by Jenn Thorson
“Blasted shame,” said Rollie to himself. “But there really is simply no getting on with some life-forms.”
He stepped over their inert bodies and pushed open the library door. Another job he had to do by hand.
“Exterminator!” Rollie called down the library halls just for the sake of doing it. But the only answer he got was the echo of his own voice. Pausing, he manually clicked the light switch on and off. No change. The power was out.
“Miss Ungerblunger?” Rollie asked. He wondered if the hexabulons had gotten to Miss Ungerblunger; though, generally, they preferred already uninhabited places where they could really spread out. They did enjoy their privacy. In between meals, anyway.
He set the XJ-37 to flare mode and it broadcast a clean stream of golden light in the marble rooms.
No webs, Rollie noticed with some relief as he played the light around the ceiling. He’d half-expected a wave of hexabulons to surge at him like foot soldiers from the Feegar Rebellion.
“Miss Ungerblunger, I brought you some books to catalog,” Rollie announced, swinging the satchel from his shoulder and onto the circulation desk. A cloud of dust stirred.
He coughed. He hadn’t been in Rhobux-7 that long, had he? For the love of Karnax, couldn’t a fellow spend a brief stint in confinement without everything back home going to muck?
“I’m docking your pay, Ungerblunger,” Rollie said. “You and Mr. Shimnyplank. You’re not pulling your own weight ’round here. And it’s not as if I ask a lot. Acquire some books. Catalog some books. Be here for the mad rush when books go trendy again. Oh, and it will go trendy,” he insisted to the darkness. “Once they wise up and see what’s good for ’em. It will.” It bothered him slightly that the lecture was all one-sided, but not enough to stop. He had spent a lot of time in solitary confinement over the years. “You could at least tidy up a bit. Hire someone when there’s a hexabulon problem. That’s fair.”
He moved through the aisles of bookshelves. Every book had its own special tale of recovery, its own unique secrets to reveal in the reading. At the end of the row stood Dax Q. Phlyjollee’s office. Dust coated the mouldings, cushioned the floor, and lined the glass door with his name on it, which was printed firmly in Hyphiz Deltan. He played the light around the room, to the Klimfal flag on the far wall. The one he and his squad had won back from the Feegars right before they were overrun, and he was taken prisoner. It was a flag he managed to hold onto in spite of the days of torture … The gnashing Feegar teeth … The—
He approached the flag, lifted it and its accompanying blanket of dust, and dug into the hole in the wall behind it. There he found the yoonie cards, as predicted, and enough Deltan shingee for a comfortable cash backup.
“Gonna siphon some fuel from your ICV, Miss Ungerblunger,” Rollie called into the blackness. “I’ll return with enough to repla—”
Miss Ungerblunger was sitting in Dax Q. Phlyjollee’s desk chair. Before her was a small, portable vis-u with Mr. Shimnyplank’s contact information burnt forever into the now-dead screen. And from the looks of things, she’d been sitting there a very, very, very long time.
He groaned. “Frag it all, I am sorry, Miss Ungerblunger,” Rollie told her sincerely. He played the light over her leathery skin, her dusty cloud of hair. This wasn’t the way anyone looked who became a meal for the hexabulon. He was glad she hadn’t gone that way, at least. “You were … getting on a bit … weren’t ya?”
He hadn’t considered it at the time, but Miss Ungerblunger had to have been pushing 300. And Mr. Shimnyplank wasn’t exactly a prancing young mootaab, either.
“I’ll make arrangements,” Rollie promised, “soon.” And considering the reality of it, of the invalid yoonie card as a dead giveaway to his general location, he added, “Else, I’ll send you a souvenir from Altair.” The RegForce had undoubtedly heard about his failed purchase. They would not waste any time. “So you’ll wait here, Miss Ungerblunger?”
Miss Ungerblunger was good at waiting.
He nodded. “Right. Note to Mr. Dax Q. Phlyjollee: hire a younger librarian next time.” He turned on a booted heel and pulled the door closed behind him. For some reason, the gesture seemed only proper.
“I really got to get my fragging archive blanked,” he muttered, playing the laser light along his purposeful path to the exit. “All this running’s getting cursed inconvenient. Now … who do I know that’s keen with a hack?”
