Gotta watch what you ingest at some of those other fine establishments, you know what I mean? And for God’s sake don’t get too drunk, or you never know what the hell you’ll wake up to the next morning. Takes that whole “coyote ugly” thing to a brand spankin’ new level.

  From the outside, this place looked perfect; quiet, dark and most of the clientele (which is far too fancy a word, really) seemed to be keeping to themselves. You could feel the subtle criminal element creeping through the shadows; just enough to offer me the privacy I was looking for.

  Except now that I’m in here, I’m having second thoughts. Especially since these three people just walked up to my table.

  Two guys and a girl. One guy is a talker. If you ever watch them old Earth movies, he’s Steve Buscemi. He’s Joe Pesci. He’s Kkaayg Ut!kaa, only without the third eye. And the other guy, he’s the muscle. You can always tell. Thankfully, this guy’s not literally a muscle, not like that one I ran into in that dive on the outer rim of the Hemi a few years back. That was just . . . odd. But here, just like there, the talkers don’t dare go anyplace without the muscle—they’d be ripped to shreds and the muscle knows better than to say too many words; the muscle knows he’s not very smart.

  But the talker never does. He’s fooled into believing his own shit stories, and that’s his weakness. Everyone has a weakness.

  The woman with them is an Alladarian.

  Welcome to my weakness.

  Alladarians are gypsies. Fortune tellers with blue skin and double eyelids. I’ve heard they make incredible life partners in the right relationship, if you can get one to settle down. Slightly empathic, they are born nurturers and mothers. They like to deal in stories. Before realizing their companionship was so valuable, they used to buy and sell traveler’s tales. But now, they can often be found in bars like this one, spreading goodwill for a price. Too often, Alladarians are written off as simple whores but this is their strength. They have far, far more power than they’ll ever let on. I’m pretty sure if you add her IQ and mine together we probably outrank the rest of this place combined.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask as they sit down.

  “Don’t remember seeing you around these parts before. My”—he glances quickly to Muscles—”associate and I make it a point to introduce ourselves to all new prospective . . . clients who come in here.” His voice suits him; staccato and high with an edge to it that might be nervousness or possibly mania. You can’t tell, and he no doubt uses that to his advantage.

  I sit back in my chair. “And you are?” I ask.

  “Name’s Tycho. T
his here’s Gwort. Why don’t you tell us where you’re coming from, Spacer? Where you’re headed. What you might be needing in-between.” I get the idea. He’s a dealer. They’re everywhere. In places like these, they aren’t even subtle about it. They deal in synthoids, weapons, anything that might fall into the realm of a black market transaction. I’m sure the Alladarian will be put on the table for negotiation if I let on that I’m interested.

  By his edginess, I also suspect Tycho’s already taken some amphetamine-based synthoids himself this evening, which means I have to be careful. You never know when guys like him might actually snap.

  “And who are you?” I ask the Alladarian.

  She blushes. Alladarians have bioluminescent skin the color of cobalt that deepens when they blush. It’s the second most beautiful thing about them. The first is their eyes, which she diverts to the tabletop as she blushes. “Sonja,” she says. Only she pronounces the J like a J, not a Y. Like all Alladarians, she speaks in song, her mouthed voice chorused with musical timbres resonating through the fluted holes in her throat. But I’m no fool—this blushing and diverting of eyes trick is rehearsed, something she’s done many, many times to persuade guys like me to hand over galactic credits to girls like her.

  A fool and his money are soon partying. I must say, it almost works. Unlike most guys that come in this place though, it’s not her sensuality that chisels away at me, not the pure erotic beauty of her breasts (I’ve heard the breasts of Alladarians described as two magnificent giant scoops of bubblegum ice cream) or the way her deep red hair tumbles down beside her freckled neck, or even the long-lashed blinking of the double-eyelids.

  It’s those eyes. Deep, glorious, speckled oceans of infinite sadness. They’ve watched so many stories being told you get the feeling they know Life and the Universe’s dark secrets. But if there’s one thing Alladarians are good at, it’s keeping secrets. And that’s what captivates me the most about her—that she’s some sort of enigmatic puzzle waiting to be unlocked.

  “So, you’re ISF right?” Tycho asks. “I can spot you guys a mile away. Yeah, yeah, I can tell what you’re thinking. How’d I know, right? I got a nose for these sorta things. Don’t worry, I won’t blow your cover. Where you coming from?”

  He’s got red Phohonese characters tattooed on his eyes; a different one on each pupil. I never did learn to read that stuff, but I can guess what they mean. Probably something like Death and Destruction. Or maybe he went for the more classic Love and Hate. Actually, there’s a good chance he doesn’t even know how to read them and just trusted the tattoo artist when he told him they stood for Honor and Victory when, in actuality, he’s a walking advertisement for Pengo’s Fried Chicken.

  Where you coming from? I run my tongue over the front of my teeth, deciding whether or not I should acknowledge his comment. Fact is, he’s almost right on the money, but it’s a guess. He knows it, and I know it too. Best to just let the comment slide. When in doubt, it’s always safer to just hold back information than it is to try and cover with false information.

  “Coming back from the Proog System,” I say. And it’s the truth. This is another tactic I’ve learned, whenever possible, tell the truth. Always easier to keep up a cover buried in truth. Besides, left by themselves out in the wild, stories have a habit of acquiring whole loads of compost on top of them.

  “Proog,” he says, then to his friend, all confident: “The Hyperbole Engine.” He turns back to me. “That’s why you were there, right? Trying to find out what the hell happened to it?”

