This accessory alone paid the bills and then some, but he never felt secure in his fortune. He personally thought his product was hideous, and he often felt guilty for contributing to the degradation of good taste. He wanted to add something good to the universe, something more meaningful than a garment that, even after being removed, left one’s skin with an unsettling afterglow.
He thought for a long while about what people might find useful. It wasn’t until he sat alone at a bar, studying the foam in his beer glass that he found himself wishing he had a device that could show him his future. Then he could know if he ever found a worthwhile idea. He could avoid the dead ends. People would pay a great deal of money to see what lay ahead. If only such a device existed . . .
The revelation hit O’Cyrus so hard that he broke the bar’s record for competitive beer spitting. If that product didn’t yet exist, he would make it. Not only would people be able to improve their own lives, he would be able to improve his own in the process. He would be rich, and he could avoid any harm that might await him.
There remained only one problem. He didn’t know how to make anything that could see into the future. Still, a complete lack of engineering knowledge couldn’t be allowed to stop him.
After several months of drunken fraternity parties at the local engineering school, O’Cyrus had a group of business partners to help him with his project. The students built the device, and O’Cyrus McMillan funded the effort.
Soon the prototype was ready. The tiny chip would be implanted into the brain where it would input data collected from the wearer’s personal time stream. The prototype could only look a couple of minutes into the future, but O’Cyrus hoped the range would improve as they worked to perfect the technology.
The prototype was installed in the minds of 100 test subjects, including O’Cyrus. The first time he saw an image from his near future appear over top the present moment in his mind, he felt both disoriented and elated. Each time he saw one of those future images come to life in his present, he was validated. It worked.
Then he saw an image of himself stepping on a piece of glass. He kept a vigilant eye out for the offending shard of glass, but somehow, he trod on it anyway. The stinging flesh angered him, but he knew this was hardly a massive failure. Merely an inconvenience.
It didn’t end there. Each time he foresaw something bad happening, his efforts to avoid it only seemed to make it come true. Frustration turned to despair as he realized his brilliant gadget was taking into account its own existence when it foretold the future. It predicted what he would do to avoid his fate, therefore guaranteeing that he would live the moment as he saw it.
So, a few months later when he saw himself committing suicide by jumping off the roof of his factory, he didn’t question it. He walked up the stairs and onto the roof.
Just before stepping off the edge and into the arms of death, he thought to himself, This whole thing was a terrible idea.
Within a year, 99 of the original 100 were dead. All suicides.
Only George, test subject 100, could stand the reality of seeing his inevitable future. Curious scientists studied him to determine why he alone could cope. They ultimately concluded that his deep-seated, abrasive cynicism was what saved him. George had always understood the inevitability of the ills that befell him. He predicted gloom and doom before the foreshadower was installed, and with it, he still did. Except now he knew exactly when to expect it.
* * *
Adam dropped to the floor. As he lay there, he should have been thinking about all the bizarre turns his life had taken as of late. Instead, upon finding the remnants of an unidentified beige sauce plastered to his shirt, he spent the time wondering when his kidnappers/rescuers last mopped the galley floor. Within moments of casting his eyes across the tiled surface and seeing the other spots of food and grime, he was eager to be taken prisoner again.
Luckily, the Vaaldeens moved quickly. A battalion of warships surrounded their small ship within a minute. Soon the warm sensation of the transporter overwhelmed Adam all over again.
Having your atoms torn apart and reintegrated twice within a couple of hours can really be disorienting, Adam decided as he found himself lying face down on an entirely different, cold hard floor. His head throbbed from the confusion of it all.
“Don’t move!” a booming voice ordered. The sound rebounded off the walls, indicating they were in a massive room.
Curious, Adam turned his head to the side to get a glimpse of his new surroundings. He noted a vaulted ceiling and ornate sculptures lining the distant wall before George’s voice distracted him. “Adam, you’re about to get kicked in the ribs.”
“What?” Adam demanded.
Then the crushing blow came as a steel toe collided with his ribcage. His corresponding cry of agony filled the room, bouncing back at him just in time to meet the second kick.
“You were warned not to move,” his assailant growled.
“He’s going to kick you again,” George called out. “And afterwards he’s going to kick me for warning you about the impending kick.”
Once again, George’s prediction proved true. A couple of broken ribs later, Adam was pulled into a sitting position. His arms were secured behind his back with electrified handcuffs. Layla and George were placed on either side of him.
“The Great Orator will be in to see you soon,” the cranky guard informed them.
Adam didn’t know much about the Vaaldeens as they weren’t members of the Federation, though he knew from one look at this guard that they weren’t themselves Vaaldeen. That being said, he could determine little else. The round green body, four spindly legs, and single black eye didn’t ring any bells for Adam. Not that this was his main concern. He was far more disoriented by the fact he couldn’t figure out where the guard’s mouth was. He could hear her/his/its grumbling loud and clear, but where were her/his/its vocal cords?
“George, any predictions?” Layla asked.
“We’ll be waiting a few minutes,” he replied. “I see us still sitting here.”