G
“He tried to buy ICV fuel, eh?” said W.I. Tsmarmak Mook of the Hyphiz Deltan RegForce, eyeing the message on his pocket vis-u. “On Calderia-4, it appears.”
“The Tryfling fugitive?” W.I. Tstyko asked. Curiosity animated his face. He stretched to glimpse his colleague’s screen, which over-extended his grip on the wheel and wobbled their course. Even with the ship’s sophisticated equalizers and pressure balancing capabilities, Tstyko’s turn at the helm always made Mook feel just a tad space-sick. He wasn’t sure how the man managed it with so much clever technology available to save him from himself. But there they were.
“No: Rolliam Tsmorlood,” Mook responded. “Given the recent situation on Ottofram, it would seem that the Tryfling and Tsmorlood have parted ways.”
“Calderia-4,” Tstyko mused. “Population: 129 billion. Capital city: Blunk. Major export: a variety of very wholesome grains, many of which make tasty bread for the perfect mootaab cheese toastie. Also birthplace to Foobaz Frabblagundger and most of the members of Dumbbell Nebula.” He flashed a grin, proudly. Tstyko’s brain had categorized data on almost every planet in the GCU. Some people religiously memorized kachunkettball stats. Igglestik Tsyko absorbed general facts about the entire universe for fun. “What do you think Tsmorlood wants on Calderia?”
“Hard to say, but without the fuel, one would presume he didn’t get very far.” Mook tucked the vis-u into his uniform’s breast pocket and smoothed his lapel. “Perhaps this will be his last stop before Altair-5.”
“Altair-5,” recited Tstyko thoughtfully. “Population … well, none at the mo’, though that’s subject to change certainly. Capital city …” Tstyko squinted, as if the consideration were part of a painful process. “Why, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it, have you, Mook? Everyone always just mentions the Tarpits. So Capital city: Tarpits. Major export? … Really, it’s more of an import situation than export. In that, we send the unredeemable troublemakers there and, well, pretty much the Tarpits and the wildlife handle the rest. So, imports: prisoners. Exports: horrible, nightmarish fables I can use on the ol’ progeny when they’re in Naughtyland.” He gave a self-satisfied nod. “Works like a dream at my home-unit, too, let me tell you! No toe out of line there.”
“It’s fortunate the RegForce has such comprehensive mental health coverage that extends to employees families,” Mook responded.
Tstyko either didn’t hear him, or the comment was unable to wedge its way through the extensive planetary trivia he carried in his brain. He went on, “To be honest, I’ve never dropped anyone off on Altair-5 before. You ever been there, Mook?”
“Once,” Mook nodded solemnly, “many years ago. When I was new to the RegForce. And I’ve never forgotten it.” Visions of the past swam before his mild gray eyes. “It was the day we dropped off Feg ‘Tsarangees’ Zastaran, the Madman of Hyphiz Beta.”
“Oh, right. That fellow who tried to overthrow the system’s Regimentation Schedule and hacked into the RegClocks.”
The RegClocks kept the official Regimentation Schedule time for all the people of the Hyphiz-6 system, a reassuring, highly-honored expression of Hyphizite order, efficiency and everyone’s tax dollars at work.
“Remember the mayhem in the streets?” Tstyko continued, licking his lips as he warmed to the subject. “For weeks no one knew whether it was time for mandatory recreation, scheduled productivity, or …” He waved vague, yet all-encompassing hand. “… Or, you know, what-not. I kept trying to sleep when I should have been out clubbing. My auntie went mad with unspent energy
and knitted cozies for virtually everything in the home-unit. And my brother worked in the factory for five U-days straight, simply because the RegClock never told him it was time to return home. He nearly died of exhaustion. It was a very dark time to be a Hyphizite.”
Mook nodded again. “With a black-hearted crime like that, Zastaran was destined for Altair-5. And so my superior and I were tasked to send him to his fate. The heat was so thick and oppressive we could barely push our way through it. Steam would shoot randomly from the ground, as if the planet itself were filled with rage. The Altairan sun beat with relentless, hateful fury. There were warm semi-acidic downpours. Carnivorous plants and dangerous beasts had evolved to thrive in these extreme conditions, and while we had only touched down on the planet’s surface a moment, we could sense the creatures creeping forward. Waiting for the right moment. Determined to fight for any scrap of resources—namely us. Everywhere there was the stench of sulfur. On Altair-5, there is no shelter. No rest. And no peace.”
