There Goes the Galaxy

by Jenn Thorson

  What he’d crashed through, he saw now, included an array of kachunkettballs, hearty metal spheres rusting where they stood. And next to them, Rollie grabbed up and swung one of the ladle-shaped shoops. It was bent beyond proper use but retained a good grip.

  Enough. Time was wasting. He searched for the door, then turned, then turned again. There was no outlet but the way he’d come in. Yet he could hear Tstyko and the others with agendas, clamoring down the narrow maze of halls his way.

  He paused one Deltan second—long enough for anyone from the Hyphiz System to make a passable decision—and moved to the objects he’d spied in the corner.

  They were official championship-sized hoverboards, used by the team’s most dexterous and diversely talented players, the Upper Chuckers. The hoverboard offered this position a whole extra level of play. The team not only counted on the Upper Chuckers to keep the balls in motion for above field activity but also tasked them to prevent these foot-and-a-half wide metal spheres from raining suddenly on their teammates below.

  A kachunkettball to brainpan meant quite a bit more than a GCU-sized headache. And in mani-ball mode, you’d better hope your Upper Chuckers had sharp eyes, deft hands, and a ready steel umbrella.

  Rollie turned on one of the hoverboards and it whirred weakly. One of its jets was set at an odd angle, and the power pack was low. He turned it off and tried another. That casing was good, the jets were a go, but the power pack was dead as an Altairan exile. He tried a third. Better power, but a cracked casing and some strange whir.

  Keeping an ear on the approaching onslaught, he pried open parts and pieces of seven such hoverboards with swift, nimble fingers, clapping together the best of the best like the world’s most frantic, unleisurely puzzle. He doubted the compilation board had enough juice to get him back to the ship. But, like life to-date, Rolliam Tsmorlood was willing to take it as far as it would go.

  Igglestik Tstyko was not remotely out of breath and could easily have run the length of a dozen more subterranean sporting labyrinths, with lungpower to spare. The key was pacing, he considered. You start out at Windsprint, proceed to Blindingly Fast and then give it that extra push toward Sonic Boom right at the end.

  Physics, however, dictates that the faster you go, the harder it is to dodge large, unexpected flying objects coming at your head from the other direction.

  At first Tstyko wasn’t exactly sure what launched toward him. It seemed to be some blurred assemblage of black elbows and knees and what might have been flapping leathery black wings. But whatever it was had matched Tstyko’s speed if not his direction, and it skimmed the ol’ brainbox so closely, it nipped off Tstyko’s RegForce helmet and a few yellow curls, to boot.

  The force and surprise of it found him relocated lengths away and half-inside a locker. Based on the shouts and clattering down the hall, it sounded like Mook and the assortment of completely unnecessary interlopers had encountered the living projectile, too.

  Good on the interlopers, Tstyko thought, exiting unsteadily from Locker 12 and revving himself up from Surly Sulk to Stellar Speed in seconds. Impeding an official investigation is bound to result in bystander injury, he lectured internally. An important lesson for them.

  But if justice were to be served, every moment counted. And these people would have to learn, RegForce time couldn’t be wasted on frivolous things like peeling yourself from the pavement or un-jamming your ankle from your ear.

  The ICV was quiet. Bertram Ludlow perched on the edge of the copilot’s chair, glued to the view of the stadium outside. What was taking so long? Where was Xylith? Where was Rollie? Why weren’t they back yet?

  And why wasn’t Bertram in there helping them?

  He stood up. “I can’t stand it any more. I can’t sit here and let them take on the RegForce themselves. A lot of this is my fault. I should be there.”

  “Your fault?” In the other room, O’wun snickered from behind an old hardback book he’d found wedged between some seat cushions. He brought it with him absently, as he leaned in the cockpit threshold. “Bertram, it’s the Captain. If it weren’t this, it would be something else. Rollie Tsmorlood’s only happy if he’s active in the Underworld. The only reason he’s never run for Skytreg’s job is he hates titles and feels the Underworld should be more individually-driven.”

  Bertram said, “O’wun, I think it’s gone beyond politics this time.”

  But O’wun laughed. “Friend, it’s tripping in politics. Rollie’s got this idea there’s not as much value in undermining GCU authority if the Underworld has a hierarchy, too—and right now, Zenith Skytreg is the highest arc in that hierarchy. Rollie wants to reform the whole Society. I’m surprised you never got a lecture on it.”