“So, Layla says you have a foreshadower,” Adam said conversationally. “How does that work exactly?”
George turned and rewarded him with a sour look. “It foreshadows the cruddy things I can’t avoid. What else is there to know?”
* * *
Adam’s wrists began to ache as the minutes accumulated into hours. The Great Orator finally came after two hours had moseyed on by. George, of course, alerted them about thirty seconds before he strode into the room with an armed entourage.
Adam rolled his eyes. That foreshadower sure is useful, he thought.
The Vaaldeens that descended upon them were humanoid and stood about eight feet tall. Their heads were shaped like lopsided pears, and their glittering golden skin made them look more like they belonged in a VR game than in real life. Adam wondered if this was their natural color, or if they took the time to apply some kind of body paint.
The flowing green robes set The Great Orator apart from the rest. A plume of brightly colored orange and blue feathers grew from the back of his head. A single blue eye rested in the center of his forehead. It swept over them, and Adam shivered when the eye came to a rest on him. “Welcome to our ship.”
“I thought people only welcomed guests,” Layla replied icily.
“You are guests,” The Great Orator replied. “We simply did not wish to waste precious time negotiating with you. If we tried instead to persuade you to visit us here, we may have missed our chance.”
“Your chance for what?” Layla demanded.
The Great Orator smiled. “We may have missed our chance to elude Federation detection. They’ve dispatched an armada of ships to hunt you down, Layla Garrison. They seem quite determined to capture you, and that alone makes you valuable to us.”
“Are we hostages?” Adam’s voice came out embarrassingly mouse-like, but he didn’t worr
y about embarrassment in that moment. He glanced at George, hoping to catch a hint of what was to come in his face. And he looked in time to see an amused smile cross the man’s face. Could he take this as a good sign? He’d only just met George, so he couldn’t be sure.
“Of course not. One only takes hostages to gain leverage in negotiations. We have no wish to negotiate with the Federation, because we want nothing from the Federation other than Magistrate Bibble’s severed head. I think it would look just lovely mounted to my wall. And as it turns out, you will be useful in helping us get it there.”
Oh. Those words sounded like a perfectly composed symphony to Adam’s ears. He imagined the sight of Bibble’s head speared with a pike and planted outside for all to see and admire before being moved to the seclusion of The Great Orator’s wall. Of course, death and decapitation probably wouldn’t be enough to stop the deluge of bureaucratic nonsense from pouring out of his mouth. Nevertheless, such a sight would make it easier to endure.
Layla’s lips twitched up into a lopsided grin. “I’m listening.”
“The Vaaldeen people have a score to settle,” The Great Orator said quietly. His lone eye narrowed. His plume of feathers spread out, revealing a little yellow eye spinning about in fury within each one. It made his head look like an angrier version of an old-fashioned hand fan. “Though we are not subjects of the Federation, Bibble just ordered our home world destroyed. As of now, our home is wherever our fleet of ships can take us.”
“This is insane,” Adam muttered to himself.
* * *
Defining insanity is about as difficult as finding a good pick-up line at an all-species speed dating session. Just as each race has a different idea about what kind of first impression serves as a suitable prelude to a night of naughty fun, each species also has different rules about defining insanity.
Interestingly enough, human socialite Derrick Hazzard recently adopted the mantra “If you don’t want to join me in bed, you can’t be right in the head.” Since this happened, attendance at his legendary parties has plummeted. It seems logical to conclude that there are a lot of people Derrick Hazzard would label as crazy.
According to the Blurnblott people, refusing to cast yourself into the sacrificial fire after your thirtieth birthday is deemed sufficient for a declaration of insanity. The punishment for refusing this suicidal plunge is, of course, having a close relative forcibly toss you into the sacrificial fire. As this is the case, the state of insanity is short-lived.
The Yako tribes segregate according to mental fitness. The insane supposedly form their own tribes, but instead of being locked away in a facility, they wander freely across the land. The trouble is, if you ask one tribe, they’ll say their neighboring tribe is insane. Go to that tribe, and they’ll tell you the one you just visited was the crazy one. Sanity is therefore in the eye of the beholder.
The Ressilians view insanity as continuing to do things that make you unhappy. Known as the most hedonistic race in the Federation, the Ressilians are also some of the most sought out party planners. (They recently cut ties with Derrick Hazzard for fear his tarnished reputation would negatively impact their economy.) They also define all other races in the galaxy as chronically insane. Why else would the people of other worlds insist on going, day after day, to jobs they don’t like? Why else would people forego spending hard-earned money on enjoyable activities to save for retirement when they can’t even be certain they’ll live long enough to use it? When the Ressilians plan any social event, they do so to give other sentient beings a reprieve from their insanity. They see it as an exercise in compassion. An exercise they’re happy to charge exorbitant amounts of money for, yes, but compassion nonetheless.
As relative as insanity is, one can hardly argue that most sentient species would find Magistrate Bibble’s actions more than a tad cuckoo. If someone trespasses against you in a way you find egregious, you’ll likely label them as being a few candles short of a birthday cake.
