Intergalactic Language Mercenary

I had thought about becoming an intergalactic language mercenary for years. Perhaps it was time. Earth's recession was hitting home—my home. Pounding at the door like internal security. That was my excuse. Not a bad one, either, it being true. Excuse my language, but futhark! Even Erotica pills stretched the budget. My contract spouse's voice emerged in my head.

"No Erotica pills? FUTHARK!! That's the last straw!"

I didn't point out the obvious. She was young, brought up in a world where babies came from test tubes, and the only animals that remained were domesticated, genetically altered foodfactories, fed their nutrients through a tube. That man was an animal seemed as impossible as a clear day. I couldn't blame her. There weren't many reminders that humans were animals. Maybe we weren't anymore. We had come, we had seen, we had conquered. But poverty wasn't my true problem. I was bored. Futharking bored. While I never seemed to catch up with the ever-increasing life-extending technologies—every time I found a new way to abuse my body, they found a cure—it felt like my life was passing me by.

Whiz, whiz, whiz. Not that I was old—a robust ninety-nine in Earth years. Half the way? Oh, an organ had failed here and there, but my harvestclones were healthy. My nanomachines worked around the clock, chomping away at the sticky plaque the deathsticks and cow flesh caused. I contained the new model: self-replicating. Probably would live long after I died. If I ever did. Who can tell nowadays? It used to be a sure thing, I'm told. I swear I can feel those impossibly small machines roaming my circulatory system, munching away, fulfilling their programs. Happy little critters. Plenty of food; I do my best. Oh, to have a program, a purpose!

Credits were low. My salary had not kept pace with inflation, and my various vices were an eternal drain. At the very least, teaching Earther, Earth's global language, would increase my income. Plenty of demand, if you were willing to leave the solar system. Besides the high wages, my friends had beamed me that you had lots of free time. Working hours were half the average Earth four. Twice the pay with half the work. My peer group had made the jump. Not to a well-developed planet like Zippon—the closest thing to civilization in the Brim system. Zippon required a contract, stability, and a work history. Even job skills. Thus, the peer group was on Peitou. On Peitou, everything was illegal but nothing was against the law.

Quitting my job at the insurance company should be easy. I was in charge of bodily injury settlement AI programs that argued with plaintiff bodily injury AI programs. The company kept me around to brag about having a human in the system. I couldn't decide if I wanted to make the jump—a cockroach trapped in the light, knowing the boot was coming down. High pay, adventure, and travel versus boredom, health insurance, and retirement benefits. A harder choice than it sounds.

I was resting in my workpod, my mind flip-flopping like that last dolphin in an illegal drift net, when my watch beeped and the holo light flashed. Hmmm. Maybe my contract spouse wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. I aimed at an empty space between two supercomputers and activated the hologram.

My peer group filled the room, sweating profusely, obviously in a hot, humid climate. Their clothes were alien, except for my friend Neon, in khaki shorts and a ragged t-shirt with the cartoon character Heehee Dildo. I didn't recognize one male Earthling with long, blonde hair. He stood in the back and seemed to flicker during the broadcast. Gramps, a friend since cognition reared its ugly head, spread his arms like a perspiring Jesus.

"Presenting… The Peer Group. Direct from the Brim System"

Gramps took a swig from a bottle of the alien brew called "deerpiss," then passed it around. I knew that smell, that rancid taste. I blew a week's wages on a tube in a desperate attempt at communion with my faraway friends. Intergalactic imports were expensive, but I had good credit.

That night, I primed myself with intox for bravery, since deerpiss was only available in a part of the megatropolis that lacked internal security. The aliens didn't worry me; the humans did. The area was known as "spivland," home to a large concentration of poor, chronically unemployed, drug-abusing, uneducated, violence-prone locals - spivs as the demographic group had been labeled long ago, back when nationstates existed.

After much searching, I found a store for Peitou expatriates. They often pooled resources and bought an intox or grocery store. Strange carcasses, covered with flies, hung in the window. I cupped my hand to see inside. Short creatures buzzed about, smoking deathsticks. Lighting a fresh deathstick to join the club, I stepped inside.

As I searched among the alien products for deerpiss—I knew it came in a tube with an alien ungulate on its label—the locals pointed at me, spouting syllabic nonsense and hooting while flinging mucus far and wide. I assumed they were laughing at my height, as the aliens averaged one meter. Smiling, the intergalactic ambassador, I walked into a low doorway and knocked myself out.

I woke to what I thought was the taste of vomit on my lips. I opened my eyes. The storekeeper was squatting over me—or maybe standing—pouring liquid into my mouth. I recognized the tube.

"GOOD FOR HEART!" he said in broken Earther. So I knew both deerpiss's scent and its repercussions.

The peer group pranced about, eyes revealing other substances likely not known to Earth science. Always the biochemists those boys. Gramps, de facto leader, said, "Perception is as important as reality. Ask any schizophrenic you happen to see."

He smiled and motioned me to follow by curling his index finger. The deal was done. I had my purpose. Accessing my keyboard, I typed seven characters, including the space. Capitals seemed appropriate.

"I QUIT."

I would become a mercenary.

An intergalactic language-mercenary.

My step was light as I walked, emancipated, into the afternoon haze. A symbolically clear day. I could almost see the sun. I was halfway to the maglev subway entrance when I realized, in my newfound freedom, that I had forgotten to cream up. I reached for solblock, then stopped. My new life would be one of risk. I could survive some ultraviolet. Soon I would be rid of this festering orb—if I mangled up the credits. It was in God's hands. If He was actually out there and had forelimbs.

Spivs filled the maglev. They behaved on the subway because of internal security's presence. One spiv wore a Ziebrig shirt; probably inherited. I remembered SkyBattles but was double his age. spivs could barely afford lifepills, let alone harvestclones. A spiv would be lucky to reach my age.

