Intergalactic Language Mercenary Audiobook

The expatriates began leaving Peitou in droves. For many, it was not the first time a planet had become too developed for them to cope with; they had migrated from Zippon after its drug regulations were enforced. Of course, they had first migrated from Earth—the most regulated planet in the cosmos, next to Yog, a place where you couldn't piss without permission. But most teachers had been gone so long that Earth was little more than a sputtering neuron in their minds. That, they said, was the sign: when a planet started regulating drugs. There might be laws on the books, but once they started being enforced, it was over. If development reached the point where a government was concerned about an individual's abuse of their own body, it was time to migrate. There were other planets to choose from in the Brim system: Mongcut, where capitalism was beginning to take hold. Sadly, it was quickly becoming not just a pleasure planet, but a pleasure-for-profit planet. The natives' thought patterns were shifting from simply enjoying existence to an overwhelming desire for consumer products. Of course, from a language mercenary's point of view, it also meant increased demand for Earther teachers. May bahn fah. The adventurous chose Huki-pine, a fun but dangerous planet that was always at war with itself. It was unstable but exciting.

Pay was low—not because of a lack of demand (like all planets, Earther was essential to enter the galactic economic system)—but because of a poor economy. Huki-pine was a planet of freedom; the ruling party's main concern was staying in power. It had few resources to spare for individuals intent on self-destruction. It was a popular choice for language mercenaries. I had considered Huki-pine. I had enough credits to hire a security force if necessary. Actually, there were laws on the books forbidding almost everything—even prostitution, if you can believe it. But few were enforced. The only laws consistently enforced were those against attempts to kill the President. Anything else was OK.

A few mercenaries chose Junggo. The giant planet was attempting to industrialize despite its overwhelming population. The sheer number of cognizant beings made law enforcement at ground level impossible. There were other choices: the tiny planet Yog—high-paying but extremely restrictive (even drug possession carried the death penalty). And the rocky Sarkar, dirt poor. There was no hope of employment beyond subsistence wage, but the mountains were tall and native attitudes were good—for now. The average teacher had enough credits to live like a king—provided he didn't mind taking a dump outside. I chose a planet in another galaxy. I already knew the first thing I would do when I got there: go to Central Park and look at the Tree—if it still survived. Back to the planet of my birth: Earth.

I decided to head home. I didn't think I would stay long, having permanently activated my adventure gene. I could never again settle for a routine existence. But I was homesick. I had another excuse: I wanted to relocate my harvestclones to Zippon. The ache in my liver from the excessive intox worried me. I decided to grind through another month of teaching my clients how to dominate intergalactic trade. That was about all I would last anyway. I was already bluffing, since my clients had progressed beyond my knowledge in many subjects. I had resorted to teaching the two most difficult parts of Earther for Peitouians: slang and the use of the word fuck. They could not grasp fuck's versatility—a verb and a noun, able to be used anywhere in a sentence. And the meanings varied depending on inflection or the words around it.

Fuck! Fuck me! Please fuck me. Fuck you! You're fucked! I'm fucked up. Don't fuck with me! Fucking right, motherfucker. A good fuck. Fucking fantastic. What the fuck? Fuck, yeah! I glanced out at the class. I could still get some traction out of the word fuck. I said: "Pretend you are mad at somebody. Very mad. Your mother has just been insulted. How would you respond, using the term 'fuck'?" A female in the back raised her arm.

"You should be fucked."

"No, no," I said. Another student raised her hand and stood.

"Be quiet or I will fuck you."

"No," I said. "You are using fuck sexually, not as an insult. Anyone else want to try?" A Peitouian named Golden raised his hand. Six months ago, he couldn't get past 'Hello, how are you?' I pointed, and he stood. He was so short and fat that simply standing up looked like a forward motion. I knew he lived, breathed, and ate Earther culture. It showed. Maybe that was how we would win the invisible war: with saturated fat and cholesterol. Golden pointed directly at me and said:

"Shut the fuck up, motherfucker!"

