Unfortunately, there are the Voorpret themselves, easily the most problematic species encountered by the Alunizar, Utorak, Keshet, and Yüz ships that poured out of the surprise wormhole nearby. They were the last accepted into the Great Octave after the war, and only by a single vote. It is difficult enough to accept magenta algae or gas-filled balloons or computer code as living, sentient, valuable entities, without having to get your head around anything as instinctively repulsive as the Voorpret. You cannot, technically speaking, see a Voorpret. You cannot smell one or hear one or taste one or put one in a cage. And if you’ve touched a Voorpret, it’s already too late.
A Voorpret is a virus. Simply the most successful viral outbreak in the history of the galaxy, infecting, replicating, mutating, spreading, and absolutely liquefying their hosts since before humans ever imagined that oversize frontal lobes were this season’s must-have accessory. In the halcyon days of their youth, the Voorpret were a humble hemorrhagic fever originating in the rain forests of Fenek’s northern hemisphere, toddling about learning their pathogenic ABCs, killing proto-primates and ungulates far too quickly to become a pandemic to write home about. But they mutated, and replicated, and learned, as life has a tendency to do, and since the dull, brown giant sparrows at the top of Fenek’s unsuspecting food chain had barely mastered subtraction, they had little in the way of virology experts, vaccines, or affordable treatment options, and the Voorpret had all the time in the world to reign in their adolescent hormones and graduate into a lucrative career in what polite society calls “soft real estate.”
Once a Voorpret infection occurs, the virus fully inhabits the host within a few hours, resulting in lesions, fevers, hair loss, bleeding from places no one is meant to bleed from, chunks of liver shooting out of the eyeballs, total annihilation of personality, the usual horror-movie floor show of symptoms. The invading Voorpret reservoir can and does work the unfortunate body like a marionette, speaking, dancing, using tools, building a civilization. They are the hand within the glove, the kid underneath a sheet on Halloween yelling to anyone who will listen that he’s a really real ghost and he’s gonna get you. There is no cure. The Voorpret consider immunological research to be a declaration of war. Death follows within a week or so. But death no longer presents any sort of roadblock for the Voorpret virus. They continue to squat in the empty corpse as long as decomposition can hold the ligaments together, dispersing to new digs only when the old ones have soupified into a chunky stew.
Voorpret civilization is the most hideous gentrification project undertaken since the yuppies took over Alphabet City. You can’t see a Voorpret, technically, not without a microscope and a hazmat suit, but you can see the skin it’s in, and you can absolutely smell it from three planets away. A Voorpret is just the shambling corpse of whomever it infected last. They aren’t picky, jumping from species to species with a vaudeville smile, a high kick, and a tip of the putrefying hat. It would have been an easy call to wipe them out. In the which-of-us-are-people and which-of-us-are-meat equation, a cheerfully rapacious zombie virus with a fatality rate of 99 percent and a total disregard for the bodily autonomy of anyone anywhere seemed, on paper, to fall safely in the meat column. Contaminated meat. Do not consume.
Except that the Voorpret turned out to be really rather good at the whole civilization thing. Yes, yes, they obliterated the natural biodiversity of any region they touched, but wherever their infection took hold, they opened a lot of delightful bistros and shops and start-up tech companies with whimsically casual workplace environments and fusion food trucks and artisanal blacksmithing co-ops and performance-art spaces. Crime rates fell drastically, since everyone was Voorpret and the Voorpret were everyone. And wherever they went, good, accessible public transportation followed, because after a few months, corpses start to have real trouble staying ambulatory. Oh, the Alunizar wanted to exterminate them. The Smaragdi offered to open up a few choice moons for colonization if they’d agree to do it. Despite the shameful behavior of the foreign invaders, the Sziv begged the Utorak to rid them of the zombie menace. Even the Klavaret were willing to look the other way.
But you’ve just never had better coffee than the fair-trade organic late-harvest darkest of dark roasts at a Voorpret espresso bar. And you don’t nuke that sort of thing from orbit. It’s just so hard to find a good cappuccino when you’re traveling.