Bang, a natural plant-drug, circulated. It was illegal, like all pleasure drugs except deathsticks and intox, but its use was so widespread it was ignored by internal security. I accepted a microbong hit. What the futhark? No more hair or piss exams for me. The chemical's successful crossing of my brain barrier set me thinking. Why were all pleasure drugs except deathsticks and intox illegal? A dim neuron flailed—something to do with vestigial laws from nationstate times.

The journey under the megatropolis was short, dilated by my artificially induced happiness—a prime, as such brain states were called. I bought a swig of intox at the barcar. You know: when the going gets prime, the prime get going. I reached home early. No contract spouse to deal with. The retina scanner read my vein pattern—always a comfort. Once again, I had not had a stroke. I swore I could feel the heat of the red laser beam, but knew it was just my prime monkeying with my perceptions.

Perception is as important as reality

Maybe. The door clicked open. I stepped inside my dink—slang for a microcondo. The spouse had left it on bedroom. What a heathen. I stood in the secure zone and pushed for living room. The bed disappeared, replaced by couch and holoset. I checked my cyberwatch. The significant other would be working fastfood for another hour.

I switched on the news. Life is full of coincidences. Maybe. Perhaps it is full of infinite inputs and you only notice the ones that are important to your current state. It was a special on interplanetary economics, focusing on the Brim. The Brim system was a collection of planets undergoing an economic boom. Primarily export to Earth, but they were developing commerce between themselves. They were discovered less than a century ago. The existence of sentient beings besides Earthlings — sentient was being generous, in my opinion—was the greatest news story since the fall of nationstates.

The world stood in awe. Scientists raced to study these unknown species. So much to learn! Good and fine, but not very profitable. The Brim inhabitants were primitive, having just discovered the wheel and metal tools. Later, archaeological digs showed that the planets had been stuck in a cultural circle. Technology had advanced to an industrial level several times, only to be dragged down by the demands of traditional culture. Or:

they had nifty religions but no holosets.

The planets were a scientific wonderland. Calls were made to limit contact so the beings could be studied, like that tribe in the Amazon that lives behind the Hilton resort. Science was great, but businesspeople saw something else: profits. Completely new markets. Leaders realized the Brim planets could be exploited in stages—nurturing progress, bringing them through the industrial age, then the information age, etc. Laws were passed to maximize the exploitation, but businesspeople couldn't resist breaking them. Making a profit is, after all, mankind's best skill. Or second best, after killing. Obeying laws is way down the list.

High technology leaked to the Brim planets at a rapid pace. It is still a time of transition, where a man who tilled his floop (a rice-like fungus) with his qewn (a beast-of-burden, a cold-blooded oxen with eight legs) went home to watch ancient Earthling 2Ds on television. Few anticipated the ability of natives to duplicate technology. They were reaching the stage where they weren't copying anymore—they were bettering. And exporting. Where?

Guess.

But for all the Brimmers skill to understand technology, there was one aspect of Earth society they couldn't grasp. An important one, if you planned to make business contacts with the planet with all the money. Earth. Full of Earthlings that spoke Earther.

Brim languages didn't even have an alphabet; instead, they were composed of alternating hoots, singing, and guttural phlegm-clearing sounds. Earthlings found the alien tongues almost as difficult to master as Brimmers found Earther. Not that many Earthlings cared. No, the Brimmers had to learn Earther. Some Earthlings learned some Brim system languages and a few adopted Brim religions. The dogma from Peitou was popular, probably because it avoided the pretense of a Divine Being who held you accountable for faults He had installed. I could rapport with the concept, and would have converted if I gave doodly-squat for anything beyond my next barley pop. Earther was a conglomerate of countless ancient Earth tongues that had merged during the great global integration, it evolved faster than a virus on the planet Mongcut.

Earthlings were in high demand. What Brimmers called "native speakers"—someone raised on Earth. Including irresponsible, lazy, pharm and intox abusing slugs like my friends. Especially them, since few Earthlings would live on Peitou because of the conditions. The news ended with a segment on the planet; how its stock market was doubling monthly. I took it as a sign from God; or perhaps The Flow, as Earthlings called the Brim belief of a cosmic force. But hyperspace tickets were expensive. I had quit employment; I couldn't even make the next mortgage payment.

I looked for pawnable items. A used holoset with a holophone feature. A set of worn gravifurniture—might be worth something. The couch was hovering close to the ground, though. That was it. My cyberwatch. Not much. I took the watch off and laid it on the table. My contract spouse would need something to pawn for the mortgage payment. No. She could sell the dink. There was a million in equity. I owed her that. She had, like all my spouses, put up with a lot. I was done with spouses. If I could overcome the biological urge to stay on my planet, I could resist the need for permanent female companionship. Besides, I didn't have time to sell the dink. I was afraid I would back out of my decision, like the clay ape I was. Perhaps I could finance the jump by maxing plastic. I requested an advance. Predictable. The contract spouse had me to the limits. I wouldn't miss financing her habits—intox, bang, pharms, loids. Or mine, come to think about it.

But there was little choice there.

No job, no credits. Like a newborn. Or a spiv. I noticed something on the table. It was a brochure advertising the "Travel Adventure Vacation that's Out of this World." I didn't remember seeing it before. The paper felt oddly slick, the colors just a bit off, like it had been printed in a hurry. Strange coincidence, it was about The Brim System. Where had the brochure come from? The contest for a free first-class ticket was splashed across the front in a garish, desperate font. I entered by scanning the form with my phone, half-expecting a virus or a pop-up ad for discount organ harvesting.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. I yelled, "Open." A man stepped in. He was wearing a suit that looked like it had been rented for the occasion, and his smile was just a little too wide.

"Congratulations," he said, voice a shade too cheerful.

"For what?" I replied.

"You are the winner of a first-class ticket to the Brim System."

"What?"