"Correct," I replied.

Slang was also difficult for them, since it evolved quickly and often made little sense. But they were even starting to grasp that. Maybe my clients would spread my slang far and wide. Since I had run out of words and sayings to teach, I was making them up. "Let's switch to slang," I said. "Monkey sperm! You are all monkey sperm! Who can tell me what that means?"

"I believe it is an insult," Golden said. "Monkeys were a primitive form of primates, of which humans share an evolutionary path. Sperm is the male reproductive fluid of Earth lifeforms. I think you are calling us unproduced offspring of an inferior but similar race, a derogatory term."

I added the term to my vocabulary. "You are correct, Golden," I said. I couldn't pronounce his real name, not having enough phlegm to do so. And I had given up learning Peitouian, as obviously all the natives would speak Earther soon. Peitouian would fade away like the thousands of Earth languages that didn't produce enough wealth, perhaps contributing a word or two before they were relegated to the realm of linguistic hobbyists. I faced the class. "One-eyed tube snake..." I said.

"You've taught us that," the class said in unison.

"Oh. Of course—I was just testing you. What about butt slime..."

And so it went. The month passed like fungus pop through my liver—it hurt. The night of my last class, my clients demanded to take me to dinner. Dredging up what I knew of the local cuisine, I resisted, but they would not give up. I must go, they said. It was tradition. I would disgrace them if I did not. I suggested an Earthling restaurant, but they said it must be Peitouian.

I gave in. I might return in need of income, despite the billion credits on my EarthEX card. Who knew? I was wealthy, but had experienced enough of the universe to know not to assume what was reality today would be tomorrow. Past performance was no guarantee of future results. If I needed a job when I returned, I would need clients. And I could pick up some new slang on Earth; knowing its evolutionary pace, it would have changed dramatically since I left.

So I agreed to the dinner, despite the fact I had barely sampled Peitouian food, relying instead on Earther fast food. I knew Peitouians consumed everything that was digestible. They had already wiped out many species of local fauna in their search for delicacies, and projections showed they would eventually eat every animal on the planet except domesticated ones raised for mass consumption. And when they ate an animal, they really ate an animal. Born of a famine culture, they ate the meat, the bones, the blood, the organs. It was all fungus, of course, but I retained my Earthling dietary prejudices—especially against organs.

We went to a very expensive restaurant. We sat at a table twice the height of other ones, reserved for Earthlings. My clients sat in the gigantic chairs, their legs dangling high above the floor, with pillows so they could reach the table.

Golden filled our glasses with deerpiss, and I suspected his true purpose was to watch me gag—to humiliate the teacher. He was unaware I was well versed in that medium. I raised my glass and gave the traditional toast, challenging all to empty their glasses. "Houuooot uhggpheuuoo," I said, downing the liquid. My clients followed. Golden put his glass down.

"I didn't know you spoke our language," he said. "You speak it very well."

Golden did not know the only words I knew revolved around intox, deathsticks, and drugs. He jumped off his chair and waddled to me.

"I am honored."

He bowed—an easy task when you are a meter tall. I decided he was serious. He waddled to his chair and, with some effort, climbed back up. Each client issued their "Houuooot uhggpheuuoo," and the tube of deerpiss emptied quickly. Golden ordered another. Thank the Supreme Being, because the food was beginning to arrive—I thought the odds of holding it down were better if I had a good prime.

Waiter after waiter brought plates and pots of various sizes, all filled with greyish matter I assumed was food. A large turntable occupied the center of the table, so everybody could reach what they wanted with a spin. The head waiter brought what I guessed was the pièce de résistance, placing a large, covered, metallic soup bowl in front of Golden.

Golden lifted the lid off, and I peered inside. A soggy small monkey head floated in a thick broth, its cranium previously cut open and now held together by string. I turned my head, pretending to look out the window as Golden pulled the string out. The monkey head jerked.

