by Jenn Thorson
The horned being peered down on both their guests and raised a thick, hairy eyebrow. “And your names?” The voice was a low, bored rumble.
“Rolliam Tsmorlood and Bertram Ludlow,” said Rollie crisply.
The horned being gave a slow graceful nod. “Ah. We have been waiting for you.” From his robe, the horned sentinel withdrew a large mallet. The furred guard did the same.
Bertram took a step back, poised to defend himself should this be the start of some unpleasant cosmic version of Whack-a-Mole. He knew he would lose, given the size of both opponent and mallet. But he’d faced other bizarre obstacles lately, and he was willing to take what came and die nobly.
Or shorter and flatter.
His gaze darted to Rollie who was watching the guards like some taloned bird of prey, hand readied on his holster.
In a smooth, synchronized movement, the Prophets’ guards each brought a mallet over, around, and with a great twist of the waist, struck a wide metal structure sitting behind them, on either side of the staircase.
Bells! Their clang cracked and reverberated across the gardens, fields and lake like the sound of the Titanic hitting a large willful icecube.
“Rolliam Tsmorlood and Bertram Ludlow!” the sentinels chorused. Their voices came out in a roar that, like the bells, jarred the internal organs before bounding far off into the distance.
The guards then turned and bowed.
“You may enter,” the horned humanoid said.
Rollie bowed in return. “Thanks.”
Finally remembering to breathe, Bertram managed his own bow. “Er … have a good one.”
Up the stairs they went, under a sign of carved runes which read:
Nett Prophet Center
Taking Stock of the Future,
One Prediction at a Time
It was from there, Bertram and Rollie stepped into the domed structure. A cool breeze blew gently between the white pillars. And far, far down at the very end of the airy pavilion sat two figures, propped among pillows upon a throne: one male and one female twin, conjoined by a shared leg and arm.
As they drew closer, Bertram saw everything around them was made of carefully-woven fibers. Both twins were dressed in deep purple robes, the trim on their garb an elaborate series of golden runic arrows, zig-zagging up and down. The pillows upon which they leaned were small tapestries, each depicting scenes from the landscape outside: fields of grains, livestock, fruits, and beans, all in delicate silken threads. Even the domed ceiling above them was spanned by colorful banners of rich fiberwork.
Next to this regal display was a giant wooden loom, weaving all on its own. In, out, up, down, red, blue, white, black, silver, gold, the machine busied itself.
“We are the Prophets of Nett. I am Buhl,” said the female twin.
“And I am Bahr,” said the male twin. Each of them wore a crowning circlet of gold, emblazoned with constellations, the shining dots connecting into shapes forming a small menagerie of alien fauna. The patterns, Bertram noticed, echoed those carved into their throne, a grand golden settee, its finish crackled with age. The beings’ own skin was a deep bronze, unmarred by the signs of time. Their hair was a rich walnut brown and fell in long waves to their shoulders, like unwoven skeins of thread. “Welcome, dear friends. We expected you.”
Rollie’s face wore a cool, skeptical expression. “So you know, then, that the Seers of Rhobux sent us.” It wasn’t a question, and its flat tone was unmoved by pleasantry. “Or, rather, that the Seers’ sign did, where their planet used to be. You know about that, too, I assume?”
The pair turned to each other, smiled sadly, and turned back to the travelers with a brief bow of the head. “We do.”
“And do you also know your coworkers failed to blank my archive as they’d promised, so now we’re up to our necks in it, with the Deltan RegForce?”
“We have seen,” said Bahr with a benevolent smile. “We understand your frustration.”
“But we have also foreseen that today,” said Buhl grandly, “we will not be here to assign blame.”
At this, Rollie erupted with a bitter laugh. “Well, I think you’re off your loom a bit then, Prophet,” the captain told them. “Because right now, I’d like nothing better than to take that blame and launch it clear on up your colleagues’—”
Bertram cleared his throat and pressed a hand to Rollie’s shoulder. “Er, let’s not make the nice intergalactic soothsayers angry, ’kay?” He stepped forward. “Excuse my friend. He gets a little … hasty … sometimes.”