  Bertram did recall Rollie saying something about it in the Podunk bar, but Bertram had been concentrating on his own mental illness at the time. “Okay, well … Xylith, then,” Bertram persisted.

  “She’s another one,” O’wun continued. “Xylith’s perfectly willing to get involved in anything that gets her out of her Citadel for a while.”

  “Look, just because—” He blinked. “She has a Citadel?”

  “Well, not hers. The Empress’.” At Bertram’s blank expression, the Simulant gave a well-programmed sigh. “Xylith’s the only female progeny of the Dootett Empress’ over-brother’s under-cousin. She has a title and everything. ‘Her Mostly Elevated Demi-Scintillation,’ I think they call her.”

  Bertram recalled the image on the Dootett coin. “I thought there was a resemblance.”

  “She gets bored,” explained O’wun. “That’s how she fell into the whole illusionism and sleight-of-hand niche. A little hobby so she could slip out for some non-Imperial me-time.”

  Bertram was seeing the invisi-suit with all new visibility. “She did say she played Vos Laegos.”

  “Now she leverages her skills for the Underworld. A huge embarrassment to some of the Imperial family, of course. But the Empress likes her, so she gets a free pass.”

  From the pilot’s chair, Rozz snickered. “Geez, Bertram, sounds like your new friends really know how to party.” The words had barely left her lips when movement outside caught her attention. “And it looks like the party is on the move!”

  Out of a far corner of the stadium, banging up through a maintenance cellar door, Rolliam Tsmorlood emerged in dramatic but not-so-grand style. He was crouched on a thin flying disk. It wobbled erratically and in bursts, soaring, sinking, blasting out smoke, and lurching upward again. The Hyphiz Deltan clung and balanced feverishly, like a gymnast-turned-rodeo rider determined to make jet-powered mechanical bulls the next big thing in public transportation.

  “Lower the ramp, lower the ramp!” Bertram shouted at no one in particular. He scanned the buttons, levers and the thing that went “bip,” his hands wavering to take action. Yet when confronted with the control panel, from button to “bip” he realized he was no closer to figuring it out than the last time. “Where the hell’s that remote gone?”

  Sizing up the system, Rozz’s voice held a note of surprise. “Hey, isn’t this a Protosta—”

  But O’wun reached over her to address the issue. There was a hydraulic shoosh and the ramp began its descent.

  Bertram leapt from the copilot’s chair and ran to the ship’s hatch, to see an unending stream of life-forms bubbling up from the underground in pursuit. W.I. Tstyko, swift stride and lasers drawn, was unable to target Rollie’s hoverboard in its erratic flight. W.I. Mook followed Tstyko closely, weapon in one hand and voice projection device in the other calling orders. MetamorfaSys Inc. bodyguards, too broad and weighty to keep up effectively, were still trying hard to earn their pay. Stadium security guards, who hadn’t seen this much action since the final game of the last at-home kachunkettball series, moved along with the throng. And two life-forms with their realtor, in the market for a piece of sporting history, had arrived at what was fast-becoming a really bad time.

  Meanwhile, from the gates poured a flood of gr
aceful Vos Laegons in kachunkettball cheerleading uniforms, two of whom held tight to a struggling Xylith. Behind them wandered the gaggle of bewildered marketing executives, who seemed to be wondering where any of this was detailed in the How to Gain Pals in Cosmic Commerce handbooks. And just beyond the stadium, the media and law enforcement from a dozen neighboring worlds were trying to find a decent place to park.

  Bertram drew the hand-laser Rollie had given him, uncertain where to shoot.

  By this time, Rollie and the hoverboard had jolted, lurched, soared and sunk several hundred yards, up and around the weather-worn In Memorium statue of Mergle Farcrumple of the Blumdec Blasters, and had almost made it to Ticketing.

  The Vos Laegons, meanwhile, had begun to sing a haunting native lullaby. The music moved slowly across the Skorbig Stadium grounds, enveloping it like a heavy fog. The chorus of voices were painfully beautiful, enchantingly strange, and a whole lot more impressive now that they weren’t singing out hastily-written lyrics about Underworld politics.