“Not ideal for a Deltan complexion then.” Tstyko held up a pasty pink hand.
“As always, my friend, you’ve come to the very crux of it,” said Mook dryly.
“So how’d things go with Zastaran, then?”
“We left him. And as we flew away, we watched him—this Madman of Hyphiz Beta—as acidic rain misted down on him. After all that trouble he gave us, after remorseless interviews where he shouted he was glad of what he’d done and he’d do it again, I remember watching him stand there alone, weeping like a small child.” Mook shrugged. “Until, of course, he was eaten by an Altairan daisy the size of a tree.”
Tstyko gave a considering grunt and a shudder. “Grim stuff, that. A bit morally ambiguous in some ways, too, if you think about it. I mean, sending our baddies to Altair is economically-sound, but it’s not exactly a testament for our own civilized society.”
“Justice is a double-edged sword,” Mook admitted.
“Or sometimes,” said Tsyko, a sudden thought lighting his blue eyes, “a giant meat-eating daisy.”
Chapter 20
“Let’s see … Take a generous dollop of disenfranchisement. Add a dash of common sense. Dump in a couple cups of inequity. Sift in some facts about Tryfe. Add a pinch of group psychology. Cut in some chilled moral outrage. Pour in lots of gooey empathy. And mix!” Bertram had carefully crafted his pro-Tryfe messaging, and now he hit the switch. The machine chugged and pumped and steamed with merry energy. It wasn’t long before he could hear something rattle and roll within it. Then: plunk! At the bottom of the shoot, one swirly blue-and-white capsule appeared.
“Your infopill is complete,” announced the machine.
Bertram cheered. “Now let’s make, oh, 1,000 more of these blue-and-white babies, and we’re ready to rumble.” He entered data, pushed a button and turned to Xylith. “This thing’s amazing. Half of Blumdec will be on the ‘Life for Tryfe’ bandwagon in no time. Musca Mij isn’t going to know what hit him. If we can get enough people across the GCU supporting Tryfe, it won’t matter who owns the planet. No one will want to touch it within a hundred light years.”
Both of Xylith’s faces wore bemused smiles. “I must say, I’ve never seen such enthusiasm for the on-board infopiller before.”
“Oh, come on, it must have changed the world of personal mass communications!” Bertram exclaimed.
One face looked like it wanted to agree, but the other was reluctant. “Well, they come standard. But mostly people just use them to infopill their annual holiday comms and share the kind of confused family histories relatives gift other relatives.” She shrugged. “Pro-Tryfe propaganda’s a real step up.”
For a few moments, Bertram watched mesmerized as the infopill machine rolled out pill after pill into a sack.
“Now, have you thought about how you’re going to make your grand appearance on Blumdec?” Xylith asked. “Given your face is famous, your holowatch granny has been busted, and your Popeelie robe is notorious?”
“No.” Bertram eyed a garment bag in her hand with suspicion. “But I’m guessing you have.”
Smiling, she unfastened the garment bag with a flourish, revealing what appeared to be a shimmery, armored rubber scarf. Her fluid wave of the hand meant to display it to its full effect. “What do you think?”
“It’s cold on Blumdec?” Bertram asked.
“It’s an invisibility suit,” she explained.
“A suit?” Bertram gave it a second incredulous look. “That’s a suit?”
“You simply turn it on, and then—see these small reflective plates? Each one moves with the intimate angles of your body to deflect your image and create the illusion you aren’t even there.” She fingered the plates to show him.
Bertram was more concerned about the object’s noticeable lack of width. “You do know that your intimate angles are not the same as my intimate angles, right?”
“It takes some getting into, I admit,” she said, handing him the garment. “But I’ve found it very reliable in a pinch.”
Pinch would be the word. Bertram tugged at the springy armored fabric and winced along with his imagination. “Xylith, what is it you do in the Underworld, exactly?”
“Oh,” she blushed, “the suit’s from my Vos Laegos showbiz days. Part of an act I did long, long ago. But it still comes in handy now and again for other more …” she peered mischievously through dark lashes, “… interesting activities.” As Bertram hung on her words, he reflected that Xylith Duonoggonon probably could make a ham sandwich sound mysterious and steamy if she wanted to.