But there are limits to how far anyone will go for a functional public transport system and locally sourced pastries. After Vlimeux, everyone demanded a separate treaty for the Voorpret before they would even consider letting them into the new spheres of galactic influence. The Voorpret would agree to infect only willing hosts, nonsentient species smaller than a breadbox, or the freshly dead, providing the recently deceased had filled out his or her or its or their or zir or ghuf’s organ-donation card beforehand in front of two notarized witnesses. Any unauthorized outbreaks that could not show paperwork would be instantly sterilized. The zombie planet would have to behave itself, and share its recipes, or be quarantined.
As a result of this agreement, rents in Voorpret-adjacent zones soared. The down payment on a new studio body with low wear and tear, fresh paint, and all the amenities shot through the roof. The elderly, terminally ill, bored, or risk-prone sentient being could name their price. Yet most galactic citizens remained nervous about visiting Fenek itself, despite the thriving theater scene and delightful nightlife. While love and peace may come to exist between wildly disparate members of different kingdoms, orders, and phyla, very few are willing to meet up with a walking, talking syphilis infection for coffee, even the best coffee in the universe, unless it’s in a public place close to their own flat with lots of friends around and easy exits.
Yet, it could not be denied that the Voorpret band Applausoleum had handily won the twenty-eighth Metagalactic Grand Prix with their darkwave prog-grunge power ballad “I Can’t Get No Liquefaction.” It’s really next to impossible to stay on key with a half-decomposed larynx and a moldering diaphragm, so Voorpret music takes the form of a genetically modified worm, about the size and shape of a dragonfly larva, dispersed into the audience via sprinkler system, trendy vintage beers on tap at the bar, silver platter passed among the paying public by attractive ushers, or T-shirt cannon, depending on how posh the venue. The little creature burrows down into the auditory orifice and vibrates to the tune of the composition, eating sadness, excreting euphoria, and laying its eggs, which, when hatched, will depart unobtrusively while the fan sleeps the night off, carrying the genetically remixed song to new hosts everywhere. The Voorpret refer to the peak of their artistic expression and cultural contribution to the galaxy as tiksliai, which translates roughly into English as “earworm.”
But between Applausoleum’s triumph and the twenty-ninth Grand Prix, set to rock the stage at Shady Meadows Crematorium, the Voorpret had risen quite a bit in the ranks of the great galactic popularity contest, in the same way that any unpopular, unattractive, unhygienic child does—by finding someone weirder and more off-putting than themselves to point at.
That someone was Flus.
The Slozhit thrashfolk silkstep trio Porchlight picked up Flus on their tourship’s long-range scans coming home from the previous year’s Grand Prix, where they’d placed a wildly unexpected fifth. Their replay of the GP mixtape and celebratory orgy was rudely interrupted by a surprisingly strong radio broadcast pumping out Top 40 hits from the planet they would come to know as Muntun. Muntun’s Top 40 hit songs, however, were all the same song, and that song was called “Flus,” which was also the name of the radio station (FLUS FM: Your Home for Rockin’ Drive Time Flusic), the building that housed the station offices and studio, the street the studio was on, the city through which the street ran, the sandwich on the DJ’s desk inside the recording booth, the DJ himself, the intern who brought him the sandwich, the studio boss, and the star around which all the rest of this nonsense was currently orbiting, blasting out a repetitive three-chord screamo chant that went:
It is awesome to be Flus / If you are not Flus, you are not awesome / and will promptly be consumed / also your children and pets / Go Flus go / Flus the world / Flus it so hard / Then go back / and Flus it again.
It was a one-hit wonder. But on Muntun, one is all you need.
