by Jenn Thorson
Rollie sniffed. “You were more fun when you were openly Non-Organic.”
O’wun’s eyes darted to the small window again. “Shhh. Please. Now I’m not going to ask you again.” He took Xylith’s arm with one hand and pushed Bertram’s back with the other, both in the direction of the kitchen door.
Rollie leapt from the counter. “You mean, we’re not allowed to discuss technology at all here?” he asked, raising his voice. He wore a carnivorous smile Bertram recognized. “Even with you being who you are?”
“Don’t do this to me, Rollie,” warned O’wun in a low voice. “Don’t you dare do this to me.”
“What do you mean, mate?” asked Rollie loudly. “I just want to make sure I know the rules. I’d hate to violate any of the rules and customs here. I am, as you know, such a stickler for rules. Are we not allowed to discuss things like … oh … the differences between organic-born and Non-Organics in terms of risk-taking and logic?” He stepped nimbly past O’wun, Bertram and Xylith and paused at the swinging door.
“Rollie, I’m serious. Shut up,” O’wun hissed. “I’ll be bashed to pieces.”
“Are we allowed to have technology here ourselves?” Rollie’s grin widened and he opened the door. “And if so, how much technology is permitted? Can it be bigger than an XJ-37 hand-laser, do you think? How big a violation is a pocket vis-u? And what happens if the technology is really big. Like, I dunno,” he sized up O’wun, “… Round two kroms, 160 toks? What of it then? Is that too much technology or does that get a pass?”
“Fine. Fine. Get in here,” O’wun said through gritted teeth. He seized Rollie’s forearm and yanked him into the kitchen. O’wun then poked his head out once more just to tell his guests he was almost done with the polegrots, but they’d need a little more time.
Ducking back inside the Food Preparation Room, O’wun’s broad forehead went from that of clear-browed charming host to scowling blackmail victim. “You slaggard.”
“So they tell me.” Beaming, Rollie resettled onto the counter. At O’wun’s folded arms and dark stare, he added, “Am in a bit of a rush.”
“Just for that,” O’wun turned to Bertram. “I’ll look up your Yellow Thing first.”
“Oh, um,” Bertram pointed, “also anything you can uncover on who owns Tryfe. I did a Uninet search but nothing remotely helpful came up, so I thought you might be able to, er …”
Rolling his eyes, the Simulant withdrew a spindled, wooden chair from a hand-crafted table and sat down with a huff. “Fine. Also recover information on Tryfe.” Soon a soft whir emanated from him, and his eyes went to screensaver.
Bertram watched the interesting fractal patterns swirl and change colors, while Xylith guarded the door and Rollie finished prepping the polegrots.
Bertram jumped slightly when O’wun’s irises returned. “Well?”
“Not in there.”
“What?!”
“The Yellow Thing’s not in there. I scanned it against images from all over the Uninet, all linked databases, all networked systems. But no pattern match.”
Bertram let out a frustrated groan and grabbed up the Yellow Thing. “What are you?” he asked it. He hadn’t tried that before, and a part of him hoped it actually might speak up and share.
It held its silence.
“And Tryfe’s owner?” Xylith asked.
O’wun’s answer began with an awestruck laugh. “I know you said you didn’t find much, so I hit a few places that might not get pulled up by a standard Uninet search. And talk about blanked! Intergalactic Office of Planetary Deeds and Dry Details? Blanked. Alternate Realty property listings and internal databanks? Blanked. Backspace Geographic Assessment archives? So very, very blanked. And when I say blanked, I mean blanked. Blanked like I’d do ’em. Sure, there were entries for Tryfe, but they’d been scoured so clean you could eat off them. The only thing I could even recover was a vague residue imprint of one word in the Universal Property Transfer Directory. I’m not even sure it’s right.” He regarded his clasped hands before him. “G’napps.”
“G’napps?” asked Bertram. “Like Emperor G’napps, the guy with the Vos Laegos table game?”
“It’s Emperor’s G’napps, Bertram,” Xylith corrected gently.
“I only know what I saw,” O’wun told him, “and it looked like ‘G’napps.’”