Rollie gave him a narrow orange glare.
“But what the captain says about the Seers’ promise to him is true,” Bertram continued. “He did them some favors, and they never kept their part of the bargain. I mean, we may not be here to assign blame—” he shot another warning glance to Rollie, “—but it has gotten a lot worse for both of us because of them. We were hoping you might be able to intervene with the RegForce on our behalf.”
“Our job is to ensure time continues forward smoothly. To predict what will happen and verify that the image becomes reality,” replied Buhl. She directed an arm to the great loom to her right.
Bertram saw what she meant. It seemed the loom could weave an image in just a moment. Like now, in its fabric, a team of exoskeletoned beings carried one player high on their armored shoulders, as a crowd celebrated wildly. A second later, the image eroded, its threads unraveling to weave a whole new scene. This one was of an impossibly beautiful alien man and woman in the middle of a press conference. In another second, this picture would be gone, and yet another would appear. And on and on.
“You see?” asked Bahr. “Our job is to envision, weave and watch. We are not permitted to meddle in the affairs of life-forms.”
“Well, your pals, the Seers of Rhobux, didn’t have any qualms about that, now did they?” snapped Rollie. “Can you at least blank my archive?”
At this Buhl dropped her gaze in a defeated way. “We have lost all contact with the Seers of Rhobux,” she said, shaking her head dismally. “Most disturbing.”
“We can no longer access their systems,” said Bahr, with a weary sigh. “Very unfortunate.”
“Yeah, I weep for you.” Rollie rolled his eyes. “I mean, it’s not like either of you will be turning to ash or eaten alive on Altair-5 because of this ‘disturbing,’ ‘unfortunate’ glitch in the existential filing system.”
“It is most distressing to us,” Bahr emphasized, “as we have not seen any of this in our threads.”
“Much has been blocked from us,” Buhl said.
“It is an anomaly of considerable concern,” Bahr admitted.
“So the Seers are up to something they don’t want you eyeballing, and we’re still stuck runnin’ from the law.” Rollie gave an irritable rumble at the back of his throat. “Stellar.”
“Meanwhile,” added Bertram, “I’m still supposed to save my planet from some untold evil. Your colleagues aren’t exactly long on the details, are they?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Buhl. It was like she’d just remembered she’d left the iron on back in the other pavilion. “With that, I can assist you!” Her smile was beatific, filled with pleasure at the task. Even intergalactic prophets, Bertram supposed, needed a certain amount of job satisfaction in their days. “Your planet is to be sold, Bertram Ludlow.”
“Sold?!” cried Bertram, stumbling back a step. “How can it be sold? We’re … we’re …” he searched for the right words, “still using it.”
“Can’t expect to get much for it. It’s not even on a main trade route,” Rollie input.
“Nonetheless, soon it will be sold,” said Bahr.
“Who’s the owner?” Bertram asked, feeling anger overcome him the more he considered it. Earth didn’t belong to the Earthlings? How could it be, that all this time his entire planet was under some kind of unsuspected rental situation?
No, no, wait! It was even worse than that! How could it be that the whole planet’s populace we
re …
Squatters?
“Who’s the space cadet I’m going to have to track down and give a piece of my mind?” Bertram Ludlow asked.
Buhl’s lips set in a thin irritated line. “It is not known who the current owner is. That, interestingly, is among the information that has been blocked to us.”
“Most distressing,” Bahr said again, his mouth following the irritated line of his sister’s. “We would report the Seers behavior to our superiors, but we have been at this job for so very many centuries, we can no longer remember who that would be, or how to reach them.” He waved a hand. “If we ever knew.”
“We lost contact with Corporate many U-years ago,” Buhl admitted, a wistful tone to her voice.
“The sale, however, is being handled by Alternate Realty, headquartered on Ottofram,” said Bahr.
“When?” Bertram asked. Determination had begun to fortify him from his sore feet on upward. At last, he had something to go on. “How much time do I have?”
“They are taking bids now,” said Buhl.
“Let us just say, I would not spend much time sight-seeing,” suggested Bahr.
