There Goes the Galaxy

by Jenn Thorson

  Bertram followed, watching, as the Hyphiz Deltan moved from meter to meter, tapping this one and that—the taps gaining more force as he proceeded down the line. Bertram dodged as Rollie reached around him to get into a metal box on the right, pulling out what looked to be some kind of flexible chart.

  Rollie spread the thin digital grid out across the control panel, smoothing it out with a hand and looking from it to the sight before him. He stood there comparing the chart to the universe outside for a long, long time.

  Finally, Rollie whispered, “Well, I’ll be fragged.”

  Bertram waited.

  “It’s gone, Ludlow,” Rollie said. “It’s just …” He held out empty hands before him. The grid rolled itself back into a tube and toppled to the floor. “Gone.”

  “Rhobux-7 is gone,” Bertram said.

  Rollie opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it, ran a shaky hand through his hair, and nodded.

  “The planet of Rhobux-7 is gone,” Bertram clarified.

  “Well, what would you say, Ludlow?” Rollie pointed. “There’s Rhobux-6 and if you look beyond, you can make out Rhobux-5.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m as shocked as you are.”

  Bertram found it a little unnerving to hear anyone was as shocked as he was. Especially not a guy who had just unhesitatingly melted several innocent officers into pudding. And when Bertram spoke, it was more to console himself than anything else. “Could it have been … blown up, or something?”

  “Yes,” Rollie said quietly, “blown up, yes, absolutely could be blown up. But even so, it wouldn’t just vanish, would it? There would be fragments.” His voice was beginning to show signs of strain. “Bits of matter floating all round the system. Bleedin’ Karnax, how come there aren’t any fragments?”

  Bertram looked. No, no fragments. And then his eyes zeroed in on something. “Well, what’s that?”

  Rollie leaned in. Bertram leaned in. Yes, there was definitely something small out there. One smallish thing where Rhobux-7 used to be.

  So Rollie tossed himself into the pilot’s chair and moved the ship in closer. He directed the ship’s scopes to focus in. A magnified area formed in the window-screen. “It appears to be …”

  “Yes?”

  “… A sign.”

  And the sign read:

  You have reached the former location of Rhobux-7.

  Sorry our planet’s not able to come to these coordinates

  right now, but leave us a message at our Uninet site—

  uninet.seersofrhobux.rbx.7.q1.gcu—

  and we’ll be sure to get back to you.

  For metaphysical emergencies,

  visit our fellow prophets in the Nett star system.

  Thanks for stopping by!

  “Nett?!” Rollie snarled. “The Nett system is all the blasted way in Quad Three. We’ll be trekking half way across the fragging GCU to get there. And even then, who’s to say their colleagues on Nett won’t have vanished only to greet us with a sign that reads, ‘Sorry, we’re not in. Go see the fragging Seers of Rhobux-blasted-7’?”

  “You could leave them a message.”

  “Oh, sure, and say what? ‘This is Rollie Tsmorlood, did you by chance forget something on your To-Do list?’”

  Bertram acknowledged that wasn’t completely practical. “Guess it’s Nett or it’s nothing, then,” he said.

  Rollie gave some low sound from the back of his throat. “We’re going to need some supplies.

  Chapter 5

  Mimsi Grabbitz guided the interplanetary cruise vessel closer to the swirly blue-and-white planet, making sure to sweep in on an angle that used the light of the system’s central star to display the orb to its best advantage. “It really is a cosmic opportunity, you know,” she confided. “I can’t emphasize enough how rarely properties like this come along.”

  Her passenger gave the kind of “hmm” that held only polite interest; it offered no real feedback.

  Inwardly, she sighed. These days, clients all acted like she should have intra-cranial cognitive downloading abilities for their secret needs and desires. Like even though they might say they wanted a sky-tower rental situation with a two-moon view, she should just know what they really wanted was a dome-encapsuled bubble in Ragul-Sfera’s rural district.

  And, though she simply hated to stereotype, these indigenous Ottoframans were the worst. They all claimed they wanted to leave Ottofram and plant themselves in new territory. But the moment she’d try to show them anything beyond some simple glass walls in a plain patch on their old turf, there they were: digging their heels in and insisting they only wanted a nice quiet sunroom on their home planet.

