by Jenn Thorson
“Let’s play a new roadtrip game, you and I. Just for today, shall we, Ig? It’s called ‘Thought Projection.’ You think of things you want to say, and you try to send them to me using only the power of your mind.”
Chapter 24
“Flinky Rolls! Sleemy Snaps! And delicious luke-warm Frallip Squash! Get your Flinky Rolls, Sleemy Snaps and Frallip Squash here!” cried the vendor.
The smell wafting through Skorbig Stadium was one of anticipation, activity and energy.
Also Flinky Rolls.
Alternate Realty “For Sale or Lease” signs lined the property’s perimeters, while dense overgrowth clogged the cracks in the back ICV lots and around the fences. Once-glossy color peeled along the stadium’s metal panels, and seating had faded under the Skorbig sun. Old team advertisements for the Ergowohms—Skorbig’s famed kachunkettball gladiators, now lost to history and trading deadlines—rotated in inconsistent pixilation. But these ruins of sporting past had been scrubbed and polished until they found new dignity. Lights beckoned in the early morning mist. On the roof, flags had been raised, bearing the logos of DiversiDine Entertainment Systems and Aeroponics, MetamorfaSys Inc., and Spectra Pollux’s beloved CapClub brand. Skorbig Stadium was once again alive and alert.
Someone, thought Rozz, was making a very big show of this. She searched the morning skies and wondered if it were the high stakes today or the Frallip Squash that made her stomach roil with acid.
The crowd—and there was a bigger group than Rozz had expected—was a mixed one. Half the stadium seats faced a broad, curtained stage, which settled in a third of the stadium’s former field. In the tiered seating Stage Right, under the shadow of a flapping MetamorfaSys flag, was Musca Mij and his entourage. Rozz recognized him from the many Heavy Meddler pieces and the biographical infopills she’d digested.
He looked both shorter and more iridescent in person.
Then a few minutes ago, Eudicot T’murp and his team had entered, taking their places in a section flying DiversiDine colors.
He was not quite what Rozz had pictured, either. Sure, she’d absorbed his infopill for Leaf and Let Leaf. She’d gone over it in endless detail with various LibLounge discussion groups as a part of her leadership training. But she imagined no amount of capsule learning could prepare a GCU newbie to gracefully meet-and-greet a guy who buds and drops leaves in between how-do-you-do’s and friendly frondshakes.
Rozz found she had to drag her attention away from one such moment of fascinating defoliation—maybe the guy had pre-presentation jitters—and instead, she settled her focus on the executives with him, all professionally-dressed and buzzing with activity.
Center stage housed a group Rozz didn’t recognize but, male and female, were very animated and unnaturally beautiful, their complexions a rich pearly sheen. A dozen of them wore bright matching uniforms.
There was also some lady with an Alternate Realty nametag pinned to her well-tailored suit. She bobbed from group to group introducing herself and making nice with the presenters.
Rozz, meanwhile, sat in Spectra Pollux’s CapClub section, far Stage Left with her 37 assistants, some tech support, and a few experts on backspace behavioral development just for good measure.
No one anywhere was Bertram Ludlow.
Spectra Pollux had been surveying the crowd, too, and now she assessed the Universal clock on the scoreboard and let out a huff of air. “This is ridiculous. It’s almost time, and no one has told us anything.”
She had been irritable the whole trip—sniping at the 37, grumbling at Rozz, and turning down at least three vis-u interviews on the Eartha Shatter infopill mystery. Now she rumbled to a standing position like a formidable geological eruption from the planet’s crust and motioned to the woman with the Alternate Realty badge. “Excuse me, in what order will we present?”
“Hi there, Ms. Pollux,” chirped the realtor, peering up at her, “Cosmic to see you again.” She extended her hand. “If you just bear with our host a teeny-tiny bit longer, you’ll get all your questions answered. I promise.” The woman’s head bobbed fluidly, like a plastic bag caught on a breeze.
Spectra rumbled again and sat.