“The Emperor isn’t named G’napps,” Xylith went on. “G’napps were a type of ancient clothes fastener certain royalty used back in the Eedythead System’s Golden Age of Dressing Nice. See, the playing pieces look like—”
“Stellar,” interrupted Rollie, “now you know, Ludlow. The good ol’ Emperor bought your planet. So, O’wun,” he turned to the Simulant, “on to blanking my archive, then?”
“He thinks he’s funny, Bertram,” Xylith explained. “There isn’t any ‘Emperor G’napps.’”
“Will you all please shut up for a minute?” O’wun shouted, and Bertram was worried he’d grab that knife again. “Okay, Rollie, where am I looking for this crimes archive of yours?”
“Seers of Rhobux have it. Should be in their data system.”
O’wun nodded. “That may take some time. Take those polegrots out to the guests and have a cocktail. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. And by the way, thank you so much for dragging down my party. Next time, bring a bottle of Smorg wine like everyone else.”
With that, O’wun went to screensaver.
Tomorrow morning, the old kachunketball stadium, on the planet Skorbig. That was where Rozz Mercer would present with Spectra Pollux, and the fate of Earth would be decided by whoever rocked the hottest alien Powerpoint.
That’s how Rozz saw it, anyway. And while she was still at the mercy of her electric tiara, she also knew there was someone else out there in the GCU who cared about her planet just as much as she did. And he was still free to do something about it.
Rozz had spent the last two days trying to figure out how to get a message to Bertram Ludlow. She’d thought there might be a way through Spectra Pollux’s Featured CapClub Feature-of-the-Day. It had some benefits, after all. It reached GCU-wide, it was regular talk on the Heavy Meddler, and between holovisions, vis-us and the Uninet, it was almost a total lock that it would reach Bertram Ludlow’s ears wherever he was—short of dead or dungeoned.
Each Featured CapClub Feature-of-the-Day was pre-determined by Spectra Pollux herself and was selected weeks prior to release. It was stored in an announcement database that would automatically notify her infopill subscribers what awaited them. This was picked up by the GCU media.
If they were back on Earth, Rozz could have simply used Spectra’s computer when she wasn’t around to send a new message. Or, with no direct access, she might have hacked into Spectra’s computer from another networked terminal.
But a little poking around, and Rozz learned Spectra Pollux connected directly to her network with a chip implanted in that giant head of hers. She could just think and dictate the information straight in. What she needed the 37 assistants for, other than as salaried desk toys, was anybody’s guess.
As for where the data was stored, and how it networked with the subscriber messaging system, Rozz hadn’t been able to track it down. Someday, having consumed enough of the right infopills, Rozz thought she could probably handle the task. But right now, she was running out of time and ideas and—
“Can I get another?” One of two reporters, who’d been in the corner interviewing Spectra Pollux for her umpteenth time this week, waved an empty glass at her. Rozz liked the look of this guy. He had an interesting exoskeleton, and a tasteful business suit.
“Altairan Sun Slush, right?” The beverage gave off so much heat, one whiff could singe your nose hair.
“Right.”
“Brave man,” she said.
He leaned on the counter and gave a pleasant, clicking sort of sound. “I’m a Halypaynean.” He tapped a fist to his abdomen. It made a solid thud, in spite of the suit. “We can stomach anything.”
She couldn’t hear the interview over the purr of the drinks machine and the thickness of the hood. But by now she knew the sort of questions they’d ask. “How many infopills do you ingest yourself before you find one you’d recommend for your CapClub?” “What’s your favorite infopill of all time?” “Do you prefer them in time-released capsule or tablet form?”
It was always the same. And as always, Spectra handled it with dignity and efficient grace. But oh, how Rozz would love for the GCU to see the woman, just once, become the storm-clouded fury that Rozz witnessed that time. Oh, how satisfying it would be to give the GCU a glimpse of Spectra when she wasn’t Being Her Best Her.
And—like the jolt of an Altairan Sun Slush hitting an unsuspecting gullet—Rozz had a sizzling idea.