She reached forward and, as if from his ear, produced three other shorter, somewhat knobbier tubes. “Don’t forget the boots and mask now,” she said. She tucked them in his hand and started to the cockpit.
He held up the three slim tubes. Which were the boots? Which was the mask? “Xylith,” he called, “you don’t really expect me to wear this, do you? I’ll look ridiculous.”
But she had vanished into the control room. “You’ll look like nothing, Bertram. Just a ripple in the warm Blumdec air,” came her voice. “Hurry now. We’ll be landing soon. Blumdec’s waiting.”
The jungle blossoms were bigger than Bertram’s thoroughly-masked head, and fronds of ruffled vegetation swayed playfully over the winding path. Under the rustle of flora, and the tuneful whistle of fauna above, music and laughter flew free in the not-so-distant distance. From the brush came the irregular whirring and snipping of robot gardeners, carefully painted in camouflage and garnished with twigs. The occasional insect buzzed by but never bit or stung. The e-brochure explained that all insects had been genetically mutated in this manner, for visitor convenience.
This was the Blumdec Grand Mij Hotel and Resort: “The only place in the Universe destined to live up to your completely unrealistic expectations.” Xylith had assured Bertram that if Musca Mij were somewhere on Blumdec, this—the jewel of his marketing empire—was where they would find him.
Bertram peered over Xylith’s shoulder at the map. “You’re sure we’re on the right path?”
“Well, the concierge did say Mr. Mij was just headed beachside.” She pursed two sets of lips thoughtfully. “Also said something about ‘extras,’ but I didn’t quite catch the whole thing, did you?”
He gave a negative shake of his head as she trailed a finger over their route. “See, here’s the back lobby. Then we passed the holoparlors, the hands-free massage hut, the upside-down singing fountains, the upper pool, lower pool, gene pool, and now the regulation-size kachunkettball courts.” She pressed a button on the map’s surface.
The Map said, “You are here,” and highlighted their location. “You are approaching the Blumdec Grand Mij Hotel and Resort’s critically-acclaimed beach, the Purple Pleasure Lagoon, renowned galaxy-wide for its beautiful violet sand substitute.”
“See? We’re almost there.” She inhaled deeply. “And my, would you just smell those flowers? The aroma is simply intoxicating!”
“You are correct!”
affirmed the Map happily. “The flowers located around our award-winning grounds have been genetically adjusted to give guests a perfectly safe, perfectly balanced buzz of contentment throughout their stay.”
“How darling!” exclaimed Xylith with delight, clearly starting to feel the effects of the flora.
“How seriously inconvenient,” Bertram corrected, shooting her a look. “Xylith, how the hell are we going to get anyone willing to take up the ‘Life for Tryfe’ ’cause if everyone’s …” he searched for the right word, “… mellow?”
She blinked two sets of lavender eyes. “Beg pardon?”
“I’m talking about outrage, Xylith. Disenfranchised outrage. That’s why the ‘Life for Tryfe’ picketing worked so well on Ottofram. Everyone felt alienated and unequal. Where’s the inequity here, Xylith? Where’s the outrage? We’re surrounded by engineered non-stinging bees and opium air-fresheners, for God’s sake! It’s completely …” he grabbed the first word he found, “… enfranchised. We can’t get a movement going if everybody’s feeling enfranchised. And I don’t think snack cake bribes are going to work on this crowd. They’re swank. They eat regularly.”
Xylith sank down on a nearby bench in sudden understanding. The Map piped up that the bench had been designed for ergonomic comfort and placed for its spectacular jungle view.
“Well, doesn’t that just frag all?” she groaned drowsily. “And to think we spent time whipping up these ‘Life for Tryfe’ infopills for nothing.” She nudged the bag of pills resentfully with a foot. “Not to mention all the time you spent getting into your stellar little suit.”
Ah yes, thought Bertram, the suit. So far, the invisibility suit had done its duty for the intergalactic fugitive-on-the-go. But its sweating, chafing, numbing, oppressive encasement had proven to be all Bertram had anticipated, and more. The ski-mask hood was certainly interesting; to see where he was going, he chose from two sets of eyeholes. And the matching boots? They had to be abandoned altogether; the Dootett foot, female and male, apparently not only had arches, but flying buttresses and domes, too. He would have been crippled in under a mile. So Bertram’s feet now walked forward sandaled and fancy-free.