"You are the winner of a first-class ticket to the Brim System."

"I heard you the first time."

"Didn't you enter a contest for a first-class ticket to the Brim System?"

"Yes, but just a few minutes ago from a suspicious brochure." He didn't answer, just kept smiling. I watched his eyes. They didn't blink.

Minutes later, my account was credited. I thought about leaving my fem a note but dismissed the idea. I signed the dink over to her. I didn't need it. I was leaving the planet of my birth. Not just the planet of my birth, but where my species had evolved, where it was designed to exist. From the first amino acids floating in God's Chicken Soup, the entire evolution of lifeforms had developed in response to Earth's environment. Thoughts raced. Was it right to desert the planet which had so carefully nursed my lineage along through billions of years?

Sure was. I was out of here.

Zippon was the first stop; the wormhole exited close by. From there it was a shuttle to Peitou. I had friends on Zippon—my respectable ones—but I had no desire to visit now. I couldn't afford it, anyway. It was a very expensive planet. We weren't allowed to consume anything before the jump because of some safety rule. When we landed, I went directly to the bar. I had a two-hour layover; four and a half Earthling, according to my cyberwatch. The shuttle itself would only take an Earth hour; Peitou was currently close to Zippon. All Brim planets existed in contiguous orbits. The system was remarkable in that it possessed a dozen planets that fit the picky criteria life demanded. Astronomers said there had been many collisions between celestial bodies eons ago, but things were stable now. In a million years, Peitou's slightly wobbly orbit would cause a collision with the largest planet, Jung-go, but nobody at the present time was worried.

I didn't want to be sober when I reached Peitou. I almost brought pharms to confirm my prime, but I was nervous about customs. Zippon was tightly controlled and I did not want to spend time learning the intricacies of their legal system firsthand. The bar was unmanned; rows of vending machines lined the walls. Running my EarthEx through the scanner, I ordered a local beer. Despite mankind's faults, it must be congratulated for its development of credit cards which allowed peons like me to live beyond their means. At least temporarily, until the bill arrived.

Opening the beer, I gagged at the stench. But knowing the alcohol content, I forced it down. Once olfactory senses were eliminated, it was smooth. I looked about. The bar was filled with a circus of races. Bipedalism was the rule. I recognized several species. There was a group of Peitouians in the corner, chain-smoking deathsticks, Earth's top export to Zippon. The Peitouians continually filled shot glasses with a thick liquid, holding them up as they repeated some phlegm-laced chant. Then they emptied their glasses.

Naturally, there were many Zipponians, all dressed in Earth-like business suits, complete with vests. Their sight was almost familiar since they had the greatest amount of contact with Earth. They were taller than their cousins from Peitou but shared an evolutionary background. At least that was my impression. Zipponians denied any connection. They claimed the proximity of planets had caused parallel evolutions. The cognizant species from Mongcut seemed to be the domestic help, cleaning cluttered tables swiftly with their four upper tentacles.

A local sat next to me at the bar. I smiled at him. He sucked in his flat nose in return. I went back to my beer. He stood, bought the same beer, and returned. He flipped the pop top with one of his fingers—if you could call them that—and took a drink. Seeing I was watching, he emptied the can and wiped his flat face, nose withdrawn, with the back of his hand.

"BEER GOOD, SHIT NO?" he asked. I made a mistake. I smiled at his Earther, then corrected him. "'No shit,' not 'shit no.' You said it backwards." He made a guttural apology, bowing forward.

"THANK YOU, THANK YOU. YOU MOST BEST EARTHER TEACHER. NO SHIT."

I apparently had a friend for the rest of my short stay—or my life, whichever came first.

"YOU TEACHER ZIPPON?"

"No. Peitou."

"Peitou? NO SHIT? WHY?"

"Why not?"

"HA HA HA. FUNNY JOKE. NO SHIT? WHY?"

Because.

"HA HA HA HA. FUNNY MONKEY. REASON FOR TEACH UGLY PLANET?"

"Not monkey," I said. "Ape." I wiggled my butt. "No tail."

"OH," he said. "THANK YOU."

He pulled a small notebook from his vest pocket and scribbled furiously.

"YOU FUNNY APE. YOU REASON FOR TEACH UGLY PLANET?"

I again corrected him. "Do you have a reason for teaching on an ugly planet?" He shook with excitement.

"OH, OH, OH. YES. I SO STUPID. YOU SAY AGAIN?"

He took a small recorder out and placed it on the bar. "Do you have a reason for teaching on an ugly planet?" I repeated. I looked for an escape. The other stools were suddenly filled with Zipponians, listening intently. All placed recorders on the bar. It struck me. I had a skill up here, an intangible one I took for granted. I was giving it away for free. I emptied my beer, belching. My new fans chuckled; I had no way of knowing that I had just said I wanted sex.

"I HAVE SISTER. TRADE FOR EARTHER..." one said, thinking I spoke his tongue. He must have mistaken my look of confusion for one of anger. Human faces are difficult to read, or so I'm told. He held his globular head in his hands and turned bright purple before falling to the floor. Nobody cared. His stool was quickly filled; in fact, it was now a standing room only crowd.

Might as well make a profit. "I'm thirsty," I said. "What's the best barley pop you got?" Barley pop wasn't technically correct, I knew, since the local beer was made from a domesticated slime, but I assumed the Zipponians would understand. Thirty fishlike mouths gaped. My friend next to me was the first to recover. He pulled a dictionary from his pocket and hurriedly pressed buttons. The others saw him, and the bar was filled with beeps. Suddenly there was a stampede to the vending machines as the Earther slang was translated, then my mob returned with every beer produced in the universe. Many cost a pretty credit, too.