All along, Rozz Mercer had been making her problems too complex. Yet there was an easy way to accomplish what she needed to get done. One so simple, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before.
Rozz was just pouring the Altairan Sun Slush into a clean, lidded cup, as the reporters were getting ready to leave.
“Looks like I’ll be having that drink to-go after all,” the Halypaynean told her, waving his antennae in his species’ equivalent of a dashing smile.
“Enjoy it before the container melts,” she warned. “The LibLounge isn’t responsible for eroded beverage containers and any injuries associated thereby.” Her eyes darted to her employer, still sitting in her favorite spot, having a tete-a-tete-a-tete-a-whatever with the 37. Her gown was a light, buttery yellow. The timing seemed right.
So Rozz tucked the cup into a tray. “In fact, it’s probably safer if I just bring it to your ICV for you. Are you ready?”
Hal looked impressed. “Such service!” He motioned to his colleague, and the trio emerged from the LibLounge into the bright Rumoolitan daylight.
It was before they got to the ship that Rozz paused, positioning herself so Spectra had a clear view of her through the window. No, I’m not running away. I’m not doing anything suspicious, Spectra. I’m all about transparency. She put on a CapClub Customer Service smile so big you could probably see it from space.
“Before you both go, there was a little something I was hoping to share with you,” Rozz said cheerfully. “I know your story’s about Spectra’s work with the LibLounges, but I also know there are just so many wonderful things Spectra wouldn’t tell you herself because she’s entirely too modest.” A snicker caught in Rozz’s throat but she swallowed it back down and readjusted her radiant grin.
It gave the journalists time to exchange intrigued glances. “Really …”
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe the number of shipments of infopills that authors send Spectra to sample, hoping she’ll choose their work.” This was true.
Rozz went on: “Because she’s generously willing to give even complete unknowns a chance, she washes down everything from skilled vanity publications to well-meaning but rough first attempts, to weighty scholarly works and possible best-sellers.” Also true.
“She makes notes about each and every infopill she ingests—good and bad—and adds it to her database.” Totally true.
“In fact, she cares so deeply about her Featured CapClub Feature-of-the-Day, just yesterday she pulled the recommendation for tomorrow, because she’d decided it didn’t meet her exacting standards.” Big, fat, unadulterated lie.
Interest played over their exoskeletoned faces. “Really …” they said again. It was the sound of a lie being sucked down, smooth and easy like a creamy mootaab milkshake.
“Absolutely. Spectra was all jazzed about the infopill one minute and then yanked it the next. Gone. Right out of the database. It made such an impression on me, because she’d never done that before. I thought it said a lot about her thoroughness that she could endorse something whole-heartedly and then completely dump the thing flat like that.”
Rozz thought she smelled a nice whiff of scandal. Or perhaps that was the Sun Slush.
Ol’ Hal smelled it, too. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “What infopill was it?”
“Breakfast with Bertram at Skorbig Stadium for Independence Day.” She thought a moment and added, “By Eartha Shatter.” Rozz wondered why she didn’t ask for “Prince Albert in the Can” while she was at it, but with her luck, Prince Alber Tinthakan would be some big-time planetary muckety-muck with copyright paranoia.
Hal was making notes. “And what made her change her mind so strongly about this particular infopill?”
His partner clicked with amusement. “Sounds like it needed a good editor.”
“I don’t really know,” said Rozz lightly. “I haven’t digested this one myself. We didn’t get shipments of the infopills here. Just the one Spectra digested and, of course, the infopill summary.” Rozz cast the invisible line and …
Hooked. “So what’s it about?”
Shrugging, Rozz smoothed short pink locks from her electric headband. “Like I said, it was deleted pretty quickly from the database. I barely glanced at it. I’m sure there’ll be a summary somewhere on the Uninet, though.”
Lies, lies, and more colorful lies.
“And how was she acting when she said it had to be pulled?”
“Oh, y’know,” Rozz had been working on her casually indifferent gestures lately, “kind of excited or, well, agitated or …”
“Would you say ‘panicked’?” suggested Hal.