  She wasn’t sure the same could be said of Eudicot T’murp, of course. After all, he was a Name. He was an Innovator. He was DiversiDine Entertainment Systems and Aeroponics.

  But seeing him sit there in her passenger seat, he really did look like the average middle-aged Cardoon you might pass in the street. The soft gray-green complexion. The dark green hair starting to flower a little purple at the temples. The nice but modest suit. You’d never know the man had more yoonies to his credit than some small galaxies.

  She would just have to wait and see how the day went. Anyway, no one could ever say that Mimsi Grabbitz discriminated; she was willing to make money off of positively anybody.

  They swooped in closer to the planet’s surface, the swirls of white steadily being replaced by the browns and vivid greens of the land. “Note the planet’s fine color. It’s a nice look just to have in your portfolio, really, even if you weren’t planning to do anything specific with it just yet. And it is virtually guaranteed that as the GCU expands, this will be prime property.”

  “Virtually” was one of those delightfully vague words Mimsi Grabbitz loved to use. Words that helped avoid a universe of lawsuits. Ah, if only to have more of them. Non-committal, positive, non-binding …

  She glanced sidelong at Eudicot T’murp. He seemed more entranced by the planet’s single sun, a smallish star as suns went, than the actual property. Still, she wouldn’t lose hope. That’s what made her a trillion-yoonie agent. That’s what made her Alternate Realty’s Employee of the Month.

  “It is, of course, a unique fixer-upper,” she explained. “Perfect in the hands of someone like yourself, who can see its innate merit. It does need to be stripped of some pollutants and have a little time to replenish its natural resources. Also, there are some native life-forms—some Tryfe-humans—who have, as of yet, to become a part of the Greater Communicating Universe. I think, however, you’ll find that they can quite easily be disposed of. If the seller accepts your bid for Tryfe, I’ll gladly put you in touch with a good extermination service who can do either a part of the planet, or the whole world, depending on your needs. Also, they do tenting, so it’s friendly to the other planets in the solar system.”

  “Actually,” said Eudicot T’murp, “my interest in this world lies mainly in the Tryfe-humans.”

  “Really!” chirped Mimsi. This was an unexpected turn of events. She’d been sure T’murp was looking to expand the manufacturing facilities of DiversiDine Entertainment Systems and Aeroponics. Possibly, to place the factories somewhere well-away from anyone that actually mattered, or where they’d spoil the view. She had misjudged. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find the Tryflings to be high-quality life-forms that will only help the planet appreciate as the GCU becomes—”

  But T’murp was laughing now, a warm rustling sound. “Crumblin’ craters, Mimsi,” he exclaimed, “you put any more spin on that patter of yours, it’ll go clear off its axis!” Still chuckling in a way she did not currently share, he wiped merry moisture from his eyes, and nudged her in a congenial way. “Aw, I’m sorry, Mimsi. It’s just I already know quite a bit about the Tryfe-humans. I’ve done my research and I’ve spent a little time observing. They’re highly-suggestible, optimistic, largely unaware, and perfectly suitable for a pet project of mine.”

  “Oh, and that is
?”

  “No offense, but I like to keep things pretty zipped tight to the ol’ astro-togs.” He patted the breast of that modest suit. “I can tell you, I’m mainly interested in their herd instinct. Their need for group validation is one of the strongest I’ve seen. They become very erratic over perceived threat to their status quo. And they go to great lengths to set comfortable, nurturing boundaries for themselves that each Tryfling is strongly pressured to follow.” His face had flushed a darker green in his enthusiasm for the subject.

  “Really!” Mimsi said again.

  “Most interesting—to me, anyway—is how this relates to the way they prefer to retro-fit truths based on preconceived notions, even in the face of facts. Yes, I’ve had my teams run the numbers on this, and all data suggests a large chunk of their population will provide a nearly perfect test case for the marketing of one of my enterprises.”