I pondered my choices, then chose the most expensive. Everybody congratulated the buyer, shaking his hand. He stood, sucking his nose in and out. It was quite a celebration. I drank the beer, then all eyes turned back to me. I grabbed a Peitouian beer. Might as well get used to it. Everybody congratulated the buyer. Time passed quickly as my prime developed, my fans hanging on my every movement. Soon it was time to go. I stood, looking at my cyberwatch. Everybody crowded to look at it.

"GOOD sigh-bee," one said.

"What?" I asked. He pointed at my watch.

"GOOD sigh-bee."

"Thank you," I said. The Brim apparently was developing its own slang. I looked at my watch again, drawing out my movements. This time, the Zipponians understood my nonverbal cues, and a hundred business cards were shoved in my face. The gravity was stronger than when I last stood. I dragged myself towards my gate.

If everything else failed—which it usually did—I'd learned one important fact about this corner of the universe. That the natives were friendly, and in fact loved Earthlings? That I could breathe the air on this foreign planet? That it was possible to leave Earth, that I wasn't bound to the planet of my birth?

Nope.

I could drink for free.

I pushed groceries several times on the flight. Just as well—good to rid my system of the combination of fermented barley, fungus, and slime. Nobody cared about my three-dimensional technicolor yawns, except for the first, which didn't quite make it into the suction bag. The flight attendants were quick and efficient with their portavacs, though.

"NEEP FLOM AHHUGGH TOOT. YIP BEEP PEITOU. NEEEEHOW PITONGUE…" the intercom blared. I assumed it meant we were close. The intercom crackled again. The pilot must have known an Earthling was onboard.

"HELLO. HOW ARE YOU. CLOSE PEITOU. OUT WINDOW SEE."

The flight attendants stared at me. Smiling, I turned my head to look for the planet. An attendant ran to the cockpit; I assumed to tell the captain he had successfully communicated in Earther. I could see a gaseous planet, brown clouds swirling in great circles from the equator. Reentry was bumpy, but my remaining cookies held. Gravity felt good. For several minutes, we passed through cloud cover, then the planet revealed itself. Ahead, I saw what seemed an island. Later I found out it was the major continent.

My prime wasn't what I had planned, having divested myself of most of it before it could be absorbed into my intestinal walls, but I managed a healthy buzz. Customs were slow; the inspector wanted to practice his limited Earther. I realized I'd need to get used to impromptu lessons. I got impatient, which the inspector sensed. He waved me through. He attempted to say, "Sorry, sorry." It sounded more like, "Sorroghhhh, sorroghhhh."

I dodged the mucus and collected my bags. I found the door. Stepping into dim sunlight, I checked my watch, reset for Peitouian time. High noon. I saw endless swarms of locals, all with a purpose, I guess, but looking more like ants scrambling about an anthill. An unfair analogy. Ants had a purpose—organization to their movements: building their home, searching for food, protecting the home turf… Perhaps more accurate: the hive of Peitouians looked like ants with their antennae cut off, knowing they were supposed to do something and go somewhere, but lacking the ability to know what or where. They filled every inch of pavement, pushing and shoving to get nowhere. I watched. There was a pattern, though the smog was so thick I couldn't see the details. The pattern wasn't familiar to an Earthling's linear thought process. I was prejudiced.

Not my fault, though—I came from a planet far, far away. In the distance, I could make out a group of gigantic brightly dressed creatures. They were coming closer, and the hive of locals parted for them in an apparently prearranged plan. I couldn't make out what the huge beings were, but they were aiming for me. And why not? I made a good target, twice as tall as any lifeform around. I squinted, but the smog obliterated my sight. Closer and closer they came. Nervousness set in; everything was so alien. Billions of buzzing Peitouians were bad enough. But what had I done to be targeted by a group of colossal mutants? They came closer; definitely aiming for me. I saw the locals parting, not from a prearranged plan but from intimidation. Suddenly, the creatures were upon me. One, the shortest of the group but towering over the locals, walked to me. An object rested in his hand.

"Put these on," he said in Earther. I did. The glasses cut through the smog. I recognized the monster. He held out his other hand. Several pills rested in his palm.

"Eat these," Gramps said. I did.

Brainsoup, those first two weeks. Peitouian weeks, mind you. Tolerance for intox was high, but my system was ill-equipped for the cornucopia of unknown and presumed illicit substances that found their way into my bloodstream and across my brain barrier. It was a thin barrier. Peitou was a strange planet, perhaps the strangest. I had only one planet to compare it with, though, unless spaceport bars counted. Two, if so.

When I awoke, I was dressed and, amazingly enough, at work. Teaching Earther, I assumed. A wave of nauseating detoxification washed over me; there I was, teaching an overflow class. I stared out at the gaping fish mouths. I had a dim recollection of beginning a sentence. I caught a glimpse of myself. Hair. I raised my hand to my face. A beard. Hmmm. I examined my clothes. I was dressed in a tie-dyed t-shirt, ragged jeans, and black slippers. Neurons sputtered, free at last, and fragmented memories filled my head.

"SEE-ER OF ALL..." a student asked.

"What?" I replied.

"SEE-ER OF ALL..."

"Why do you call me that?"

"IT IS YOUR NAME."

"Oh," I said. I hesitated to imagine what I had taught these Peitouians. I needed a deathstick. Inhaling carcinogenic smoke was a hobby of mine. Neural nets were reestablishing themselves, making conversation difficult. I looked out at my students. "How long have I been teaching your class?" I asked. My students thought it was a test of Earther counting skills. A female in front raised her hand. She looked familiar—strange, since I didn't remember developing the ability to tell the natives apart. You know the saying: All Brimmers look alike. I pointed at her. She stood.