  Bertram felt the familiar tears begin to stream down his face, but there was more to it this time—so much more. His heart began to thump a frantic thrash metal beat. His knees went weak with cold terror. His entire body broke out in icy sweat. Soon gravity pressed down hard, while his breath was being squeezed out of him. In a moment, Bertram Ludlow had lost his footing and was sliding down the ICV’s ramp to the weed-strewn parking lot surface.

  On the hoverboard, Rollie held tight another fifty feet, grappling desperately to the machine before the effects of the Vos Laegons were too much for him, and he lost grip.

  Down, down, he dropped hard onto the rusting wire frame of a long-dead topiary in the shape of a flying ergowohm. Dust, rust and pollen kicked up in a cloud around the fallen figure. The hoverboard splash-landed in a nearby decorative pond, small fizzles of electricity fingering the surface.

  The Vos Laegons surged forward with fluid confidence, no longer in any particular hurry. Their song rang out with inconceivable purity, layer over layer of harmonies and movement.

  Teams of law enforcement from the other planets were arriving in formation and promptly dropping like rocks, incapacitated in an instant by the Vos Laegons’ song.

  Bertram saw it all from his spot, slumped on his side at the base of the ship’s ramp. He had no strength but to stare.

  And listen: footsteps! And feel it: movement! Yes, O’wun was there now, efficient and unmoved by the drowning waves of music—the advantage of being Non-Organic and also preferring the Luddite folk scene.

  Bertram felt the man’s Simulated hands grab his own non-simulated arms easily. He felt the world dip as O’wun slung him over a shoulder, crouched again for Bertram’s dropped weaponry, and marched back to the ship. As he was stepping over Rozz’s prone form in the threshold, a slight switch of the wind carried the music new directions, dispersing the sound. It wasn’t much, but it was reprieve enough for Bertram to manage, “Free. Xylith. Get. Rollie.” Even yet, it was hard to think clearly, but Bertram knew he had to try. “Let’s do. The Underworld. Proud.”

  O’wun smiled, dumping Bertram in the doorway with the sprawling Rozz. He then disappeared to do as asked.

  Rolliam Tsmorlood didn’t know the phrase “give up.”

  Actually, that wasn’t quite true. He knew it in Dootettish, Alpuckese, Mathekite, Calderian, every language in the Hyphiz System—even Tryfan Chinese, Spanish and English. All learned the backspace way, gum-free.

  Just not Vos Laegon.

  Translachew did devote gum to the language. But it tasted horrible and why bother, when Rollie was already reasonably fluent, and all he really needed were phrases like, “One Carsoolian Vodka, please.” Or: “Where are the Simmiparlors? I’m looking for a date.”

  It worked just fine until now.

  Now he was regaining his breath from a considerable fall and preparing to say something flip and memorable to Skytreg and his flock of showbeings. Skytreg was even expecting it; it was written right into the Underworld Society Membership Agreement:

  Members of the Underworld agree to confront adversaries in potential life-threatening situations with commentary that is both flip and witty, optionally containing catch-phrase potential to be trademarked at a future date.

  But language failed. Those Vos Laegons packed a walloping a cappella.

  Hyphiz Deltans, spry as they were, held up better than some species against it. But it was still like slogging through muck to try to sit up, a struggle to make even well-trained muscles obey the will, and almost impossible to see through his watering eyes.

  Slowly, he managed to swing one leaden leg over this wire creature he’d landed on. Slowly, he realized O’wun was running to help. And too soon, he realized O’wun had stopped, and the “zot!” noise that had flared at them wasn’t just another Feegar Rebellion post-traumatic stress flashback coming on. It belonged to a real-life weapons discharge hitting something.

  “O’wun?” Rollie managed. His Simulant friend was frozen in place, with surprise creasing his brow. There was the smell of charred nanotechnologies and steaming polymers. Gray fluids dripped down his neck from a hole that went clear through his cheekbones. Sparks flew. Bits sizzled.

  Rollie winced. Sorry, old friend. O’wun needed far more technical help than Rollie could give. Yet there was no time to dwell.

  The Deltan struggled to slide from the back of the wire frame creature but paused, looking down. He recalled this particular odd physical sensation from past battles, getaways, and one very spirited life-merger ceremony. But he was hoping to deny it as part of the Here-and-Now.