"A delicacy," he said.

"Bing Floom brain. For honored teacher."

He dipped his spoon into the now aquatic brain and ceremoniously handed it to me. I called his bluff and smiled as I swallowed. Only my years of holding back intox that wanted to come up at inopportune times, like during sex, kept the smile on my face—and the putrid morsel in my stomach. "It is delicious," I lied. "Bing Floom must be a popular dish—and very expensive."

Golden laughed, and the others at the table looked at him.

"Excuse me, honored teacher. I must translate for you."

He spat off in Peitouian, and everybody laughed. Golden looked at me.

"Yes, very, very expensive, but not so popular anymore."

He translated what he had said to the group, and the table exploded in laughter. I smiled politely. Golden had learned to read Earthling facial emotions a month ago, and saw my confusion. "Why do you laugh?" I asked.

"It is very, very expensive, but no longer popular."

He was laughing so hard, I scooted my chair back to avoid the mucus. "Why is it funny?" I repeated. He could barely get the words out, tears streaming from his eyes.

"Because that was the last Bing Floom on the planet!!!"

I survived with minimal complications, awakening the next day with only a hangover. The deerpiss hopefully killed whatever alien parasites were lurking in that final Bing Floom's brain. If there were any, good luck—they had no more Bing Flooms to leech off.

I took a hovertaxi to the spaceport. Hovertaxis were a guaranteed adrenaline hit. There was nothing wrong with a natural prime, as long as you lived to tell the story. Taxis flew with a visibility of two meters at incredible speed through amazingly packed airways. How collisions were avoided was beyond comprehension. Likely, they weren't. Taxi drivers had short lifespans on Peitou.

But my driver looked a veteran, face withered and his teeth blue from bugnut. Bugnut was a locally grown seed that had two properties when chewed: it was a potent stimulant and it excreted a thick blue liquid that stained teeth with repeated use. It was popular with lower strata of society; a poor man's loid with dental disadvantages. Like most cabbies, on Earth or Peitou, mine spoke no Earther. He flashed a blue smile as I climbed in, juice coagulating on his chin. The stimulant shone in his pupils; I was in for a ride. The adrenal glands prepared, and I searched for the safety belt unsuccessfully. Needing some security, I bummed a deathstick. Despite my dismal language abilities, there were two survival tools I could secure on any planet. Important ones: a beer and a deathstick.

The trip to the spaceport was short. I saw why my cabby was a veteran, still alive. He jinked and janked like an Olympic hovercar slalom gold medalist. Death was avoided at every turn. I almost renounced my atheism but couldn't remember if I was really agnostic.

I left a large tip; my cabby drooled blue his thanks. I was early but spent my time at the gate instead of the bar. Space travel was no longer a novelty. I had opted for first-class unconsciousness for the trip. Expensive but worth it. My only worry was my layover in Zippon; hopefully they would wheel me to the correct connecting flight. A common urban legend was of Earthlings flying unconscious, to be awakened on some nuclear dump planet in a solar system barely charted. As the flight attendant strapped the inhaling mask over my mouth, the pilot spoke on the intercom.

"I'm Toot Hemmp, your pilot on this short flight to Zippon, with connecting flights to Earth, Jungo, Yog, and Mongcut."

I was sure he was the same pilot that had brought me to Peitou. His Earther skills were approaching mine.

I awoke on Earth, in customs. My attendant smiled when she saw me open my eyes and waddled away. Dizzily, I stood. I had no checked luggage, besides myself. I grabbed my carry-on bags and made my way to the customs attendant. Despite my appearance I was waved through without a glance. Once again I could have smuggled billions' worth of drugs. I stumbled to the spaceport lounge to overcome my confusion. The sleep drug made me groggy, but the strangeness of my home planet contributed.