"SEE-ER OF ALL. ANSWER IS ... TEN. DAY"

She wore a tight top that revealed human-like breasts. A memory burrowed to the surface informing me that Peitouians possessed remarkably human-like reproductive organs. Or was I prejudiced? Perhaps humans possessed remarkably Peitouian-like reproductive organs. In any case, it was knowledge I didn't know I had. I stared at her. She smiled and sucked her nose in and out. I recalled a neural route that had established itself despite the chemical battleground it had forged. She was attending class for free. Escape was a necessity. I stroked my beard, a habit I discovered I had. I remembered that the peer group had planned a priming tonight. I would need a monetary influx. "Class dismissed," I said. Noses were sucked in and out, but my command did not evoke much negative response, like it had been heard before.

Two weeks with almost no recall and I needed a vacation. I put on my Walkman, a primitive portable stereo that the intergalactic conglomerate Sony was remanufacturing for the Brimmers. Walkmans had not been sold on Earth since PreBloc times. The devices used a primitive form of recording, magnetic impulses on tape. Lacking comparisons, I could see why the product had been so popular. With the gradual introduction of Earthling products and services, a day on Peitou was like discovering Earth technology and culture from long ago. Stores were full of discarded technology like "VCRs," "food processors," and "rotary phones."

The current hot fad was for "salad shooters," surely the most useless device ever created. I saw the purpose behind the regulation of technological introduction: the Brimmers would buy each stage in droves. Earth companies undercut themselves by skipping technological eras, especially in consumer products. Intergalactic conglomerates violated the laws in hopes of gaining larger market share and greater profits. Name of the game, I suppose. I recalled that much from my MBA. In fact, holosets were not scheduled to be introduced for years but they were so common that programs were already being broadcast in holo. So be it. It was inevitable: greed was a prized Earthling emotion, envied by all cognizant species. I particularly liked ancient Earth music.

I put my favorite tape in; an extinct band fittingly named "The Dead." As I left the school, I stopped at the pay window to get my EarthEx card recharged, then walked into this brave new world. The smog stung my eyes. I was almost hit by a hoverscooter flying close to the building to avoid the skyjam. I put my smogglasses on. The lenses cut through the glare. The streets were crammed with vehicles; scooters, buses, and automobiles on the ground, and hoverscooters and hovercars above. Crudely constructed buildings rose from the garbage piled on the streets. The noise was deafening, so I turned up The Dead. The ground began to sway. I closed my eyes to no avail. My brain decided it was not a personal thing—not a revolt for its exposure to chemical compounds it had not evolved to handle—but rather a manifestation of the planet's mobile tectonic plates.

A building across the street collapsed, catching several hoverscooters on its descent. One contained a family of five: Dad was driving, Mom behind with an infant strapped to her back, a teenager's arms wrapped around her waist, and a child riding on the handlebars.

Or had been.

I hurried to a subwalk that ran under the street. They were common; it was too dangerous to cross the congested streets aboveground. Subwalks were filled with hawkers selling Supreme Being knows what: smuggled clothing from Earth or Zippon, Brimmer food, you name it. But this one was strangely empty. I took my earphones off. Above, the quake rumbled on.

Ahead, I heard a lone guitar. At first I thought it was my tape, but realized the guitar was playing the same song. It was an Earthling, busking for a living. He seemed familiar but I couldn't place him. His hat, a baseball cap with a Ziebrig logo, sat upside down on the floor. It was filled with the dull gleam of Peitouian coins. A sign behind him announced his availability for impromptu Earther lessons and listed his rates. A local came running by in a panic—from the quake, I assumed—but stopped when he saw the busker. He examined the rates, then sucked his nose in. The guitar player stopped.

"Hello," he said. The Peitouian stuttered.

"H-H-HELLO."

"How are you?" Shawman asked politely. The Peitouian concentrated, then spoke.

"I AM FINE, THANK YOU. AND YOU?"

"I am fine."

The Brimmer threw some coins into the hat and scurried off. The busker didn't bother to count his take and resumed his song, continuing exactly where my tape was. I could still hear it since the earphones were dangling around my neck. When the song ended, the busker spoke.

"Greetings, Earthling."

"Greetings," I replied.

"You are new to this world of pleasure, of decadence."

The busker looked at his cap, overflowing with coins.

"Which must be paid for. Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night must pay in cash if he is to enjoy life and finance his vice."

"Words of wisdom," I said. "Rhymes, too." I noted his voice sounded like it was lifted from an old Earther 2D advertisement.

"That is why they call me Shawman. I think. It may be because I regularly use hallucinogens, though. I am unsure. One can never be confident in a universe he did not create. But I correct myself: in a universe I do not recall creating. I would not put it past me, however. This universe seems to have a sick perversity which matches my own. And my memory is not good. Tat tvam asi."

"Is that Peitouian?" I asked this strange man.

"No. Sanskrit. Long extinct Earther language. It means 'I am the whole world.' They didn't know about the infinity of the cosmos. Lucky. Easy being a solipsist back then. But I think it more likely I am a parasite. As are we all. Based on the evidence I've seen so far, that is."

I pondered the thought. Shawman looked at me.

"What brings you to this heavenhole?"

I recognized his long, blonde hair. The guitar player in Gramps's holofax which spurred my exit from Earth. For some reason my life history erupted from my lips. Shawman interrupted me.

"I think I understand. I was a spiv on Earth, but can imagine what hell being a suit must have been."

He spit.

"Time constraints," he said, shuddering. "A major sin, in my book."

"What?"

"Compartmentalizing time like it was capable of being quantified. The Supreme Being would not be pleased."

"How do you know?" I asked sarcastically.

"Actually, I do not. But if he is really me, I would not be pleased. But I know of beings that have met Him. Or at least someone who claims to be Him. And I do not recall them claiming to meet me, so likely He is not me. However, my memory is poor. Have I said that before?"

"What, a dinner date with the Supreme Being?"

"In a sense."