  There was no denying the hole in his coat, though. Or the amber liquid sticking to its lining, rapidly slicking his shirt and trickling down his waist. It clung to his skin as his chest burned like fire. Wet fire.

  Looks like Tstyko bagged himself a two-for-one.

  Breathing hurt more than Rollie remembered from past laserings. And the world was quickly becoming wrapped in a thick soft fiber before his eyes. He wondered which heart, which set of lungs, had taken the hit. Some vital organ was clearly going down.

  Why hadn’t Tstyko just full-on fragged him? Set lasers to Demolecularize and been done with it?

  Ah, but that wasn’t regulation, was it? Killing him now would be on the RegForce’s heads. But send him to Altair-5 and they could blame it on the daisies.

  He numbly patted at a pocket and remembered, through the growing fog, that Bertram Ludlow still had his tissue reparation device.

  He felt his knees buckle under him. He hit the ground hard, took a moment for the waves of pain to subside, and then began his struggle for the ICV ramp.

  A loud voice projected over the singing: “Rolliam Tsmorlood, this is the Hyphiz Deltan RegForce.” Rollie worked to raise his head, which felt liked it weighed more than a whole ICV. There was a figure before him.

  Boots.

  Gray trousers, yellow piping.

  A broad jacket with bright, shiny buttons in honor of years of exemplary service.

  And a face that looked like a very disappointed Didactics professor, peering down on the worst student in his career.

  In other words: W.I. Mook, with soundproof headgear.

  Mook motioned to Tstyko who busied himself quite happily by clapping Klinko brand Wrist and Ankle Boundary Determinators onto Rollie’s unwilling limbs. All four of the devices glowed a bright effective green. Then he motioned to the Vos Laegons to cut the musical interlude.

  Tstyko grinned down at Rollie, tugging on the hobbles and shouting, “I bet you know where you’re headed, don’t you? Well, I’ll give you a clue: it’s most certainly not the purple sand substitute of Blumdec!”

  “Tstyko, the earplugs?” Mook gave an indulgent smile. “Take them off.”

  Tstyko must have lip-read. “Oh! Yes! Righty!” Still beaming, he slung off the headset and said, “Now I know what you’re thinking, Tsmorlood. You’re thinking you’re rather badly wounded and likely won’t make it through t
he next hour, let alone all the way to Altair-5. But don’t you worry.” He patted Rollie’s shoulder. “Our ICV has all the medical equipment we need to have you healed up and feeling sunny for a really cosmic exile.” He stroked his chin. “You know, for the few minutes it lasts, anyway.”

  With this, Tstyko rose, removed a little device from his pocket, and marked off, “Taunted prisoner in a sadistic yet light-hearted way” from his Apprehension To-Do Checklist.

  Mook began: “Rolliam Tsmorlood, you are under official Hyphiz Deltan Regimental Enforcement Squad apprehension for offenses proven to span GCU planetary and quadrant-associated borders. Thereby, as the legal enforcement from your planet of origin, we take you into custody on behalf of those systems.

  “You are charged with unapproved premature liberation from a GCU penal colony, premature liberation from a Podunk Confinement Center, assault on Podunk law enforcement, destruction of a Golgi Beta moon polyp stand, impersonation of Crater Club personnel, holding reputable members of the intergalactic business community hostage, destruction to a historical sporting landmark, theft of a private property hoverboard, and resisting apprehension. This is in addition, of course, to the charges associated with a 300 U-year sentence to be served for—” He looked flushed and winded. “Oh, nevermind, we simply haven’t got this kind of time.”

  He offered an apologetic smile to Zenith Skytreg, Eudicot T’murp, Spectra Pollux, and all his brethren in the various local law enforcement agencies, many of whom were just now peeling themselves from the ground. “Thanks very much for all your help. Er, I am sorry if it put you out at all.”

  Considering they all looked like mootaab toasties that had been landed on by an ICV in the middle of a picnic lunch, Rollie thought weakly that it probably had.

  Good.

  Mook dragged Rollie to his feet, as new pain shot through the Deltan. Mook turned to his partner. “I’m just going to tuck Captain Tsmorlood into the ship before he completely drains out on the pavement. In the meantime, W.I. Tstyko, if you would be so kind as to ask Mr. Ludlow to come down here a moment?”