Earthlings were everywhere; their height astounded me. And gangliness—walking sticks! I felt like the alien, even though I was taller than most. Many were using slang terms I had never heard. And the smell! I had forgotten that Earthlings dosed themselves with sweetened chemicals to mask their scent. It was nauseating. I collapsed in a booth and looked out the window. I could see perhaps a half mile, an incredible distance compared to Peitou. The waitress approached, and I ordered a beer and a porterhouse steak—range beef, no less, despite the cost. The waitress quickly returned with my beer, and I gave her my EarthEx to run a tab. I planned to stay awhile, while my neural routes reestablished themselves.

My plan was to sit until a sufficient prime had developed to cope with this strange world where mammalian stick figures ruled. The steak tasted good; I knew it would after eating fastfood since the Supreme Being knows when.

The waitress wore a holocard on her blouse. She was named after a subdivision of the former nationstate where I landed. I gave Montana a large tip, since she'd given me her phone number. She'd likely questioned my finances and run a credit check. Spaceport food was, as Golden would say, very, very expensive. Montana had treated me at first like space-slime, no surprise since I resembled some. But after that fifth beer, I became the funniest, most exciting guy in the world. I didn't know how rich I was. You didn't keep track of credits on Peitou.

Enough for serious partying there. On Earth, enough for… well, almost anything. Certainly enough for a waitress's phone number. And I hadn't been with a fem Earthling in ages. I stuffed her number in my pocket. Interspecies copulation had a nice ring.

For the first time, I wondered about my contract spouse. I'd never sent communication from Peitou—not even a holocard. A date surfaced in my damaged left brain. I checked my cyberwatch, reset for Earth. Fuck! My wedding contract had a week left. The last thing I needed was my spouse discovering my Supreme-Being-knows-how-many credits and claiming half. Returning before the contract dissolved was idiotic. Then again, human intelligence is overrated—especially mine. I knew her haunts; I'd avoid her. In case I ran into her, I would keep my slime-like appearance to plead poverty. Plus, I was proud of my long hair. Let those follicles roam free.

Another neuron fired: If arrested—not that I planned to be—internal security would run a hair analysis. Standard procedure. Hair was a chemical dump, admissible evidence for substance abuse. Didn't matter if the drugs were consumed light-years away. Nails were also chemical dumps, but courts ruled clipping them violated privacy. Impeccable logic.

What a challenge I'd be if tested! Loids never considered! Pharms made from Supreme-Being-knows-what! Designer brain barrier cruisers! Fryfish! I even had snorted some Kaiju, a newly discovered hallucinogen from the Planet Yog. I smiled at Montana. She was beautiful. A pup tent rose in my crotch. Judging by my autonomic nervous system's visible manifestation I'd sacrifice it all for a fluid squirt.

Harvestclones—that was my purpose. Keep the visit as short as possible. Earth's restrictiveness had cured my homesickness. It was dangerous here. I needed to cut my precious hair. On Peitou, you did as you pleased. Here? Not so much. The solution: Avoid trouble. But I couldn't trust myself. I needed a friend—preferably a well-stocked fem—with scissors, razors, and a wig.

"One more barley pop, Montana," I said. "Honest truth, Montana, I just returned from the galaxy's far reaches. Barely escaped reality's jaws. I have forgotten Earther small talk. You're attractive and I'd like to know you better." Montana smiled a smile Michelangelo couldn't have painted.

"Why else would I give you my number?"

"When do you get off?" She sat next to me and glanced at my pants. My unsolicited erection held firm, which she took as an invitation. It was.

"Half an hour ago," Montana said. A good sign, I thought.

Making the hyperjump while having sex was a new experience and seemingly altered neural routes in charge of such matters. I was a walking hard-on after that. Well, worse than usual. I set Montana up with a dink, a teaching job, and some credits. She didn't need them, though. She quickly became the highest-paid model on Peitou; beautiful, intelligent, well-stocked, Earthling fems were in short supply.