Any attempt at describing Muntun’s dominant species is probably best kept simple and direct—one word, if possible, and that word is “knifeasaurus.” They were all called Flus, which might have been a first clue, except that the Ursulas were such upstanding members of society, and they all had the same name, so it didn’t do to be prejudiced, thank you very much. Hive minds have proven to be a perfectly good way of solving the intractable issues of universal health care and basic income. This Flus fellow seemed like a real piece of work, as reported by the Slozhit and researched by the Keshet, something of a cross between Hitler, Stalin, and Bono with low blood sugar, who had been terrifically successful in taking over the planet some years back, but one couldn’t possibly judge an entire species based on the actions of one person. Muntun was a huge planet. Surely they had pacifists and philosophers, too. There’s always bad sorts. There’s always terrors. The Smaragdi pointed out that the Alunizar emperor Ompelu8 once enslaved the air itself and they still got to choose what to watch on telly once in a while. The citizens of Muntun couldn’t help that they’re knife-faced horror-lizards, admitted the Klavaret. They were individuals. They weren’t all like that just because one was.
Alas, they were all like that.
Mainly because the original Flus had broken off from the collective consciousness ages back, conquered everything he could get his blades on, and replaced the local gene pool with his own personal microbrew, so not only were they a hive mind, but they were all clones as well, and Muntun was, in point of fact, Planet Hitler, 100 percent populated with telepathically linked, genetically identical, sociopathic knifeasaurus dictators. Upon first contact, they perkily informed their helpful Grand Prix chaperone that she would soon become Flus, as would her children and her children’s children down unto the uttermost end of time, and would she like a Flusburger, there was nothing better than a Flusburger and a Fluscone on a hot day like this one.
This might seem like an obvious case, ready for a fiery death and subsequent Binning, but there was always the Voorpret. They had been brought into the fold, had they not? And how different was a Flus infection from a Voorpret infection? Besides, Flusburgers were actually delicious, and the planet as a whole had a real passion for painting landscapes and architecture, and even if Flusscapes were a little anemic and cold for galactic taste, a good gallery scene and public funding for the arts should count for something, shouldn’t it? They did manage to live together rather peacefully for billions of egomaniacal dictators. It had been a hundred years since the last Muntun war. The Great Octave congratulated itself on being so open-minded as to let Planet Hitler sing a nice little song before they defended themselves against that mess. They all agreed it was truly wonderful that they’d learned such valuable lessons from the war, and weren’t they all proving to be just fabulously enlightened these days?
The Mamtak Aggregate won the GP that year for the Trillion Kingdoms of Yüz, a silicate particulate cloud made of millions of individual tiny beings that sang by releasing synesthetic pheromones and then forming themselves into complex pictures in the air. The sensorially addled audience would then hear the images as song. The effect only lasted a few weeks, which always provided an enormous boost to photography exhibitions once everyone returned home. Their song of longing and peace and tender care for all living beings, “I Wanna Hold Your Sand,” topped everyone’s list of best Grand Prix songs for years afterward, and the Mamtak Aggregate went on to become one half of the beloved master of ceremonies team that hosts the Metagalactic festivities in true post-postmodern style to this day, along with the dry, self-deprecating wit of the Elakh soprano DJ Lights Out, winner of the forty-first Grand Prix for her immortal torch song “The Dark at the End of the Tunnel,” sung via uplink to the beat of poor Sagrada’s carpet bombing by the Andvari, a species of furry armored slugs whose recreational drug of choice is pain and fear, and did not go entirely quietly when they lost the thirty-eighth Grand Prix after eating half the judges and calling it a song.
The Alunizar actually came in the middle of the pack for once with “Don’t Hate Me Because My Culture Is Superior to Yours,” but mainly because the Utorak had declined to attend due to an argument with the Trillion Kingdoms of Yüz over whether or not any silicate portions of the stone Utorak anatomy that crumbled away should be swept up and tossed out or had inalienable citizenship rights among the intelligent sand dunes of the Yüz and therefore forfeited their place.
