"How about 'Yo, lizard!'"
Scott frowned. "Would you respond if someone put up a message that said, 'Yo, babe!"
Daphne straightened. "You think I’m a babe?"
Scott smiled. "Why don't we say something like: 'Hold off on the troll's picnic--we need to talk.'"
"That'd do." Daphne slipped into a chair in front of the control console and reached for a keyboard. "I think I'll go ahead and scroll it on all channels. There's no telling which ones the lizard gets."
Within moments, they heard a familiar voice. "You called?"
Scott and Daphne looked up at the bank of TV monitors. The powder blue lizard wizard occupied all of them. Daphne stared back down at the control panel. "How does he do that?"
"Later," Scott said, then faced the lizard. "I'm going to check on our friend in the janitor's closet. I'll be right back." He slipped a video disc from the desk and stepped into the hallway.
The lizard squinted. "Where's he going? I thought you wanted to talk."
"We do," Daphne said. "But we don't have much time. We hoped you could help us get our jobs back. We had to break in here just to talk to you."
Suddenly, Scott dashed back into the control room, slammed the door shut, and locked it. He turned away from the lizard and winked at Daphne. "Murchison's loose." He dragged a desk in front of the door. "The cops will be here soon."
The lizard blinked. "Murchison? Cops? I don't care about cops, or jobs. All I want to know is have you figured out how to preserve my frequency?"
"No," Scott said, "but we've thought of something even more important. If you keep broadcasting on our frequencies, the commercial interests here will want to tap into your market."
The lizard frowned but remained quiet.
"Once they get a toe-hold, it won't be long before they take over the whole thing. Your friendly little Public Access channels will be squeezed out. You'd get nothing but game shows, soaps, and reruns of 'Bewitched' and 'I Dream of Jeannie.'"
The lizard looked stricken. "Garnefel will have me stuffed!"
"Too bad," Scott said, "especially since Daphne here could probably find a way to block the signals that're cluttering your network."
"She could?" The lizard's eyes grew wide.
Daphne squared her shoulders. "Sure, no problem."
"Unfortunately, she hates Public Access," Scott said.
Daphne touched Scott's shoulder. "Do you hear sirens?"
"What's wrong with Public Access?" demanded the lizard.
"Nothing, provided you like banal programming executed with an utter lack of originality. That's all you can expect from amateurs." She sighed. "Without a knowledgeable director, the big networks will eat you up."
"A director? Then what would be left for me?"
Daphne laughed. "You'd be the big shot--the producer! Your job would be to wander around looking important, entertaining royalty--"
"Discovering new talent?" suggested Scott.
Daphne shot him a look.
"But how could I lure a director away from one of the big studios?"
"A promise of wealth would do the trick," Scott said. He cocked an ear toward the hallway. "Uh oh. Hear that? Cops!"
"But I don't have great wealth. We don't care about that in our world!"
"Then you'd need to find someone who had to leave for other reasons." Daphne looked at Scott. "Someone with the skills you need and no reason to stick around here." She frowned. "Those are definitely footsteps. No doubt about it."
"It sounds like an army out there!" the lizard said.
Scott nodded. "They're almost here. We're sunk." He looked at the lizard. "You, too."
"Maybe not." The lizard's image faded from all the screens but one. He began to trace smoky runes in the air. "Can you step a little closer?"
~*~
Though he agreed to having his name stenciled on the back of his canvas director's chair, Scott refused to wear either the beret or the scarf the lizard offered him. On the set of his latest dramatic effort, he winced as a buxom blonde elf muffed her lines for the twentieth time.
"Listen, Galadriel, trust me on this. Blanche Dubois would never throw pixie dust in Stanley's face and fly away--honest!"
Daphne stepped behind him and put her hand on his shoulder.
"Take five!" he yelled.
"Tough day at the office?" she asked. "I thought this is what you wanted."
He smiled. "It is. I hope I wanted the right thing." He put his hand on hers. "Were you able to fix the transmission problem?"