  Mimsi gave him her Intrigued Face. It was harder to do since the 259th aesthetic facial reconstruction. In fact, after the last 23 surgeries, mostly she just managed somewhere between Dazed and Jabbed-by-a-Sharp-Object. But if she could close one eye just slightly, and jut out her lower lip, it seemed to work almost as well as actual emotive expression. At the moment, her face looked a lot like an introspective beachball.

  “I have another backspace group—very resistant, very self-determined—that’s evolved an entirely different set of reactions to new information, ideas and, of course, product advertising,” continued T’murp. “That’s why the Tryfe people appeal to me. It’s for contrast purposes. Double-blind tests. If I can get the attention of both groups through user testing, think of the marketshare!

  “Also, y’know,” he continued with a confidential grin, “the Tryfe people are just so gosh-darned funny. Sweaters on small fur-bearing animals? Rushing down mountains on planks for fun, just to return to the top again?” He gave another jovial laugh, one that seemed to come straight from inside the belly. “You can’t make up stuff like that—Backspace Reality at its finest!”

  “Programming potential, hmm?” probed the realtor.

  “Zipped tight to the astro-togs, Mimsi,” he said, winking. “Zipped tight to the astro-togs.”

  The Interested Face that Mimsi had been wearing inadvertently triggered some thinking of her own. She would have frowned introspectively, if those muscles hadn’t been aesthetically cut 20 years ago. “So, if you don’t mind my asking, dear: since you already know all about Tryfe and its humans, why did you want me to show you the planet?”

  “Well, I feel ashamed to admit it, Mimsi. It was sort of a pretext,” said T’murp, his fronds curling a little at the edges. “I was actually hoping you’d be able tell me something about the planet’s current owner.”

  “Oh, I simply c—”

  “Mimsi, now, you know all the bidders have been asked to make presentations on our plans for the place. And presumably the one with the most appeal gets to buy the planet. It’s a zonky process, to my thinking. After all, I could pay whatever the seller asked. What’s the point behind it?”

  “Mr. T’murp now, I’m not at liberty to say and—”

  “It would help me and my marketing team,” continued T’murp, “to know who, exactly, we were dealing with.”

  Here, Mimsi put on her Wide-Eyed and Sincere Face. This allowed her to relax from the strain of all that lip-extending and eye-closing. “Oh, now, Mr. T’murp, I would love to help you with that. Really, I would. But I’m afraid in this particular case, Alternate Realty is just not allowed to reveal the identity of our client.”

  He started to speak, but she put up a halting hand. “I know. Believe me, I do. It is highly unusual in the industry. And I’m sympathetic to your frustrations. But we’ve had to assure our client the utmost in privacy for this,” she said. She pulled the ICV over a nice mountain range. The sun was just rising over them, purple mountains majesties and all that. “To be honest with you, even I don’t know who it is. This assignment goes farther up the chain of command than I do.”

  “Then I hope you won’t mind if I take it up with your management,” said T’murp.

  “Be my guest,” Mimsi told him, minding just a little. “I agree with you completely. And I do wish I could help.” She pulled in low over an area of flat, golden fields. “Now. Since we have come all this way, would you like to just pop by one of the Tryfling sites I’d scouted out for you?”

  Eudicot T’murp offered that mild, homegrown boy smile that easily made her forget he was one of the most powerful business minds in the GCU. “Well, as long as we’re here, and it’s not going to cause a problem. I know how important it is to be subtle about these things. Tryflings are very susceptible to outside stimulii.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that. Alternate Realty is all about subtlety,” said Mimsi, coming in for landing.

  Robert Randall Rodell, better known to friends and family as “Triple-R,” liked to watch the bats flap around at night. He’d sit out on that back porch of his with a cold mojito (mojitos had just become all the rage in Whipplefork, Iowa) while the bats flapped over the cornfield, their fleshy wings beating the sky.

  He often thought about them, those bats. Whether they ever tried to get up to those stars that seemed to hang so high over their furry backs. He wondered how far they could get up to the heavens and what they sensed from up there.

  Oh, they probably didn’t appreciate it, them being bats and blind and all. Not taking advantage of their advantage, not seeing the freedom in their flight. He often wondered what else was up there in the great, big blackness. What was looking down on those bats, and on him, and what it was thinking. If anything.