Rozz shielded her eyes from the rising sun and scanned the skies once more. Bertram Ludlow, she thought, where the hell are—
A terrified scream caught in her throat. Swooping toward them from the east was a taloned red-and-purple bird the size of a jumbo jet, immense wings spanning the Skorbig skies.
Rozz remembered from The Biggish Infopill of Illustrated Intergalactic Avianoids that this was the long-necked ergowohm, native to the planet. The wings were layered in jutting quills, formed of clustered and hardened feathers all along its sides and back. Its beak was like a giant scythe. This particular example of the species did not appear to flap so much as glide, slowly, methodically, drawing menacingly nearer to the crowd—many of whom had fled their seats and started down the aisles in shrieking panic.
Rozz, however, remained seated and frowning. The Biggish Infopill claimed ergowohms typically reached no longer than two kroms in length; while between razor beak to feathered tail quills, this alien avian spanned ten times that, easy. Where the ergowohm of infopill study flapped, this one knifed downward into the stadium like a mad hang glider, and it came to settle on the greens with a bump.
It rested front-and-center before the empty stage.
There was a grinding sound from the creature’s bowels and, momentarily, a door opened in the side of the bird. It gave birth to a single emerging figure, a miniature version of itself, but alive and in anthropomorphic form. The creature looked so much like a big league sports team mascot, Rozz expected it to start catapulting t-shirts into the crowd.
Those who had run from the bird-shaped aircraft now were frozen in place, waiting to see what came next.
A voice reverberated through the stadium sound system: “Ladies, Gentleman and Non-Gender-Specific Life-Forms … Welcome to the ‘New Life for Tryfe’ Bidding Competition!
“And here’s your host for this morning’s exciting event. You might know him as the newly re-elected leader of the Intergalactic Underworld Society, three times running. You might recognize him from his Uninet musical specials, live from Vos Laegos. You may know him as the warrior who risked his life to liberate the Klimfal people and go on to write, produce, direct and star in 12 different documentaries about these monumental achievements. But now, you’ll also know him as the current owner of the planet Tryfe … Here he is, let’s give a Skorbig round of applause for … Zenithhhhhhh Skytreeeeggggggggggg!”
At a touch of its wing, the purple-and-red bird mascot before them vanished, and a man in a pearly white suit with purple-and-red trim was in its place. He raised his arms high and waved to the cheering crowd.
Rozz wondered vaguely who was hooting and applauding so wildly and not still recovering from a coronary like everybody else. But she traced the raucous enthusiasm to the beautiful pearly beings now in the front center row. Rozz realized they were wearing kachunkettball cheerleading outfits.
“Welcome everyone!” said Skytreg warmly, the rising sun sparkling on his silvery hair like he’d planned it that way. “Great to see you! We have an exciting morning of Tryfe bid presentations ahead of us, so let’s get started!”
“WOOOOOOO!” screeched the cheerleaders with a joy so high-pitched, dogs on Earth may have howled. Rozz found tears running down her face, though she couldn’t for the life of her understand why. Then she noticed everyone, even Spectra Pollux, was sniffing and wiping their eyes. The cheerleaders shot some kind of guns, which sprayed bursts of colored electricity like mini, personal fireworks into the air.
Wreathed in a blinding smile, Zenith Skytreg motioned them to quiet. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘Zenith: it’s just a property sale. Why all the secrecy? Why all this extra orbiting?’ Well, folks: if you’ll recall, not that long ago, I was running for a little position called … Official Leader of the Intergalacti
c Underworld.” He paused to allow knowing chuckles from the crowd. “I recognized that the Society still desperately clamored for my knowledge and guidance. But I had already enjoyed three sequential U-years in this illustrious position myself. I said to myself, I said, ‘Zenith, doesn’t someone else deserve a chance to live up to this leadership precedent?’ ‘Yes,’ I told me wisely, ‘the answer is obvious. For a win to have true meaning, the race against my opponents must be at least marginally fair.’”
He stepped closer to the stadium seats. “But what we do today, you and I, is the first step in helping Tryfe carve a bright new future. And the first step we’ve taken has already been brave. As brave as the day some of us single-handedly took on the Feegar cannibals in the fight for the peace-loving Klimfal race. As brave as betting that last yoonie on the roll of the Emperor’s G’napps table, even as bouncers have their lasers set to Castration. We place our bets and take our chances because we believe there can and will be something better with the next flick of the G’napps.”