Months passed. Our relationship didn't last. Nor did I want it to, except in friendship and the occasional biological union. It wasn't her; it was me. The break-up hit Montana hard. She had formed a bond that I hadn't, or found easier to break. She pointed out my flaws as a male human: that I treated women as sex objects, that I was a little boy who would never grow up, that I would never be satisfied with life.

I conceded every point. Ook, ook.

I looked up my peer group. Only Gramps was left; I had guessed that would be the case. Shawman had not been seen since eating the fryfish, although rumors circulated he was on the only ship to Hadean that survived. All other ships had mysteriously disappeared. Or dissolved. Sensors seemed to indicate the ships had instantly turned into hydrogen and helium, without an explosion. The fate of the ships was as big a mystery as Hadean itself. Scientists frothed at the mouth at the strange findings; they said no power known to man could cause such a dematerialization.

I had to laugh. Hardy-har-har-har. No power known to man?

Neon was on Jungo. A convert to the Peitouian export religion, he was seeking a purpose. I wished him luck.

Manchild had returned to Mongcut to rule over his subjects. Gramps had recently received a barely coherent holocard. Manchild had declared his island a sovereign nation; he was Supreme Leader and did not allow outside contact aside from beer vendors. And friends. He invited us for a visit, indicating he had found a pair of fryfish and was breeding them for export so that his tiny nation would have income. He sounded happy.

The rest of the peer group was as scattered as intergalactic dust. Which they were. I had no purpose of my own creation, but the Hadean thing was nagging at my soul. Something somewhere was hinting I should go visit. And now apparently Shawman was there. Another clue?

Destiny? Maybe I had no free will. Maybe the Supreme Being desired my presence to ask me about... I don't know what knowledge I could impart to Him. Male bias again. Her? Species bias? It? The only subject I considered myself an expert in was intergalactic beer. But in this universe, who knew what was important? I did know my beer.

My first advice? Beware of Peitouian beer; fungus pop. If you possess a human liver, that is. My class was willing to hire me back; they assumed I had learned new Earther slang with my visit home. I hadn't, spending my stay in prison and the hospital, but was happy to make some up. I saw that I wasn't wasting their time—by teaching them to see the meaning of "piss breath" and related phrases, I was really teaching them to think Earther; to make sense of whatever combinations of words I threw out.

I asked for and received another raise. I looked skyward.

As the weeks dragged on, my sense of free will disappeared. Hadean would not leave my mind; it possessed my soul. It was an undercurrent of thought that interjected itself everywhere. When it appeared during ejaculation, a time when thoughts do not usually present themselves, things became clear: I would go to Hadean.

I rolled off Montana and lit a deathstick. We still saw each other socially. I coughed; my new, pink lungs still had not adjusted to the deep inhalation of a multitude of carcinogens. I could not blame them. Montana did not stir, fast asleep. My snail-brain correlated and sorted the facts. If the Supreme Being wanted me on Hadean, it wasn't for my quick intellect.

The pattern was overwhelming. A free ticket that allowed me to go to Peitou. A venereal disease spelling Hadean on my tubeworm. The hair test results—Hadean again. Shawman taking the only flight to Hadean that survived.

I saw a purpose and it was not of my making. It was clear I hadn't had free will for some time, if ever.

The weeks dragged on, but soon it would be time. One thing about having no free will, or at least the illusion of not having it: you can have a good time. For I was not responsible for my actions. Two quotes ran through my mind, neither from the Bible, although I searched.

One was Gramps's creation. I suspected it was more like an intox-related dyslexic sputtering than wisdom, which, once said, became what he meant to say:

"I'm doing this free of my own will."

But my personal mantra was a line from an ancient Earthling rock and roll band, The Synapsids.

"With no free will there is no sin."

The weeks were a blur—an out-of-focus holovid. A man with no free will is free. The syntactic clutter did not bother me. Nothing did, as nothing was my fault.

