There Goes the Galaxy

by Jenn Thorson

  Unlike Zenith Skytreg, Twerk Xanthwoggle filed onto stage like a man being led to the witness stand. He was a compact being with almost no neck and a small-eyed, mole-like appearance. His presence was calm and unremarkable.

  But as he walked, the music started up and the Vos Laegos showbeings poured from the wings behind him. They kicked and smiled as they churned towards him like some pearly, powerful locomotive, lilting out another tune to an exhilarating orchestral accompaniment.

  Twerk Xanthwoggle jumped noticeably at their sudden on-stage appearance, something which apparently had not come up in dress rehearsal. His small eyes popped wide, and he picked up his pace to the center podium with a rapid, running stutter-step. He flinched again as a second chorusline came at him from the other side of the stage. He was stranded, the riser forming an island of safety in a sea of mayhem. He grasped the podium, white-knuckled, as they sang:

  Here’s the thing we’ve longed for

  We’re about to start

  The Underworld is just about ready

  Who will steal our hearts?

  Who’s been nominated?

  Who will thieve the show?

  Who has stolen, pillaged and plundered?

  We can’t wait to know!

  So let’s get right down to it.

  Possibilities boggle

  Call the bloke who knows the vote!

  He’s not invidious!

  But fastidious!

  No prejudice!

  Just so pretty, yes?

  Twerk Xanthhhhhwoggle!

  The Vos Laegos showpeople each raised a dramatic arm toward Twerk Xanthwoggle with a wiggle of high-tech, alien jazz-hands that gave off shimmery sparks. The voting organizer twitched, hand to his chest, presumably where his palpitating heart was located. He watched them filter off the stage, less in fascination than concern they might come back. As he became convinced the last of the chorusline had truly danced out of range, he dabbed at his eyes and cheeks with a handkerchief and tucked it away. Then he opened his jacket, and a small levitating teleprompter fluttered out to bob before him. He cleared his throat.

  “Members of the Intergalactic Underworld Society,” he said in a flat tone, “this day we determine who will lead our prestigious organization for the next Universal year. The position of Official Leader of the Intergalactic Underworld is an important one. It represents not just the direction that outlawed business will take moving forward, but it puts a face to our organization for everyone across the GCU.

  “For many life-forms out there, the Underworld represents that thrilling ‘how’d-they-do-that?’ creative crime on every Uninet transmission. It gives voice to the ‘little life-forms’ out there tangled in interstellar bureaucracy because they have no one to stand up for them. And it offers convenient solutions to GCU business when things simply can’t get done any other way. We are entertainment, empowerment and answers. And with that, I give you the candidates for this U-year’s Official Underworld Leader.”

  A holoscreen behind Twerk Xanthwoggle appeared, showing the Intergalactic Underworld Society logo in tiny twinkling lights. They exploded like popping, sizzling pyrotechnics into the crowd.

  Then a rich booming voice that Bertram thought sounded an awful lot like a film preview announcer said, “And the candidates for the next Official Leader of the Intergalactic Underworld are …”

  “Zenith Skytreg.” A shot of Zenith Skytreg’s well-coiffed head projected out over the audience. “Criminal mind extraordinaire … Rebel hero … and Heavy Meddler media hero, Zenith Skytreg is the first life-form in Society history to serve three sequential years as Official Leader of the Intergalactic Underworld. Skytreg has raised millions of yoonies for the organization through his clever sponsorship deals with GCU businesses, putting a fresh, dynamic face on Underworld dealings.” This was supported with shots of Skytreg on strange alien chatshows, at public events cutting ribbons, and posing in military wear shaking hands with small furry creatures. “Skytreg has taken the Underworld to a whole new level of Under.”

  The audience clapped and hooted. A few Society members even stood and cheered.

  “Rentar Proximetra.” Here came the image of a female humanoid with a shining bald head, a broad smile and a pointy chin and nose.