“And once the GCU and the Uninet media understands, as we do, what Tryfe really needs? It will be cosmically big. As big as the brands you represent and the reputations you’ve built.” He eyed the faces in the crowd like he was speaking to each one personally. “Under these circumstances, could I be absolutely certain our landmark work on Tryfe wouldn’t unduly influence Underworld voters in my favor?” He shook his head no. “I knew I had to withhold my name until after the elections. I just couldn’t let the shining possibility of my own overwhelming success get in the way of an honest race.”
The cheerleaders cheered and “Awwwwwed.” Rozz just sat back in her chair shaking her head. Bertram’s “Life For Tryfe” protests had clearly forced the guy into some very fancy footwork today. She glanced at the sky again, the sun now well over the horizon, and wondered whether Bertram might not have even more in store for Zenith Skytreg, before the morning was through.
“But now,” Skytreg clapped his hands together, “we move on, to the second thrilling part of our journey—the presentations! And in the spirit of Skorbig Stadium—a location our friends at Alternate Reality kindly arranged for our use today—I thought we’d begin our festivities like the illustrious home team, the Skorbig Ergowohms, once did. The presentation order today will be decided by …” he beamed, “a quadroff.”
Under the delighted “Wooo!” of the cheerleaders, a murmur of excitement and surprise rippled through the audience.
“Mr. T’murp, Ms. Pollux, Mr. Mij, would you come here for your safety gear and join me for the quadroff please?”
There was a rustle of commotion in the DiversiDine section. From the MetamorfaSys Inc. area, Musca Mij flew onto the field in an instant. And Spectra Pollux rose with confidence to join him.
“Spectra, no,” Rozz found herself pleading in a low voice. “A quadroff?! Geez, have you ever watched kachunkettball?” Rozz had taken in at least three different infopill issues of Kachunkettball Hourly during her time at the LibLounge. She would never forget the piece on how Mergle Farcrumple, who played Upper Chucker for the Blumdec Blasters had lost his head, literally, in an overzealous kachunkettball quadroff between his and three rival teams. Rozz didn’t necessarily like her alien “mentor” that much, but she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to see the woman permanently separated from that Brobdingnagian noggin of hers.
Yet Spectra only paused and offered Rozz another one of her little rosebud smiles. “My dear,” she said, “there was a time I found glory and personal balance as a kachunkettball Lower Lobber for the Quad Three College team. I believe I have it covered.”
As she turned away, Rozz wondered whether they wouldn’t be covering that massive skull of hers in an extra-large resealable baggie. It would solve a lot of Rozz’s problems, but still …
The 37 cheered her on with energy.
The kachunkettball field was set up as a center circle inside a larger area shaped like a plus sign. Along each arm of the plus sign, various mechanisms swung into play, designed to catch and rebound the ball. And at the end of each arm of the plus was a goal—a tube that had one input and two branching chutes outward. One outgoing branch led to a net, preventing the ball from going further and thus, securing the point for the scoring team. The other led to an open chute, which shot the ball back out into play. Typically, four teams competed simultaneously, but with just three companies bidding on Tryfe, one of Skytreg’s cheerleaders had been brought in as a fourth warm body in the quadroff.
The presenters each had helpers, assisting them with their safety gear like eunuch slaves to a gladiator reenactment society.
“At the sound of the buzzer, the ball will be put into play,” announced Skytreg. “The first player to command control of the ball will go first. The remaining order will be judged by my charming support staff—” the charming support staff “woo-ed” helpfully, “—for quality of competitive play.”
Strapped and wrapped, Spectra Pollux and Musca Mij stepped eagerly onto their hoverboards in anticipation, and each took up one of the giant ergonomic gravy ladles folks called the “shoop.” Eudicot T’murp, however, had called in a substitute player. This was due to his advancing age and also the fact his Getting Big Yoonies and Figuring Out Where It Goes reps said it was a financial liability to have their leader in a position where large metal objects were flying at his limbs. His spot went to an ambitious DiversiDine exec.