“Me? Why, no, I don’t say anything,” Rozz told him sweetly. “This is completely off-the-record. Aside from your drink order, you and I have never spoken. I just thought it was really important you understood that Spectra cares so much about her CapClub choices, she completely freaked out and changed her mind at the last minute over one of her recommendations.”
Ah, the giant, gaping black hole of a lie. Rozz almost smiled of her own accord on this one.
“Breakfast with Bertram at Skorbig Stadium,” Hal said.
“For Independence Day,” Rozz added. “But, remember, you didn’t hear it from me.”
Nope. They didn’t hear it from her. “An anonymous source,” it would say. “A close friend of Pollux who preferred to remain nameless.” As they sauntered back into their ICV, Sun Slush in hand, and she waved a friendly CapClub Customer Service goodbye, Rozz Mercer knew one of those Heavy Meddler boys would be hitting the Uninet way before lift-off. Yes, he would scour the system, looking for any information on tomorrow’s missing Featured CapClub Feature-of-the-Day, and author Eartha Shatter.
And he would find nothing. A nothing that would quickly become a curious nothing. A suspicious nothing. A guilty nothing. Sweet, sweet nothing.
And with so much nothing before them, one thing was certain. Pretty soon it would be the nothing everyone was talking about.
Everyone, and possibly even Bertram Ludlow.
Welcome to Plan 4, Part A. Rozz wasn’t sure how Part B would hash out. But she could wait.
She walked back into the café with a spring in her step and a tray under her arm.
The tray of polegrots had taken a serious hit, and the bucket of thick Luddite punch was half-empty. With supplies dwindling and their popular host AWOL, it was becoming increasingly difficult to divert curious, social, and unhelpfully-helpful guests from the Food Preparation Room.
O’wun was still on screensaver, and there was no telling how long it would be. Bertram had tried analyzing the low whirring around the man, looking for insight into his estimated return to the alert and Organic world, but it offered no clues. They could but watch and wait.
Shame the guy didn’t come with a graphical Progress Bar or something, thought Bertram. Maybe that came in later models.
At least the party seemed to be a success. With guests taking up instruments, traditional Luddite dancing had broken out. This involved a mix of hopping, clapping and slow fluid stretches. From a Tryfe perspective it
landed somewhere between yoga, a 19th century minuet, and a mosh. Xylith had dragged Bertram onto the makeshift dance floor for one such song—an exhausting, prolonged exhibition, Bertram felt, since he was more of a minimal stand-and-sway guy when it came to high-pressure dancing. Meanwhile Rollie positioned himself as a long-legged barrier to the kitchen.
By the third chorus, as Bertram traded footwork for a leg cramp, he was saved by a loud, chirpy and persistent pair of notes which echoed from somewhere in the penthouse. “Bing-bong!”
A curious hush fell over the room. The music stopped, the dancing stilled. The crowd waited to have their greatest fears affirmed.
“Bing-bong!” announced the synthesized notes again, and now in a frantic search, the guests worked to find the keeper of this non-natural sound, this violation of all that was Ludd, this “bing-bong.”
It was only a moment before the sound was traced, someone was seized and all eyes (“bing-bong!”) fell on a single guilty face amongst them. This face flushed more deeply orange than it started, a life-form that looked like she (“bing-bong!”) wanted to evaporate on the spot, into a fine, bright, terrified fizz.
Hands trembling, she withdrew a pocket vis-u, glanced at it, her face now a deeper rust and (“bing-!”) turned the gadget off.
“Um.”
Someone gasped. Someone else let out an astonished cry. And then … someone started to laugh.
“A 290-BX?” This guest queried, indicating the device in her hand. He withdrew a small flat silver box from the pocket of his own beaded vest. “290-BT,” he said, with a snicker. He addressed the wan, blank faces before him. “What? I love Ludd, too, but I need the kachunkettball scores.”
A murmur of nervous giggles rippled through the crowd, and one woman lifted up her pantleg. A mini-holovision was holstered to the life-form’s calf. “I only use it to see As the Worlds Revolve. Margor is just about to learn she’s been accidentally life-merged to Luto’s evil genetic clone and—”