  “Captain Proximetra led the battle of Pachengo Klatts … Single-handedly smuggled 300,000 unlicensed XJ-420 hand-lasers through Belglastnast customs—all upon her person … And uncovered and decoded the lost Archunder Scrolls, then sold them back to the Archunderans ‘just because she needed something to do before dinner.’” Captain Proximetra was shown in a variety of high-action shots, and modeling one suspiciously puffy coat outside a Belglastnast security area. “Today she heads the GCU’s Quad Two Underworld operations, and it’s said she can hijack a freighter, build highly-sensitive explosives, and host an Underworld staff luncheon, all at the same time.”

  The audience response was impressive. Even Rollie’s group gave respectful applause.

  “Jor-Jan Chatta-Chu-Bular Meep-Meep,” intoned the announcer. The image of Rentar Proximetra was replaced by the headshot of an impossibly narrow life-form of a rich, golden complexion. Its face was angular and beaklike, but everything else about it was slim, long and rounded, like strings of smooth, soft dough, formed into golden breadsticks. It appeared to be entirely nude and without any recognizable genitalia.

  The voiceover continued, “For Quad Four residents, Meep-Meep has become a household name. Engineering the designer fake levitational shoe scandal that rocked Gapoochi-3, Meep-Meep made even hard-core fans of Gapoochi couture have to look twice at their footwear. Add to that, Meep-Meep’s unique talents in air duct and crawl space infiltration … Shining brilliance overseeing the Grot fleet takedown and Jarendi scores … And holding the Underworld record for most gratuitous heiress kidnappings in a Universal Year … Meep-Meep’s elegant style has earned the respect and attention of colleagues and victims alike.”

  More electric applause erupted from the crowd.

  Images of the three candidates now hovered overhead, with Skytreg winking, Proximetra arching an eyebrow, and Meep-Meep blinking innocently. Next to them, to one side, was a single bar graph that read, “Percentage of Votes Submitted.” It was currently at zero.

  From the podium platform, Twerk Xanthwoggle cleared his throat and said, “Now we move on to the vote.” He glanced furtively at the wings of the stage, but the wings remained dark and quiet. Xanthwoggle sighed contentedly, like a man settling into a hot tub after a rough day.

  Suddenly, Bertram felt his arm butted sharply from the armrest. At first, he thought it was Fess, needing more room for the umpteenth appendage. But he turned to discover it was a table-tray-like device popping out to position itself before him. Hundreds of table-trays clattered out around the room. And each one of them said, “Please scan your Intergalactic Underworld Society Conference Admission Badge … now.”

  Bertram blinked. He saw Xylith next to him waving her badge before her table-tray screen. “Thank you, Xylith Duonogganon. Please confirm your Intergalactic Underworld Society member number … now.” And Xylith began entering that information.

  Bertram thought that for a bunch of people who promoted shady dealings and chaos, they really were very well-organized.

  Before him, Bertram’s table-tray was wondering at his lack of response. “Please scan your Intergalactic Underworld Society Conference Admission Badge … now,” it repeated.

  Fess, Bertram noticed, was already selecting his candidate. “See ya, Skytreg,” he smirked, clicking the box beside the image of Rentar Proximetra. At the checked box, Bertram saw Captain Proximetra smile and point a pleased finger at Fess.

  Xylith, he observed, was biting both of her lower lips, her hand wavering between the two non-Skytreg candidates. Finally, in a decisive move, she pressed the box next to Jor-Jan Chatta-Chu-Bular Meep-Meep. The photo of Meep-Meep bobbed its head in recognition. Xylith settled back in her chair with a relieved exhale. “There now!”r />
  By this time, Bertram’s tray-table was getting irritable. “Hey you. Will you scan your Intergalactic Underworld Society Conference Admission Badge … now? I don’t have all day.”

  Bertram glanced at Xylith, who was giggling into her hand. “Dear, maybe you should just do as it asks.”

  So Bertram fumbled in his shirt pocket and scanned the “And Guest” badge.

  “I’m sorry,” said the table-tray. “You are not a registered member of the Intergalactic Underworld Society. To get information on our Society, and how you can become a member, please visit our Uninet site by clicking the address below or by saying ‘yes’ … now.”