In a moment, the buzzer rang and a ratcheting sound began. This mechanical cracking grew in intensity, echoing across the field until—PA-TONNNGGG! From a round hole in the ground sprang a large, silver sphere. It shot into the air like water from Old Faithful, and the hoverboarding players each raced to catch it and sling it goalward with their shoops.
Spectra made a smooth, well-balanced dive, but it was Musca Mij who tossed the shoop from one set of hands to the other— KONNNGGGGG!—just in time to scoop the ball from the right angle and fling it toward his goal. Along the way it clipped the unprotected ear of T’murp’s player, the poor sod, who toppled off his already-lurching hoverboard. The guy dropped to the ground as the hoverboard whizzed off unmanned.
“Time!” shouted Skytreg, beaming beneficently at the group before him. The buzzer sounded again. “Cosmic! Absolutely stellar! Congratulations to Musca Mij, who will present first today!”
Applause of both the enthused and milquetoast variety rustled through the arena. Musca Mij’s name erupted into a shower of color and lights on the scoreboard.
“And, judges, who will follow Mr. Mij?”
The Charming Support Staff in the front row each pressed a button. The scoreboard flashed a new name on its face in a spray of light.
“Spectra Pollux!” cheered Zenith Skytreg. “So this means, Eudicot T’murp will deliver our third and final presentation of the day. Thank you for playing along!”
The bleeding but still capitated DiversiDine exec was accompanied by six Vos Laegon medics and led woozily off the field into his company’s section.
Spectra returned to her seat winded but with an exhilarated sort of glow. Meanwhile, Musca Mij took the stage, carrying a small, simple case. He pushed a button and a presentation table unfolded. In a moment it projected a pretty 3-D planet into the stadium sky.
“Tryfe,” began Mij, “A world of natural resources, naïve charm and an insulated and unique world culture virtually untouched by the GCU …” He grinned. “Hoo-boy, does somebody need a face-lift!”
“What we really need is a camera,” Bertram mused, pacing the lounge of Rollie’s ship. “Not just any camera. One with a live feed straight to the Uninet, to broadcast everything as it happens. That way no matter what goes down today, the whole GCU would see everything we see. And the truth would come out.”
Bertram had been increasingly worried about just what would happen to him after there was nothing more he could do for his planet. He envisioned himself missing his one golden chance to help Tryfe and billions of humans dying under some alien-inflicted plague or milit
ary invasion. He pictured himself drowning in guilt, unable to disconnect the cognitive patterns associated with being solely responsible for the greatest failure in his planet’s history—failure even beyond past ethnic cleansings, religious wars, and canceling cleverly-written TV series’ after just one season. He pictured himself unable to move forward but unable to ever go back home.
Or perhaps he’d wind up crazed with fear and regret like Major Tom Modean, alternating cheesy come-on lines with half-mad lectures about the merits of Luddite basketry to every four-bosomed woman that crossed his path.
But lately, he’d been envisioning himself nabbed and spending the rest of his days in a GCU prison. Or dumped on Altair-5 along with Rollie, only to be finished off by the living nightmares that lurked at the Tarpits. “If we got it on camera,” Bertram said, “at least our efforts would have meaning.”
“Meaning, yes …” Xylith watched him pace past her for the twentieth time and Bertram could hear a big “but” coming on. “But … don’t forget, with leverage and enough public pressure, we might just be able to get you and your people out of this altogether.”
Bertram gave a bitter laugh. “And that would be great, Xylith, but this is space. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that in space it’s always wiser to plan for everything to get screwed up beyond imagination,” Bertram said.
“Wiser? Well, it would also be wiser to go as far away from Skorbig as possible, get yourself a new holowatch disguise, change your name to Berglat Smiggett and open a booth selling polegrots in the Shop-o-Drome on Golgi Beta,” said Xylith. “But where’s the fun?”
“Where’s the sense of duty?” Bertram corrected.
“Where’s the adventure?” Xylith gave him that flirty gaze again.