So, it could hardly come as a surprise that The Great Orator, head of the Vaaldeen empire, and Adam Evans, a scrawny and insignificant human, agreed on the necessity of Bibble’s demise.
Unfortunately for Adam, he had no idea what The Great Orator had in store for him. As a matter of fact, The Great Orator’s plans could, in Adam’s view, be classified as insane.
* * *
Adam Evans found himself sitting alone in a bar at Jupiter Station. He pulled the cloak forward to conceal his face in shadow. This definitely wasn’t the type of place where he liked to spend his time.
There are a few things everyone should know about Jupiter Station. They will be listed here for your convenience, though it should be acknowledged that life is rarely this orderly and considerate.
Fact #1: Jupiter Station is nowhere near Jupiter. It isn’t in orbit around the gas giant of the same name. It’s not even in the same solar system. It isn’t owned and operated by someone who claims Jupiter as a surname. No one alive today has any idea why or how Jupiter is associated with it.
Fact #2: Jupiter Station isn’t a station. It’s not a space station, nor is it a Department of Interstellar Travel outpost. You can’t catch a train there, or any other mode of transportation for that matter. Which is a shame, because most people who end up at Jupiter Station would be grateful for a speedy means of escape.
Fact #3: Jupiter Station is actually a small drinking establishment located next door to the largest smuggling operation in the galaxy.
Fact #4: Jupiter Station isn’t a legal part of the Federation, though it sits smack dab in the middle of Federation territory. Though the Federation once claimed jurisdiction over Jupiter Station, the persistent number of beheadings, shankings, kidnappings, and various other types of horrifying crimes made law enforcement throw up their hands in defeat. The chief of the Federation police for the district containing Jupiter Station is quoted as saying “This environment is in no way conducive to any form of life, with the exception of the lowest sorts of pond scum that already lurk there. Some places simply are not worth the effort.”
Of course, The Great Orator didn’t share these details with Adam when he made the decision to send him there as an ambassador. “Once you get there, order a drink and try not to draw attention to yourself,” The Great Orator had ordered him. “No one will ID you, so you won’t need to worry about the issue of your official nonexistence coming up.”
Adam knew that he was supposed to meet someone, but The Great Orator didn’t give him any details. He said only that his contact would stand out from the crowd. Of course, the man sitting next to him had a laser blaster surgically implanted where his nose should have been, and an old woman with a pet lizard sat at a small table in the corner. In a normal bar anywhere else, these patrons would have stood out, but not at Jupiter Station.
Then, as Adam took a long sip from his third beverage, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see someone dressed from head to toe in shiny, silver armor. In one hand, they wielded a knitting needle. “Excuse me, good sir, would you like to joust?”
Adam couldn’t take his eyes off the needle. He didn’t have a good track record when it came to dealing with crazy people. “Joust? I don’t have anything to joust with, so I’ll have to take a rain check.”
With a quick movement of his free hand, the knight produced another knitting needle out of thin air and set it on the bar. “Now you have a weapon. En garde!” He crouched into a defensive stance, thrusting his own “weapon” forward.
“Umm, that’s a knitting needle,” Adam said slowly.
“It’s the weapon of choice for my order.” The man’s voice rang out with a distinctive English accent. It felt both stereotypical and unprecedented.
Adam picked up the powder blue needle, though he didn’t feel prepared to do anything with it. “Your order?”
“I am Sir Edwin of the Knights of the Order of Knitting.” The knight poi
nted once more to the needle in Adam’s hand. “Again, would you care to joust?”
Shaking his head, Adam replied, “If you don’t mind, I think I’d rather learn more about you. Would you like a drink?”
Sir Edwin flipped open his visor to reveal cerulean eyes. “As a knight of my order, I am not permitted to partake in the consumption of alcoholic beverages.”
“You’re in a bar.”
He nodded. “Yes. That’s because the only people who agree to joust with me tend to be intoxicated.” He lifted his helmet and pulled it upward, releasing flowing locks of sweaty blond hair. Setting it on the bar, he added, “I also can’t risk jousting in most places. It was prohibited by the Federation, and our order couldn’t afford the legal ramifications. At least here, I don’t have to worry about Federation regulation. Even if they hadn’t washed their hands of this place, the patrons here are unlikely to turn me in. Most of them are running from the law themselves.”
Though Sir Edwin couldn’t have any alcohol, the bartender was able to find an old bottle of sparkling water hidden behind the whisky. He sipped at the drink, which hardly had any fizz left in it at all, and explained more about his knightly existence. “I am a knight because I believe in honor and doing good things in this world. People these days tend to sue you when you do things to help them. They care more about what they can take from you than what you willingly offer. That’s why my order took up knitting. It is a way of passing the time while we wait for an opportunity to do something noble and worthwhile again. We even used to donate the resulting blankets, hats, and scarves to charity. That is, until charities started to demand you only donate factory-made items for legal reasons.”
Though Sir Edwin sounded quite sad, Adam only heard the sound of opportunity ringing in his ears. This was the man The Great Orator wanted him to find. He felt sure of it. “Sir Edwin, I think I have a cause for you.”