  “You could be our newest recruit,” Xylith told Bertram, her teasing smiles causing all four eyes to twinkle merrily. They were deeply purple, like summer violets, or a Baltimore Ravens jersey. “Why, in fact, you know what I think? I bet a Tryfe-man perspective is just what the Underworld needs.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Bertram replied, forcing a serious face. “My familiarity with technologies you no longer use … My deep knowledge of sports stats for games you don’t play … My ability to quote from films you won’t see and explain great thinkers you won’t know … It’d be a huge asset to the Underworld cause. That’s not even counting my vast collection of music you won’t be able to hear.”

  “Nooo,” she waved it away in that fly-around-the-mint-julep manner, which was strange because Bertram was pretty sure Xylith had seen neither. Her laughter was light and warm. “That’s called expanding our horizons.” Another smile, a twinkle. “Some of us enjoy having our horizons expanded, you know. And as often as possible.”

  “Ah, well … um …” Bertram felt his neck redden. “Thanks for the support, Xylith,” he said. He was starting to like the way her two faces sometimes held slight variations of the same expression. The right face wore a sweet, good-natured cheer, but the left face was watching him through lowered lashes, and held a flirty little smile. “I don’t actually plan to stick around the GCU that long, though.”

  “Oh, now that’s a shame,” she drawled, looking genuinely downcast. There went those lowered lashes again.

  “I’m waiting,” said the tray-table. “It’s just a simple word: yes. You can say it in any one of 47 billion intergalactic languages. I’ll understand it: yes.”

  Bertram explained to Xylith, “Well, it’s just I have my planet to save … Or my head to be shrunk. I don’t know, anymore. Whichever comes first.”

  “Of course, it’s good to have your priorities,” Xylith responded. One face smiled more faintly now, the warmth receding like the sun behind a storm front. Face Two looked on the verge to say something but then decided not to. The violet eyes seemed to turn several shades darker. Bertram sensed he made a mistake somewhere along the way.

  “Okay, fine!” announced the tray-table. “So don’t take an interest in Underworld affairs! See if I care!” And with that, it folded itself up, and went flying back to the armrest, batting Bertram’s arm away in its path.

  “Ow!” Bertram rubbed his buzzing, half-numb elbow. He turned back to Xylith, “Well, hey, you never know, I mean maybe if—”

  But Xylith was talking to Rollie now. Bertram could just hear the words, “hideous aeroponic farming t-shirt” and “pathetic attempt at surveillance” reach his ears.

  He glanced up at the bar chart levitating before the crowd and saw the number of submitted votes creeping, creeping toward 100%.

  Ninety-seven percent … 98% …

  “Ya wanna check out the Marketplace after this?” Fess asked Bertram. “You never know, you might be able to get a cheap pair of off-the-back-of-the-ICV fake Gapoochi levitating shoes.” He motioned toward Bertram’s holey-socked feet with a flipper.

  Ninety-nine percent, said the bar chart above them.

  “I don’t know if we can take the time.” Bertram wiggled his poor abused toes, as they peeped out between his few remaining sock molecules. Shoes sounded great, as his feet really were banged up and aching. But Bertram only had a couple of bucks of Tryfe money with him and … “We’re supposed to meet with the Prophets of Nett.”

  “Ah, yes,” Fess gave a nod and pushed up those thick spectacles with a few smaller appendages. “Saving your world. Well, here’s hoping the Prophets haven’t hightailed it out of there like those Seers. I’d heard lawyers for the prisoners still in Rhobux-7 are threatening lawsuit.”

  Bertram frowned. “Why’s that?”

  “For illegally relocating their clients. Only, no one knows where to send the subpoena.” Fess stroked his chin with a flipper while scratching his head with a tentacle. “Funny them going poof like that right after the Seers sent you on your way. Whole thing kinda sounds like a frame-job to me.”

  Bertram didn’t want to say it, but he thought so, too. He glanced up just as the bar chart filled to the top and the total read: “100% of Votes Submitted.”

  At this, triumphant music blasted, and the tally board erupted into another burst of virtual fireworks.

  Twerk Xanthwoggle, who had been noodling around with his levitating teleprompter notes while the votes were being cast, came to life again at the podium, looking almost surprised to see all those life-forms out there in the seats before him. “The votes are in, folks,” he said. “And now, I will announce the voting percentages for Official Leader of the Intergalactic Underworld.”