Peitou continued to change rapidly. The roads and skies became more crowded daily; even smog glasses couldn’t cut through the haze. The fear came true: infrastructure solidification. Internal security roved the streets, eager to cite passersby for minor insubordinations. Earthlings were still exempt, but there was repression in the clotted air.

Soon, Earther teachers would have to pay taxes. And need a license. Then teachers, including myself—if I stayed—would enter that great database that monitored every action. Like on Earth.

The Peitouian stock market had continued its dizzying upward spiral. I was rich but nervous. I feared the stock market’s infrastructure was solidifying like the rest of society, and soon stocks would be valued for their worth instead of blind speculation. I had enough credits to live off the interest on my interest. Safety seemed prudent. I didn’t want to worry about my money anymore.

I fished through my jumpsuit and found the card Gosu had given me. It was impressive, sweating wealth. The broker’s name leapt from the card, floating above it: Angus. His picture glided just under the name. He had a stern face, short hair, and a cowboy hat. An earring, probably diamond, glinted when the card caught the light. A phone number flashed below him.

I recognized the area code: his office was on Zippon, the financial center of the Brim system. Good. I didn’t trust an Earthbound broker since they wouldn’t be fully aware of intergalactic investment opportunities.

I left the dink. There wasn’t a holophone, and I wanted to see Angus’s face live before I turned my fortune over to him. I took a hovertaxi to the Peitou Hilton, where there were public phones. I stepped inside the hotel and stood in amazement at the opulence. The lobby was immense—acres. There were many open-air restaurants and shops. A live Earthling quartet played forgotten string instruments. In the center stood four glass elevators that zipped up and down like bullets in an electro-gun barrel.

The hotel was filled with Earthlings. They made me uncomfortable. I jogged to the holophones. The doors closed automatically, shutting out all sound. I dialed Angus’s number. He was picky about his calls. The phone asked for access to my bank balance. I ran my card through again. Before I had finished, Angus appeared. He sounded like he was from a 2D western movie.

"Howdy, partner," he said, grinning from ear to ear. He was genuinely happy to see me. Or my assets.

"What can I do for you?"

"I need an investment broker," I said. "Gosu referred you."

"Gosu, huh? A fine ape. We had some good times in school. Nothing I’d want to broadcast, you understand. A friend of Gosu’s is a friend of mine. Or shall we say, a client of Gosu’s is a client of mine?"

"I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it, but you do not meet many cowboys in space."

"Scarce in these parts, for sure. I grew up in Rushite Territory in western A-mexi-can bloc. God's chosen land. What can I help you with, partner?"

The Rushites. That was the religious cult whose members believed nationstates were sacred, and lived at the technological level of that time. Apparently complete with cowboys.

"I want to switch my investments to a guaranteed investment. I realize the rate of return will be just a fraction of what I was used to, but I want no more worries."

"Don’t blame you, partner. Don’t blame you at all. Having all your equity in the Peitouian market?"

He shuddered.

"Would keep even the Supreme Being awake at night, I suspect. But one extreme is as bad as the other, Heaven’s as bad as Hell, if you’re stuck there, ain’t it? I’d suggest diversification. A smidgen of high risk, some low, and lots in the middle."

"No," I replied. "I want it all in a guaranteed investment."

"Ain’t nothing guaranteed in this strange and wonderful place we nickname home, partner. Many intangibles in an infinite universe."

"I want an Earth-based guaranteed investment," I said. "Backed by the full faith of Earth’s economy. Aren’t Earth money market funds secure? I don’t care about the interest rate. Just something safe."

"I repeat myself, partner. Nothing is guaranteed in a universe made of quantum foam. First lesson in business school. Anything can happen. And will, sometimes. Sure, an Earth money market fund is a safe investment. But you need diversification, just in case. The only sure thing in life is death—and even that’s open to debate."

"What about taxes?"

"What?"

"What about taxes?" I repeated. "The saying is 'The only sure thing is death and taxes.'"