Bertram somehow expected as much. “And you saw all of this in your tapestry.” He stared up at the giant ever-changing textile before them.
Buhl shook her head in the negative, a vague blush creeping over her smooth, bronzed cheeks. “On the Uninet at breakfast,” she told him. “It is all over the news.”
“Spectra Pollux also has a new CapClub book pill recommendation, and Jet Antlia has broken bonds with Stella Cygnus again,” Bahr informed them.
“Great.” Bertram exhaled, the gravity of the situation tugging at his respiratory system. “Just great.” He thanked them for their help and turned one socked foot out of the pavilion, when an idea popped front and center. He paused. He turned back. “One more thing.”
“Yes?” Buhl and Bahr met his gaze with eyes kind and interested.
“Do you know what this might be?” Bertram asked, raising the Yellow Thing around his neck for them to see. “The Seers of Rhobux gave it to me and said I should make sure I kept it with me at all times. That I’d need it. Which would be terrific. If I knew what the hell it was.”
The Prophets, comparers of present and future, eyed the item.
Bird-lizards yodeled in the distance, while blossom petals flew on the breeze and swept across the pavilion’s marble floor like silken confetti. The tapestry murmured its wzzzssh-clonk-wzzzssh-clonk as it made and remade itself.
After this long moment, Bahr said, “It looks a little like something off an all-you-can-digest buffet.”
“A little,” agreed Buhl, giving it another long look. She wrinkled her nose. “But not entirely.”
“No, not entirely,” admitted Bahr, tilting his head to the side and wrinkling his nose too. He glanced back at Bertram and shrugged a robed shoulder. “I am sorry, Bertram Ludlow. I fear we have failed you.”
“You did what you could.” True, Bertram hadn’t much hope for it, but he’d figured it was worth a shot. “Thanks for trying.”
“Much fortune to you, Bertram Ludlow, in saving your planet,” Buhl called as Bertram and Rollie turned to go.
Bertram gave her a little bow.
“May you speed safely and swiftly to clear your name, Rolliam Tsmorlood,” said Bahr.
Rollie just made a noise that was either a laugh or a growl, Bertram wasn’t sure.
And with that, Bertram and Rollie solemnly left the Prophet Center.
The walk back through the gardens to the ICV was a quiet one. Bertram had a lot on his mind.
All this time, the people of his planet had been operating as if they were the rulers of their fate, with nothing but a fickle Mother Nature, and maybe a favorite Deity or two to answer to.
And now there was a whole other layer of truth to wrap around it. Yep, all those conspiracy theorists out there, wearing their sandwich board signs proclaiming, “Aliens Are Coming! The End is Nigh!” were going to have a whole new fleet of fears to probe into. Oh, we’d suspected aliens walked among us. We just hadn’t really planned on them owning the joint.
It was especially concerning because, having been a renter himself for the last ten years of his life, Bertram Ludlow knew a little something about landlords.
See, it was actually a testament to the current owner that the people of Earth had remained ignorant about it for so long. In most respects, that was the kind of landlord you really wanted. The kind that gave you your privacy, let you do your own thing. One that wasn’t always popping by when you weren’t home, hitting your fridge and helping himself to your beer. Or stopping over unannounced, then criticizing the socks balled up on the floor.
No, this was the type of landlord that gave you the keys and then forgot about you.
And okay, so yes, in this kind of landlord-tenant relationship, maintenance issues aren’t always the easiest to resolve. Like, it might have been nice if the owner had gotten someone in to fix the ozone layer. And, yeah, Earth probably could have benefited from some water damage repairs after a couple of key natural disasters. That might have been handy.
But at least the good people of Earth had been able to count on the peace and quiet. A sense of autonomy. A decent night’s sleep.
As the saying goes: “It’s the evil alien overlord you know.”
Like, what if your laissez-faire landlord sells to a zealous newbie with a DIY bug?
Soon she’s in there tearing up your bathroom, ripping out the kitchen cabinets, a stream of handymen trooping in and out at all hours, and helping themselves to a few of your albums along the way.