When Flus took the stage, all fell silent. The various committees had done everything they could to make him feel comfortable, friendly toward his new neighbors, secure and well liked. They could do nothing more to help. He had no costume. He had no set. He had no fire effects or lightning displays or gravity projections. These things were unnecessary when you were a two-ton dagger-tailed illustration of the concept of solipsism. He hated all this glitter and fuss and lurid, flashy, terribly suspect stuff. All you needed to be truly entertained was yourself, a military uniform with clean, masculine lines, an unwavering loyalty to the collective, and the suffering of anyone not yourself. He had seen no point in a band name as all was Flus and Flus was all and everyone here would be Flus as well, momentarily, once he could get a bead on how their weapons systems worked, but, when pressed by the Keshet and Alunizar judges, begrudgingly wrote down Flusloose on the form. Flus stood center stage, the footlights glinting on his bladebody, and proceeded to atonally scream-sing by grinding the knives of his face together: It is awesome to be Flus / If you are not Flus, you are not awesome / and will promptly be consumed / also your children and pets / Go Flus go / Flus the world / Flus it so hard / Then go back / and Flus it again / back up over it / put it in gear / hit the gas / once more with Flus / Go Flus yourself / No but actually.
It was the only song he knew. The best song. The song of himself. Flus had written it, composed it, sung all the vocals, played lead face on the track, produced it, mastered it, and designed the album art all by his billions of selves. It had gone infinite platinum. Twice. What could ever be better than Flus? A bunch of sand in the shape of a heart? Yeah, right.
Why were they not clapping? Why were they looking so bloody damn sad? Why were they so obstinately not Flus?
Flus was still asking himself this when the first Alunizar gunships descended into low orbit around Muntun and their shadows darkened the seas.
20.
Love in Rewind
“Wait!”
The voice of Decibel Jones echoed down the fluorescent black coral hallway, disturbing the chartreuse cilia wherever it bounced.
“Wait! Öö! Little buddy! Oh, that’s probably racist, I’m sorry. Sir. Sir Öö. Wait. Good God, you’re a quick little rotter. Shit. Sorry again.”
The time-traveling red panda paused in his epic battle with staying on his own four legs and not spending his entire life arse over teakettle and peered up, deeply annoyed, into the Englishman’s eyes. Those eyes, as black as stout and the Styx, were almost as vulnerable and needy and yearning as any Esca’s.
“Whatwhatyouwhat?”
“You Keshet, you travel in time, yeah? That’s what the bird said.”
“You know, that’s very rude. Rude and just weird. That’s like me saying, ‘You humans, you reproduce with a uterus, yeah?’ And you’d say, ‘Yes, I suppose, but hell, Öö, when you say it like that, it just sounds gross.’ ”
“Right, sorry again. But you do?”
“Yes, for God’s sake.”
“And you see every timeline, all laid out like taxes, every single way every single everything could ever or would ever go?”
“This is pornographic, Mr. Jones.”
“And you went rummaging through timelines on Earth and whatnot? You had to, to get Walter o
ver there in the engine room his leg over, yeah?”
“Please stop. I have to go. I . . . I left the Industrial Revolution running.”
Decibel Jones, glitterpunk saint, sinner, and siren, stared down at the plush red creature wringing his tail between his hands in abject embarrassment.
“I was only wondering . . . can you tell me where I went wrong? Please. Everything was so good, everything was like Elmer finally catching Bugs, and it was like that over and over for months and years . . . and then it wasn’t . . . I had something and then all of the sudden I couldn’t ever, ever get it back, but it’s like I couldn’t tell the difference between the day before it all got its face bashed in and the day after. When did I fuck it up? Was it that night? Should I have said yes? Should I have kissed her until she stopped crying and then ordered room service? What should I have done different? There had to be a moment . . . a moment when I could have kept it all together, but I didn’t. I didn’t.”
Infinite timelines and possibilities unfolded in the eyes of the Keshet like points on a map of the galaxy. Grids and branches and forks and veins of mathematical destiny, flashing away into the dark like spent sparklers on a deep summer night in someone else’s childhood.
Öö patted Decibel’s knee.