I had had enough. I realized the quake had stopped some time ago. I bid Shawman goodbye and journeyed back onto the streets. As I walked up the stairs, I could hear his guitar. I put my Walkman back on, not surprised it was the same song, the same chord, as Shawman was now playing. Above ground all seemed as before. The streets and sky were jammed with vehicles, all contributing their exhausts to the soup. I looked to the building that had collapsed. It was being rebuilt. Things moved quickly on Peitou. I stood on the corner, watching for my bus. A couple of my friends had hoverscooters; they said it was the only way to go. I was wary of the danger. Peitou had recently begun using Earther numbers on buses, part of their national goal to bring the populace to Earther fluency. Good luck, from what I had seen. I spotted my bus, number 54, in the far lane. Weaving my way through the inching traffic, I climbed aboard. Shawman's Supreme Being was with me, I guess, because I found a seat. Meteor-strike odds. I sat back for the long ride. My friends had not lied about the working hours but they had neglected to tell me that the commute was as long as the workday. Each direction.

Traffic was light; my bus made my stop in two hours. A record. The fact I knew that and which stop was mine added to the proof that my conscious mind didn't have much responsibility. Obviously, I had been navigating successfully, despite my lack of recall. What the hell were the duties of my consciousness? I had been managing quite well for two weeks on a foreign planet without it.

"You've been drinking too much!" it said. Its purpose came back. I recalled I lived in a dink with several peer group members. As the bus slowed, I thanked the Supreme Being for the seat; normally the ride consisted of locals with their faces in my crotch. Not on purpose. It was a result of their short stature. I gave no indication I was about to get off the bus. I planned my route, knowing I would flatten several natives, including an elderly female near the door, but it could not be helped. When the time was ripe, I sprang. I had almost made it before the riot started. As I had hoped, the mob's first reaction was to my amazing height. The locals' awe, manifested by their gaping fish-mouths, was quickly supplanted by a thought process:

... That Earthling is as tall as my house. Look at him! It is very funny ... I didn't notice him before ... where was he standing? ... if he was standing, I would have noticed him ... he must have been sitting ...... to sit you must have a seat.... A seat!

The bus shook as the riot began. A seat was something to tell offspring about! I was close to the door but lost ground as the crowd pushed towards where I had been sitting. I fought, aiming for the open door, when the bus driver put the bus into gear. Adrenaline raced through my system, endocrine overdrive. Supreme Being help any Peitouians in my way. I bowled them over with strategic flips of my hips, jumped over them, and simply flattened some. They were not offended, being regular bus patrons. I did not want to find out what the next stop was. There were rumors of Earthlings who had missed their stop, never to be seen again. One thing stood between me and freedom. An elderly Peitouian woman. With a gentle flick of my hip, I propelled her into a mild arc and grabbed the door, forcing it open. I jumped out as the driver hit second gear. I stood on the curb, catching my breath. I lit a deathstick. I noted I was smoking a local brand, Eternal Life. I suspected Earth brands were expensive, which probably was why I was smoking a local one. Who knew though? Maybe I liked them. I tried but could not recall the reasons behind my brand preference.

I recognized my building and went inside. The doorman nodded, like he recognized me. Which was possible, but my guess was he assumed any Earthling that entered the building was supposed to be there. You know the saying: All Earthlings looked alike. It would explain how all the Earthlings jammed into the dink made it past him, despite the fact many were known criminals. As usual, a priming— a party—was in full swing. I was tired, so took an inhale of the current hot loid, Sonic, smuggled from Earth. It was illegal, but so was everything, including teaching Earther. Gramps saw me and walked away from a group of female Earthlings. They looked about, then ran to Neon, entertaining himself in the corner. I grabbed a loaded Crab, a device filled with loid. I clamped the Crab to the lobe between my nostrils. The pinchers stung, but the pain was jettisoned with a quick inhale. My brain demanded a smile. So I did. Gramps wasn't much for loids but grabbed a Crab anyway. "Everything is illegal but nothing is against the law," I said. "I am beginning to understand." Gramps took a hit of sonic.

"Perhaps everything is against the law but nothing is illegal. I am unsure. A matter of semantics, or whatever term is used to describe such things. I should know: I am an Earther teacher."

"Me also. How are you?"

"I am fine. And you?"

The conversation didn't deserve an answer, and Gramps didn't expect one. I looked about the room. On Earth it would be a rancid dink, but here it fit the circumstances. It had come with a nice set of carved fungus furniture, set close to the ground. After all, the locals would never make the Interplanetary Basketball Association. Ancient Earth music blared from the stereo, a portable model called a "ghetto blaster," paralyzing the phlems. Phlems were the local equivalent to Earth's cockroaches. I looked at Gramps. "How and when," I said.

He laughed. "Your first two-week prime?"

I nodded.

"Chemical lobotomy is the only way. You couldn't have coped with this place. Most teachers don't last a week. Two weeks? You're a veteran. I hope you had fun, although I know you did since I was there. I hear you are gainfully employed. To use a cliché."

"It's a class of Manchild's. It pays well. When is he coming back?"

"When the sun rises and the moons set. How the FUCK! should I know? He went to Mongcut for a vacation. Many do not return. He did not hire an escort, which might be a mistake or the opposite, whatever that is."

I laughed. FUCK! had a nice ring; a forgotten word. Like most Earth exports, the profanity was ancient. It had spread on Peitou because of the ancient Earth 2D vids that were so widespread. I understood why "fuck" was the second most popular word on Earth in the Nationstate era. It just fit. Gramps took a snort on his Crab, tilting his head as he spoke.

"Do you remember much?"

I decided to try the term. I understood it was the most versatile word in ancient Earther, able to be used anywhere in a sentence. "Fuck no," I said.

"Spoken like a veteran."

For the first time, I noticed large cracks in the walls. Phlems poured in the opening; that was where they were coming from. I pointed out the cracks to Gramps. Smog was sifting in—or was deathstick smoke sifting out? "Are the cracks from the Peitouquake?" I asked.

"Huh?" Gramps replied.

"What do they call them?" I asked.