She nodded. "Yep. We can turn off the signals in either direction any time we want. Oh, and the lizard showed me how to peek in on what's going on back at the cable company."
"Who cares?” Scott said. “We're safe here. We've left the old lives behind."
She stepped around to the front of the chair and sat in his lap. "Then it doesn't interest you at all that I saw Bertha in Spinaldi's office? I think she was auditioning for something."
Scott laughed. "They deserve each other. The only thing I regret is not being able to bring along a copy of the Stormtrooper spot."
Daphne shook her head. "You'd take a chance on letting the lizard see it?"
"Sure. I just wouldn't want him to hear it, again."
~End~
Double Eagle
Politics is supposed to be the second-oldest profession.
I have come to realize that it bears
a very close resemblance to the first. --Ronald Reagan
Florence Banister nervously fingered the good luck charm in her pocket, a souvenir from her teaching days. She wondered how she could have been stupid enough to believe she needed more out of life than a simple lunar retirement. How could she have let herself be talked into running for mayor of Asimov Bay? The race for the biggest job on the moon's largest settlement represented six of the most grueling months of her life.
At least it'll be over tonight, she thought. All that remained of her first foray into politics was the final indignity, which she would have to endure seated next to her opponent, Donald "Soft Hands" Rizzo.
She nodded to a technician from the colony's fledgling TV station, the only other early arrival for the council meeting. Though the campaign had pushed her to the brink of exhaustion, she somehow managed to appear calm and rested. She harbored no misconceptions about her thin facade. She merely prayed no one else would notice.
Rizzo. Just thinking of him angered her. While she struggled to get by on a teacher's pension, he lived in luxury, his wealth coming from a variety of questionable enterprises. Like many others, she saw the election as a battle between cash and character.
She raised her head to a commotion at the door. Rizzo had arrived, flanked by an entourage of council members. Florence glanced at the technician to see if the broadcast had begun, but the camera's red light stayed off.
"Hiya, Flo," Rizzo said, extracting a toothpick from serpent lips. "Ready to concede?"
"No," she said. "Are you?" Even his smile is oily.
Rizzo laughed. "Nah. I'm havin' too much fun."
Wally Futtrell, the outgoing Mayor, gaveled the special meeting to order. He delivered his opening remarks as soon as the technician signaled they were on the air. The Earth-born expression remained in use though the moon clearly had no air. Florence forced herself to concentrate on the proceedings.
"This has been a tough campaign." Futtrell spoke to the camera. "And, as we all know, the election ended in a draw. That's never happened before. But tie votes are nothing new to this council, and nobody's ever complained about how we handled them." He looked at his fellow council members. "I propose we settle this the same way. What's the difference?"
Florence got to her feet. "The difference is, your job's not on the line. I want a recount, not a coin toss. Settling a council vote that way may be fine, but an election? No. There's no precedent."
"President? I thought we were runnin' for mayor!" Rizzo rotated his considerable bulk toward the six council me
mbers, and guffawed. Florence answered with a scowl.
Futtrell stammered. "But we've always settled things this way--it's tradition!"
"It's silly."
"It's guts," Rizzo said, pointing at Florence, "and you don't have any! Who wants a mayor like that?" He slicked his shiny hair straight back. Light sparkled from his pinky ring.
Florence sat upright and smoothed the hint of a wrinkle from her modest, blue pressure suit. "People don't want leaders who take foolish risks."
Rizzo grunted. "Look, lady, some things are just naturally risky. Ya gotta have guts to be the boss."
"I'd prefer brains."
"Enough!" Futtrell said. "Let the council decide. All in favor of a coin toss, say 'aye.'"
The council voted unanimously, if not enthusiastically.
Futtrell produced a silvery coin known to everyone as a "Lunar Eagle." Bearing an image of its namesake, the Apollo 11 lander, the coin was designed for tourists and made from locally mined ore.
He flipped it without waiting. "Call it!"
The spinning coin floated lazily through the air, drifting away from Futrell and toward the candidates.