  I lean back in my chair, put my hands in my jacket pockets and shrug. “From what I’ve heard there’s no such thing as The Hyperbole Engine.” It’s the truth. I’ve heard it doesn’t exist. I’ve heard it does exist. I’ve heard it only exists in another dimension. I’ve even heard it’s the size of a small planet. I’ve heard it’s guarded in the center of a statically charged permanova by seven squealing fanged monkeys with wings. I’ve heard it all, stories about the Hyperbole Engine are so infamous most of them cross the line into ridiculousness. After all, that’s why it’s called the Hyperbole Engine.

  “It exists,” Tycho says, pointing at me. “Trust me. I know. I know people’ve seen it. And I know recently it’s gone missing. Stolen. You were dispatched to try and get it back, weren’t you? Come on, you can tell us. We’re good guys.” He nudges Muscles beside him, who just nods dumbly.

  I shake my head, fingering the thing in my pocket. “Nope, my friend. I’m afraid you’re wrong.” And he is. Again, better not to lie. Neither of them know for sure if the Hyperbole Engine exists or not—shit, only maybe a dozen people in the galaxy know for sure.

  “Oh come on, you’ve got Agency written all over you.”

  “What’s the Hyperbole Engine?” the Alladarian asks, batting her lashes. It’s almost laughable, her pretending not to have ever heard of it. Everyone’s heard of it. It’s as legendary as the Tangolian Quasar Serpent. And if there’s one thing Alladarians are, it’s smart. Smart enough to know when it’s in their favor to look ignorant. I’m really starting to dig this Alladarian, too bad she’s with the sideshow freaks.

  Of course, Tycho believes her. That’s the kind of guy he is: a talker, and she just gave him a reason to talk. I look at her in wonderment. How easily she manipulated him; how unequivocally she leveraged her power and didn’t even have to move a muscle.

  He freaks out. “What’s the Hyperbole Engine? What’s the Hyperbole Engine?!” He takes a long pull on whatever the hell is in his bottle and starts into an explanation.

  “The Hyperbole Engine is the freaking bomb. It transforms matter. You can have the most measly ship in the galaxy and this thing will make you into a freakin’ Destroyer.”

  “No, no, no.” It’s Muscles talking and at first I’m sort of confused because his voice isn’t that slow, low voice you come to expect from cartoon musclemen. He actually sounds like a normal person. “That’s not what the Hyperbole Engine does at all,” he says, “it warps time. It allows you to jump from one time/space reference frame to another just like this.” He snaps his fingers and I think, Holy —Muscles knows some big words. I’m impressed.

  “As usual, you are wrong,” Tycho cuts in. “It’s all about firepower and matter transformation. I know this guy—” and he goes off, and I start to tune out. Not just him, but everything. I take another sip of my drink (which is actually quite good) and wish I was somewhere else.

  Truth be told, I don’t even pretend to understand how the Hyperbole Engine works. I’m not even sure how many people there are in this Universe that actually do know, but I know one thing: it’s not about being able to transform matter, it’s not about speed, and it’s not about firepower. It’s all about odds.

  Einstein said something about God not playing dice. Well, Einstein was wrong. At the quantum level, God plays dice a lot, and every roll starts a brand new parallel Universe running alongside this one, where all of the different decision possibilities are made. If you add up all of the good decisions and subtract all of the bad decisions, you are always left with zero. This was all proven a quarter century ago by that physicist from Orion II—I can’t remember his name. Cornig-something. Shit, one drink and all my grade nine physics goes to hell.

  Anyway, the short of it is that God plays dice and the Hyperbole Engine stacks those dice in your favor. It somehow twists things around so all of the good decisions happen in this Universe. This Universe being the one the Hyperbole Engine is in.

  The rest of that crap these guys are spouting? It’s just a bunch of Boontog shit. But I’m not about to tell them that. It’s guys like this that have kept the Hyperbole Engine safe for this long. Hard to hit a nebulous target.

  “Nobody’s ever gonna find it,” Tycho says. “Trust me on that one. It’s tucked away somewhere good.”

  This is the only thing he’s said so far that makes any sense to me whatsoever. I nod. “I think you’re right.”

  “‘Course I’m right. I’m always
right, hey, Gwort?” He elbows Muscles. “Anyway, you let us know if there’s anything we can help you with.” He gets up from the table. Gwort follows suit. Tycho looks at Sonja. “You coming Toots?”

  “In a bit,” she says, her voice sultry and melodious. “Just gonna finish my drink first.”

  “Suit yourself,” Tycho says and off he and Gwort go, folding into the shadows in search of other potential clients.

  “Nice friends you keep,” I say to Sonja.

  She smiles. “You are an ISF Agent, though, right?”

  I shrug. “You’re empathic enough to know without asking. How about you? What’s a nice blue-skinned girl like you doing hanging out in a dump like this?”

  She shrugs. Alladarians aren’t dumb. Always give up as little information as is needed.

  “Well, regardless, I want to show you something.” With a subtle glance left and right, I reach into my pocket and set the “thing” on the table.

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  I lean back, scratch my nose. “That’s it.”

  She looks at it and blinks. With the double eyelids, it’s kind of weird, like two blinks. Two wonderfully gorgeous blinks. “That’s…”

  Crossing one leg over the other, I lean back in my chair, my thick leather jacket opening around me, revealing my white shirt and shoulder holster underneath. My weapon was checked at the door when I came in. I nod. “The Hyperbole Engine.”

  Her eyes narrow. “It’s—smaller than I expected.”

  “Everyone says that,” I sigh with a grin. Another double blink. Not sure if she gets the joke, but it doesn’t matter.

  “So it was you,” she says, seemingly impressed. “You’re the one who took it.”

  I shrug. “The balance of power needed shifting, so I shifted it.”

  “So what’re you going to do with it?”

  “That’s the thing,” I say. “What can I do with it? I need to hide it. I can’t use it and I can’t really trust it to anybody like—” I gesture my head in the direction of Tycho and his muscle-bound friend.