"Earthquakes. At least that is what I teach. In local dialect, beep hoot pheee phugh." He spit, having to clear his nostrils to reach the last syllable.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"The Supreme Being has indigestion."

"I thought the local religion did not contain a deity."

"Just the export religion. The natives realized Earthlings would never buy yet another deity, so they export a religion without one, instead based on 'Cosmic Flow.' The religion actually comes from the planet Jung-go, but it wasn't copyrighted so the Peitouians stole it. A smart marketing move, if you ask me. Many Earthlings are pretty tired of the deity concept. Me, for one. And the Supreme Being doesn't mind, as I understand."

I had ceased to pay attention. I reached for a barley pop. When I looked back at Gramps, he was still talking to me. I nodded, as if I had been in the conversation, then interrupted. There was something I had been meaning to ask: perhaps I already had but didn't remember. If so, no harm in asking again. It was accepted in the peer group that short-term memory loss was not a fault. I said, "I met an Earthling today, in a subwalk."

"Shawman?"

"Yes. Do you know him?" It was a stupid question. Of course Gramps knew him; how else could Shawman have been in the holofax Gramps had sent me—the one that caused me to finally quit my job.

"A stupid question. How else could Shawman have been in the holofax I sent you—the one that caused you finally to quit your job? Actually, he paid for the holofax. It was his idea."

"Is he dangerous?"

"That is an ambiguous question. To whom? Or is it 'to who?' Damn this Earther."

"To others, or to himself..."

"Of course. Aren't we all? If it wasn't for ourselves, we would probably live forever. I do not think Shawman is a threat to the continued existence of the universe, but I have been wrong before. I busk with him from time to time. Not Earther, but music. He is a good guitarist and has an expansive knowledge of ancient Earth tunes. Beware of him, though."

"Why? Is he mentally ill? Because he seems telepathic? Because he hasn't taken a bath for years? Because he seems lifted from a 2D video? Because he claims to have second-hand knowledge of the Supreme Being?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"He never pays for his beers."

I awoke during what I assumed was the next day and reached for my alarm clock. It was gone. I looked about the room and located it. Hanging in tatters from the ceiling fan, it spun in nauseating circles. I could still make out the time. Almost. It was either fifteen after four or fifteen after fourteen. Either I had awoken sixteen hours early for class or an hour late. I chose the latter, since vague memories existed from six hours ago. It didn't matter. Vocalizing the archaic term I was now so fond of, I dismissed my concerns. It was not my class, but Manchild's. "Fuck it," I said to no one, except the phlems on the walls, floor, and ceiling. And bed. I killed those, in hopes of encouraging an evolutionary lesson. Concentrating, I recalled Gramps and I had taken some local debauchkas—I wasn't sure if the word was Brimmer or ancient Earther slang—to an "HTV." HTV was short for holotelevision, a place where you chose the holovid you wanted and watched it in a private room. Drinks came with the price of admission. All holovids were available, from the most current Earth films to purple ones from every planet, in which various cognizant phylums had their ways with each other. It was entertaining, although sometimes hard to tell which was the male and which was the female. I lit a deathstick and relaxed as carbon monoxide replaced oxygen in my bloodstream. I needed a vacation. I had been on Peitou over two weeks. It was time for a break. No matter I couldn't recall much of the time—that was normal. And who would want to? I called the local EarthEx office to check my balance. I was rich, with more credits than when I landed. Futhark—no, FUCK! I liked the word better: the sound of a veteran. And only one syllable; much better flow. Two weeks! I had bettered the stay of most. Having a credit card like EarthEx made me part of the elite. But being part of the elite had its drawbacks. Peitou had a variable currency: sometimes open, sometimes closed. The EarthEx office explained that currently Peitou was attempting to stabilize exchange rates and no withdrawals in Earth currency were allowed. So I could not access a cash advance, only use my credits at establishments that took the credit card. I was rich, with no money. I could go to the black market, where you bought jewelry on your card, selling it back at half the purchase price. But that was an act of desperation. I decided to switch my credit surplus from Earthling securities to a local stock fund. It was riskier, but Peitou's market doubled with every hangover. Also, it would allow access to my credits since my funds would be in local currency. But it took a week to switch over. I couldn't wait. There was only one answer: busking Earther. I stumbled downstairs, into the muck, alert for hoverscooters. I put my smogglasses on but took them off. The streets were more crowded, more noisy, more polluted than I remembered. My recovering brain couldn't handle it. Better a comforting blur. I put my Walkman on. The Dead again. One man gathers what another man spills… My head complained at movement, so I stopped at the 7-11 on the ground floor for some help. It must be an ancient Earthling franchise, I realized, with its two Earther numbers. I hadn't thought about it before. Seven-eleven? What could it mean? An Earther dice game? My head hurt, so I bought a bottle of deerpiss and a case of fungus pop. Stumbling into the dim light, I took my earphones off. How did you busk Earther? From what I had seen, you needed a sign advertising your rates. Which I didn't have. Perhaps I wasn't a veteran, despite the constant interjection of fuck into my speech. I looked about for something to use as a poster and decided on the flattened cardboard from the case of fungus pop. I didn't know enough of the language to write "hello." Not that it mattered since I had nothing to write with. The song from my Walkman sounded so good my knees involuntarily bent. As I pranced about, I realized I could barely hear the earphones since I had taken them off. No, there was something else. A guitar. I recognized the tune. It was the same my Walkman was playing.

I also correctly surmised the guitarist. I walked to the other end of the subwalk; again it was empty of the usual hawkers, and this time it had nothing to do with an earthquake unless one was occurring now. I didn't think so, but the water in my ears might be more displaced than I realized. First lesson of the universe: anything is possible. Ahead, I saw a silhouette against the misty, dim lights. There he was, entertaining himself with his guitar until other options presented themselves. I cleared my throat and spit, the Earthling's equivalent to the Peitouian hello. Shawman was much more fluent. The phlems gathered quickly at his greeting, lump-like on the floor. He wiped his mouth and switched to Earther.