"Tails," Florence said.
The coin bounced high off the floor and continued to spin. On its second approach, Rizzo slid off his chair and stomped it.
"Move your foot, please," Florence said.
"Sure." Rizzo cracked his knuckles. "But what do you say we make this a little more sporting?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, since this is for an election and all, why don't we make it the best two outta three?"
What's he up to? Florence considered the idea. It reminded her of the tactics employed by some of her former students--not an entirely unpleasant memory. "Oh, all right," she said, though her position lacked conviction.
Rizzo lifted his foot. "Tails. Oh, too bad. Ya coulda had it all!"
Florence squeezed her eyes shut and clenched both fists as the gravity of her mistake hit home.
Rizzo scooped up the coin, fumbled with it briefly, then tossed it again, very high. "Heads," he said.
Wait just a darn minute... Florence looked quickly around. Rizzo seemed entirely too confident, and the others had begun to act almost apologeticly, as if they already knew the outcome.
He must've switched to a two-headed coin! "Soft hands" Rizzo, indeed! Just look at him grin.
Florence prepared to call attention to the switch, when she realized that if Rizzo got to the coin first, he could just switch it back. If she got to it first, they'd claim she made the switch and was trying to cheat.
So be it. She slipped the good luck charm between her fingers. When Rizzo's coin came up heads, she grabbed it before he could. Palming Rizzo's forgery, she flipped her good luck charm instead, spinning it fiercely. "Tails!" she said.
The coin seemed to float forever in the low gravity. It bounced lazily off the floor several times and finally rolled to a stop at her feet.
Rizzo didn't bother to look at it. "Better luck next time," he said.
"Thanks for being such a good sport," Florence said. "It's tails."
Then Rizzo saw it. "It-- I-- You--"
"My thoughts exactly," she said, as she pocketed the two-tailed, good luck charm. She waved to the camera on her way out.
~End~
Head Game
What a wee little part of a person's life are his acts
and his words! His real life is led in his head,
and is known to none but himself. --Mark Twain
Chaz felt his dream dissolve. The place, the woman, the orgasm--and what an exceptional orgasm!--drifted into oblivion, replaced by the output from Ship's systems check. Red highlights pinpointed the item requiring his attention. Ship wouldn't have roused him if normal maintenance routines could have handled it.
He dimly recognized the problem area, a temperature probe in the damned cargo bay. Who cared about the temperature--frozen is frozen, and space was the most reliable source of cold anyone could ever want.
So, why did Ship wake him? He checked the mission clock and discovered he was only seventeen days out. Seventeen! Did Ship expect him to stay awake for the whole bloody flight? Three years? He checked the time, too: 1700 hours. Weird.
Ship should've been checked to the Nth before they loaded the first kilo of cargo. He thought through the sequence which activated the log. Ship would detect his mental commands and execute them. He prepared to make an entry that would cost some dirtside wrench jockey his job, then decided against it. Better to investigate the glitch first.
Prior to departure, the handlers always stabilized the cargo. Anything organic had been put in stasis, just like his body, immune from the effects of time and weightlessness. It had taken ages to become accustomed to simulated sensory input, but now he had become completely comfortable with it--a far cry from the early days of training. He appreciated the hard-edged inputs he got from Ship, especially the entertainment data. If his face had been working, he would have smiled.
Chaz called up a schematic of the hold. Having the image available made it easier to think through the command options. Some engineering genius had decided not to build the temperature probe into a redundant system. But, then again, the damned thing didn't even have moving parts. What could go wrong? Delegation being limited with a crew of one, Chaz opted to use the mule.
Designed for odd jobs and handiwork, the mule came equipped with an assortment of sensors and attachments. Given the proper commands, it could test the temperature anywhere in or out of Ship, splice wires, patch holes, or boil and peel eggs, assuming there was someone around to eat them.
The mule responded to his summons and rolled obediently down the starboard access ramp toward the hold. Chaz activated its camera and instantly enjoyed a mule's-eye view of Ship.