She’s making improvements. She’s got a vision. And before you know it, she’s looking at you and wondering how she can get you out of there, so she can put some really high-end tenants in instead. Someone willing to pay 400 bucks more a month, plus utilities.
Life will never be the same.
This was what Bertram felt the Earthlings might be up against. Some home improvement junkie likely to take out a couple of tectonic plates simply because she didn’t like the pattern.
Well, Bertram would just have to do what he could to keep that from happening, even though he wasn’t wholly convinced he was the right man for the job. A man who had grown complacent about toothpaste for wall spackle wasn’t exactly king of Apartment B1.
Lost in thought as he was, Bertram hadn’t realized that they’d already trekked the long road back down the hill to the ICV. Of course, the ship was also a little hard to spot at the moment, for the wide array of local fauna that had found it and made themselves welcome. In addition to 30 of the bird-lizards flirting with the windshield on the ship’s nose, there now were a good 20 squeaky-jumpy lavender things bouncing on the roof, maybe 15 chirpy-burpy orange things clinging to the side, and one brown leathery thing that looked a lot like a comfy recliner, sniffing the landing gear in interest.
Rollie cursed under his breath. “Stellar. A fragging zoo.” With a worlds-weary sigh, he rushed at the bird-lizards, squeaky-jumpies, chirpy-burpies and the comfy-wumfy, waving his arms wildly. “Yaw! Get outta there, ya stinking bunch! It’s an ICV, not a blasted wildlife refuge. Launch yourselves, before I hit the power and roast you with the rockets!”
Feathers and fur flew in a mad scramble. And as the last squeaky-jumpy bounced off into the bluery, Rollie lowered the ramp and clomped into the ship.
Bertram trailed him into the craft and then the cockpit. Rollie attended to the controls while the Earthman plunked down in the copilot’s chair and fastened his harness, as if prepping for launch these days were all a part of some normal, everyday routine.
“So,” Bertram began, breaking the silence, “to Alternate Realty on Ottofram, then?”
Rollie glanced at Bertram, then started up the ship. “For you maybe. Not me,” he said, tapping a meter.
A sinking feeling hit Bertram’s stomach, swallowed by a wave of dread. He almost was afraid to ask, but as anger buoyed up through th
e fear, the words came rushing out, too. “Hold on, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Quite simple, Ludlow; it means I am out of this,” Rolliam Tsmorlood said quietly. He fixed Bertram with a sharp amber stare. “I said from the beginning I was only the A to B to C man. But it’s gotten bigger than that, hasn’t it? And now we’re both all over the Uninet, it’s zonky dangerous, and I’ve got to lie low for a while. There’s nothing else to it.” He checked some gauges, flipped a lever and managed to get a good “bip” going.
Bertram just couldn’t believe it. Rollie—the guy who’d championed Klimfals in a major rebellion they didn’t even seem to win the naming rights for … the guy who still felt print merited a comeback, fer Pete’s sake—was abandoning the cause? Just like that?
“Lie low!” Bertram exclaimed. “Now? You heard the Prophets. My planet’s being sold out from under us. It’s not just me this affects, Rollie. It’s billions of innocent people!”
“Not to say I’m unsympathetic to your problem.” Rollie considered this further. “Though I am a little. It’s just I happen to like living not on Altair-5 better. I have to figure out a way to get my archive blanked. And I can’t do that if I’m chauffeuring you all over the blasted GCU while you play the hero, can I?”
“Well, I get that. But it leaves me in a very bad position,” Bertram said. “I still have to save my world from Extreme Planet Makeover. It’s kinda high-pressure.” He watched as the ship lifted up off the lush land of Nett 30. He could see the shining white dome of the Prophet Center appear to grow smaller and smaller below them. “I’m not going to bag everything just because you’re a repeat offender and you’re finally scared it’s catching up with you.”
Rollie attended to a lever, muttering as if to himself, “Ah, that’s Tryflings for you. Always making things so much more fragging difficult than need be.” He frowned at Bertram and continued, “No one is asking you to put things in bags, Ludlow.”
“In bags?” Bertram would have laughed if he hadn’t been so angry.