"Taxes are a sure thing? Son, you really do need an investment broker. Taxes? Holy Cow!"

All I wanted was to invest my money in Earth. The accounting chat could wait. "What could happen?" I said. "Earth still controls intergalactic trade."

"For now, partner. For now. Things are-a-changing. Oh, it’s a safe investment. But all your wealth? Everything? You know what they say: don’t put all your flavors in the same hadron."

"Not forever," I said. "Just a year or so. Are you telling me Earth will lose economic dominance in a year?"

"I ain’t telling you nothing, partner. Just giving suggestions. If you knew investments, you’d know that Earth is passing through a debris-filled corner of the Milky Way. Lots of big rocks there. Rocks that might wreak havoc with the financial markets. Last time, only dinosaurs had to worry. Maybe some flowering plants also. Not sure. Paleontology is not my strong suit."

"Look," I said. "Earth guaranteed investments. Fixed income only. That’s what I want. It's only for a year or so, I hope."

"OK. And you are right," Angus said. "Earth is the most secure investment in the cosmos. For now. And I’m your broker, not your father. If that’s what you want, that’s what I’ll do. You sure, partner?"

"I’m sure," I said. I didn’t want to worry about my money anymore; I had a more important concern: Hadean. Besides, despite the low interest rate, I conservatively projected I could soon buy the Earth moon. Not that I wanted it. It had been mined to its core.

What did you expect, being so close to Earth?

Hadean called; the signal strengthened every day. BEEP BEEP BEEP. There was no tuning it out. No overt displays had presented themselves of late, thank the Supreme Being, but a neural channel had been carved, causing the mystery to reverberate in my brain. The seed had been planted, and it spread like a conspiracy theory in nationstate times.

Another month passed. The passing time was audible ZIP ZING ZIP ZIP ZING it went. The days flew by. I dreamed Hadean, ate Hadean, defecated Hadean. My brain was capable of no other thought, now that my fortune was safely tucked away. Even Montana was pushed out of my brain.

I quit my job. Everyone should; it is a wonderful, liberating feeling. Nothing beats the first time you forsake guaranteed income and security, except perhaps the second time. Or the third. Probably the fourth, too, but that would have to wait.

I tried to find a ship journeying to Hadean, but found there were none. Since only one ship had made it—and nobody knew that for sure—exploratory journeys had been cancelled. No communication had been received from Shawman's ship; the only thing known was that no sudden increase in stellar fuel had appeared around Hadean when the ship arrived. That the ship still existed was actually an assumption.

To an erect, bipedal, rich, possibly cognizant ape, solutions came as easily as a blink of an eye. I bought a ship, hired a crew, and bought enough barley pop for the journey. It took half my net worth, but, as the saying went, let the good times fester.

Fungus pop was cheaper, but I would be far from harvestclones.

I bought a cyberwatch. An expensive one. I would need all the help I could get with my adventure. It told time in ten thousand time zones, translated all known languages, had a memory capable of holding all Earth literature, could calculate pi to a billion places (an exponential improvement over my last watch), could plot planetary trajectories and gravitational pulls for solar sails, and could even indicate allotted scuba-diving times in various fluids, from hydrogen to H₂O to mercury.

I would have lots of free time on my trip, so I hired a programmer to input Earth literature in case I got bored enough to access it. "Adventure," I said. No response from the watch. Should have had a thesaurus programmed, too. "Journey," I said, louder this time.

The cyberwatch hummed. I pressed for vocal output. In Earther. The watch spoke:

"And not many days after the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living."

Good one. "Source?" I asked.

"It is Luke 15:13, from the Parable of the Prodigal Son, King James Version," the watch said. "St. Luke? Explain?" I asked.

"The Bible," it replied.

Another good Bible quote! Perhaps infrequent, but again relevant. My watch beeped. I looked at the screen. My retina scan had cleared; the ship and accessories were officially mine. Good thing, too. Twenty minutes later my bank balance was zero.