When it reached the cargo bay he checked the area's ambient temperature and compared the results from the error-flagged probe. They matched.
So, what caused the problem--something in the code? He didn't relish the thought of wading through line after weary line of commands to find the one that might be screwing up the flight. But, then again, that was why they paid him so much money--more than enough to buy Jennine's contract and marry her. There'd even be enough left over for them to go somewhere and actually enjoy life. For that, he agreed to fly one of Long Haul, Ltd.'s freighters.
Arguably the loneliest job in the galaxy, Chaz felt pride as a freighter pilot. He was good at it, maybe more than good--maybe the best. And not because of any single skill. Utility seemed to be his greatest asset, according to the tests, and God knows, he took enough of them. When the company announced his signing bonus, it was the largest in company history. Long Haul, Limited, didn't trust their ships, or their precious cargo, to just anybody.
He called up the index to Ship's systems software and zeroed in on the routines he needed. Some idiot had added an instruction to wake him at 1700 hours after seventeen days. It had nothing to do with the probe! Chaz seethed. When he got home, he'd add a code monkey to the ranks of the unemployed.
He almost deleted the offending line, then realized he'd need it as proof if he had any hope of bringing someone up on charges.
It bothered him. Why 1700 hours? Why seventeen days? Why not two, or two hundred? Though significant to him, the number wouldn't mean anything to anyone else. His birthday was April seventeenth. He'd been seventeen when his parents died, and he joined the army. He'd met Jennine on the seventeenth of May and proposed, for purely sentimental reasons, on the seventeenth of December.
He rechecked the index list, counted down to line seventeen, and found the routine for the temperature probe. The accompanying comment said merely to "check notes."
Whose notes? Where? He’d seen no remarks in the material he'd reviewed previously. He accessed the program notes, thousands of pages of computer-generated documentation which may or may not have been updated when the code geeks finished tinkering with the programs. Nobody liked documentat
ion.
On a hunch, he pulled up the contents of the seventeenth sub-heading and found a note.
Chaz,
If you're reading this, it means I'm right, and this isn't just a nightmare. Don't trust Long Haul! The bastards are cheating on the contract. They're mucking around with our memory. They can't risk removing long-term memories, or we wouldn't be able to run Ship. Instead, they remove anything new--anything that happens on a mission--then they adjust Ship's clock and relaunch. God only knows how many trips we've been on!
It feels funny writing to myself this way. This flight’s about over, so I don't have time to write down everything I've learned, or how I figured it out. Besides, you'll have to get some of it on your own or you won't believe it. I'm hoping by starting earlier we--I? You?--can figure a way out.
--Chaz
The note bore a date almost three years into the future. Insanity! Long Haul couldn't remove memories that precisely, there'd be too much to take out. Unless, of course, one slept through most of the trip. Damn! He was getting tense. He had to relax, had to think clearly. Could they keep someone in the dark like that? A pilot could go under, at will, after pre-selecting the dreams to be experienced, and live out a succession of fantasies while the freighter plowed through space. He'd never have to know what really went on.
Could it be true? Maybe. But would they do it? If Long Haul was using him, over and over, then it could have been ten or twenty years since he last saw Jennine. She could be....
Gripped by the cold agony of emotion with no outlet, Chaz forced himself to consider the possibilities. Was the note genuine? There were some strange people among the ranks of programmers, but he'd yet to meet anyone sick enough to try something like this. He discarded the notion of a hoax, but reluctantly. My God--don't let this be true!
For comfort's sake, he called up the video image of himself, stretched out in the stasis chamber, his head obscured by the pilot's hood where his brain and the direct connections to it were shielded from the stasis field. Since the image never changed, he rarely looked at it. Nor did anything appear wrong this time. He examined it carefully to be sure.
The connections to the hood included life support for his brain as well as links to all Ship's control systems. The handlers always administered a nerve block to the pilot as part of flight preparations. He'd never be bothered by the need to blink, or frown, or scratch his nose. For all practical purposes, those functions had been disconnected.