  The audience was on the edge of its seats. You could have heard a yoonie card drop.

  Twerk Xanthwoggle looked at the results before him with a blink. “My, this was an unusually tight race,” he said and cleared his throat again, as if in apology for his observation. “Zenith Skytreg has received … 36% of the votes.”

  The audience waited.

  “Rentar Proximetra received … 35% of the votes,” he continued. And the part of the crowd that had devoured infopills for math were already celebrating. He shouted over them to finish, “And Jor-Jan Chatta-Chu-Bular Meep-Meep received … 29% of the votes. That means, the Official Leader of the Intergalactic Underworld Society for the next Universal year is Zenith Skytreg!”

  Lasers shot the ceiling again, and two Society members had to be carted out for knocking themselves unconscious with falling rock. The applause and cheers rocked the seating. Some angry bleats erupted from different corners of the room. Some futile cheers for “Prox-i-met-tra! Prox-i-met-tra!” rolled through the noise, as did a few desperate chants of “Meep-Meep! Meep-Meep!” that made parts of the room sound like they were filled with spring peepers.

  Rollie’s whole band of friends were rising and grumbling and heading to the exits, along with a number of other Society members also disgusted with the results. The Vos Laegos chorusline was back on stage doing a little tribute number while Zenith Skytreg made his way to the stage, through the crowd, for his acceptance speech.

  Now we know the answer

  Now we’ve seen who won

  The Underworld, it has its new leader

  Lasers set to stun …

  “We’re leaving?” Bertram shouted over the din.

  The three black eyes of Rollie’s holowatch disguise were narrowed to slits. “I’m not gonna fraggin’ well sit through another one of Skytreg’s ‘I couldn’t have done it without me’ speeches.”

  Someone shooshed him. He told them to do something with their voting machine that sounded uncomfortable and like it violated physics. Then, even at half his normal height, he managed to stalk out fiercely.

  Outside the auditorium, Bertram could almost see the fumes steaming off the figure in the cloak. “Unbe-fraggin’-lievable,” Rollie growled. “Another blasted year of Zenith Skytreg. When Rentar Proximetra has real battle experience, doesn’t just send someone else in to do her dirty work, and was actually at the Feegar Rebellion, not just paying Klimfals to pose in pretty pictures.”

  “It’srigged,” muttered Tseethe, totally invisible in his smoke-filled helmet. “Itjustcan’tberight. Iswearithe’spayingpeopleofforsomethin’. He’sgotsomethin’
onsomebodyorhackedthevote. Idunno. Somethin’.” Bertram barely made this out. It came out like bursts of Morse code.

  “But guys, you’re in a criminal Society,” Bertram reminded them. “I mean, wouldn’t you expect it—require it, even—to be rigged?”

  At this, the group let out such a protest.

  “Nah, that’s for them unions,” Rollie snapped.

  “Honestly!” exclaimed Xylith, violet eyes rolling in both of her faces. “To smear the good bad name of the Society like that. It’s like a laser to the heart.”

  “Ah, Underworld newbies. Gotta love ’em,” said Fess, trying to ruffle Bertram’s holographic hair with an appendage. The result poked Bertram in the ear.

  “Heyit’sSkytreg,” Tseethe replied, “Wouldn’tputitpasthim.”

  “He’s very popular, though, isn’t he: Zenith Skytreg?” came a voice trailing behind them. This was Wilbree.

  Everyone turned to stare at him. Wilbree’s white ears became rimmed with pink. He tugged at his collar, and smoothed beard-hairs into place that weren’t out of it.

  Rollie scowled. “You keep saying that. You didn’t by any chance vote for that slaggard this time, did you?”

  “I, er, well.” Wilbree decided now was a good time to polish his sunglasses. He became absorbed with the task.

  “Cosmic,” grunted Tseethe, spinning on one booted heel and leaving him behind. “Stellar. This is who keeps voting him back into office. Now we know.”

  Wilbree looked downcast and slung his sunglasses on again. Xylith patted him on the shoulder.

  “So,” Tseethe turned to Rollie. They were now at the elevator to return to the main level. “How ya gonna get outta here?”