  “Triple-R?” called his wife. “You coming in?” He could hear her over the sounds of the TV, which suddenly stopped with a click. Bonnie’s slippers scuffed and creaked around the house.

  “Not just yet, hon. You go ahead.” Such a big sky, he thought, as he thought every night. A big sky and those bats, they didn’t appreciate it. And Bonnie, God bless her, she hardly looked at it either, anymore. The last time she’d sat out there with him, was when he’d asked what she’d thought was out there. Out there in the big sky. And Bonnie had bit that lower lip of hers like she did when she was thinking of something real hard. And she’d taken a sip of her mojito, and she was quiet for a long while, head on his shoulder.

  Finally she said, “Well, Farmers Flats, I guess, Triple-R.” And she pointed at the skyline. “Right past Jim Willoughby’s and Marlon Sample’s.” And she’d nodded, satisfied with her answer. Then she’d handed him her mojito glass, stood up, and kissed his cheek. She went inside to watch one of those reality programs that had gotten so big. And Triple-R figured she was probably right, it was Farmers Flats.

  He sighed because, practically, that’s all there needed to be.

  But when the light got brighter in the September night sky, and one of the stars seemed to be coming down to pay a visit, Triple-R was pretty sure this wasn’t a crop-duster on its way from Jim Willoughby’s, Marlon Sample’s or Farmers Flats at all. It swooped in looking every bit like some airborne luxury car, all chromey and shiny black, and probably with all the options.

  And as it got closer, Triple-R saw how big it was, so big, why nearly ten times the size of the crop-duster and looking pretty determined to settle in the cornfield. It didn’t have any wings, any propeller, and had that finely-designed sleek look that Ben Nebley had to his Viper. And even though Ben Nebley had been the talk of Farmers Flats for buying something so damned impractical while not a person for miles wasn’t salivating at the sight of it, Ben Nebley’s Viper was a beater by comparison.

  Sure enough, this flying object, this Viper from the heavens, it settled smack in the cornfield and Triple-R stood there a minute, fixed on its gleaming exterior. He started to croak out Bonnie’s name to come and see, but she was probably in putting cold cream on her face, and would only be fussing about the stalks crushed under the weight of the thing.

  With a hiss, the ship
seemed to settle and a hatch began to open. A sliver of light cracked into a wide open door. Alien space craft: the kind of thing that only ends up in the middle of nowhere. Or Whipplefork, Iowa.

  Triple-R wasn’t afraid, though. It seemed he’d been leading up to this for a while. He stepped off the porch and started across the yard toward the field, finding himself buttoning the top couple of buttons on his shirt, tucking his tail into his jeans and smoothing out his hair a little. This was the monumentous occasion for him personally, for Whipplefork and—heck, for the whole darned planet Earth. Triple-R wanted to at least make a good first impression.

  Two extra-terrestrials were standing by the ship now. They looked to be a male and female respectively—at least by Whipplefork conventions—though they sure didn’t seem too Earthly by other standards.

  The woman had this face that reminded him of a balloon, oblong, stretched smooth and so shiny, it’d squeak if you kissed her. Her lips were pulled into this rubber-pink unyielding smile, and her hair seemed to perch on this head as if it weren’t quite attached.

  The man was funny, too, though not for the same reasons; he had a gray-green look to his face and hands, and his face extended straight into layers of some leafy-like points that rose up almost like a crown. Around the rim of this was a soft violet haze. On his personage was a fine woven suit of green and gray.

  Triple-R stood a few paces away, considering a minute what he wanted to say. He hadn’t been much of a talker in his 37 years, and now that he was going to be the first guy to communicate with aliens, he wished he’d been more of a conversationalist. Earth needed someone who could say something profound, something that would represent the locals as they deserved to be represented to the Universe. Like maybe Jeff Nesbitt who worked at the mayor’s office and wrote the speeches. Or Annie Oleson down at the Gazette.

  But without Jeff or Annie, Triple-R had to shoulder the responsibility himself. And he imagined somebody had better say something pretty soon. He briefly considered all those X-Files episodes, but there was nothing good in that. Finally, he just settled on being himself.