"Greetings, Earthling. Or perhaps I should say aloha."

I knew the word, a freak memory. "Aloha," I said. "Care for a partner?"

"OK," as the locals say.

He reached into his guitar case and pulled out a new price list. He posted it and removed the old one. I realized our entire conversation had been transacted while he played his guitar. That was not possible, since he had just used one hand to take down the old sign and post the new one. I turned my Walkman off. Shawman stopped playing. After a few seconds, a Peitouian walked up and read the new price list.

"Hello," Shawman said, forcing the Peitouian into a conversation. I saw why Shawman was a successful Earther busker.

"Hello."

"How are you?" Shawman asked.

"I am fine. And you?"

"I am OK."

The Peitouian smiled. "I too. I am OK."

Advanced Earther. Shawman pointed at me. "My friend…"

He did not know my name.

The Peitouian looked at me. "Hello."

"Hello," I replied. "How are you?"

"I am fine. And you?"

"I am… OK."

"OK," he said. "You friend Shawman?"

"Yes. You also friend of Shawman?"

The Peitouian nodded furiously. "Yes, yes. I'm—" He looked at Shawman, who smiled at him. "Shawman very best friend."

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Phegmlipp," he said.

"His Earther name is Jagger," Shawman said.

The Peitouian bowed nervously. "Yes, yes. Jagger."

He beamed at Shawman. "Humble teacher name gave me. Very honorable, Shawman says. Name ancient Earthling king."

"Hello, Jagger," I said. "How are you doing?" He twittered nervously. I realized my error. He didn't understand; I had not phrased my question correctly. "Hello, Jagger. How are you?" He beamed.

"I am fine. How are you?"

Shawman interrupted, throwing out the phrase that made him so much money. "Your Earther is very good, Jagger."

The Peitouian responded to his ability to converse with two Earthlings by throwing an amazing amount of currency into Shawman's hat before walking away.

"It's an art, really," Shawman said. "Despite your newness, you seem to have the talent."

Shawman divided the take, handing me half. "New blood is an effective management tool. Supreme Being be praised."

Within a couple of hours, I had financed my vacation. I bid Shawman aloha, but didn't think he noticed. He had drunk the deerpiss and most of the fungus pop. Gramps had warned me. I managed a prime, a fairly admirable achievement from what others had told me of sharing intox with Shawman. Mongcut was inexpensive. I had enough spending money for a couple of weeks. The shuttle tickets could be charged on EarthEx. Mongcut was paradise. It was a water planet. The only land was scattered islands. All with endless beaches, uncorrupted reefs, and topless natives. The breezes were cool, the waves friendly, and the water warm. The sea creatures were astounding; they came in every shape, size, and color. And none ate hominids. So far, that is. They hadn't seen many. Or tasted them. More important, everything was legal and nothing was against the law on Mongcut. It would be a refreshing change from Peitou where everything was against the law, but nothing was illegal. In retrospect: it's hard to say which is best.

The length of the Peitou to Mongcut flight escaped me. I suspect my prime—pharms and intox, for the record—played a part, but the time dilation was likely caused by the lack of a reference. I had left my cyberwatch on Peitou; I was on vacation. It was my biological clock that would dictate my actions, not some machine on my wrist. We landed in Mongcut City, the planet's capital. The locals had not used Earther when naming it, but the city's true name was uncomfortable to pronounce in Earther and, as throughout the universe, was supplanted by that dominant language I was taught as a child. Thank the Supreme Being, too. I had no other useful skills, despite my education. But I could speak Earther fluently, like I had spoken it all my life. Luckily, though my years of pursuing the perfect prime had weeded out the weak brain cells, the damage seemed focused on the quantitative side. The need to add, subtract, multiply, divide, or take a square root or derivative was as necessary as hunting skills in today's society, where even my watch could calculate pi to a million places if I ever felt the need to.

Which I never did. As we taxied to the gate, I surveyed the surroundings through the tiny, microdust-scratched window. Spaceports were a good way to appraise civilizations; infrastructure representations. A clean, efficient, boring airport meant the planet would be clean, efficient, and boring. From what I could see, cleanliness, efficiency, and boredom would not be a concern. The shuttle halted with a screech when a family of Mongcuts, who apparently used the weeds that grew in the asphalt cracks as feeding grounds for their domesticated animals—overgrown millipedes—wandered onto the runway. At least that was my assumption. If I hadn't known what the dominant species looked like—with their upright stance and tentacles—I would have been hard pressed to determine which was the cognizant species. Both were eating the weeds.

Mud shacks lined the runway, and large groups of natives waved at the shuttle like ancient Earthlings confronted with a train in the countryside. I waved back—a silly response, since they could not see me. I suspected train passengers on Earth had done the same.

The Mongcuts were happy, but poor. Perhaps there is a correlation? They were poor, yes, but had a society that promoted family unity and the pleasures it brought. And a lack of concern for anything in the future beyond the next meal. A worthwhile existence. Earth apes once had such an Eden but destroyed it with their concern for the future. Worse, worrying about the future brought monetary success. Planning and all that. The death of happiness. Apparently every cognizant lifeform in the cosmos was preprogrammed to be blinded by hopes and dreams that monetary success was supposed to bring, in hopes of a new holoset or perhaps a hoverscooter to get nowhere faster, discarding in a nanosecond the traditional values that it had taken evolution millions of years to create. Oh, well. May bahn fah. Mongcut would be destroyed soon by contact with Earth—and Zippon, Peitou, and the other "civilized" planets. Its annual economic growth rate was already over one hundred percent, which didn't mean much yet since the base was almost zero. Soon it would. Although my left brain had been largely eliminated, I could roughly project what hundred-fold exponential growth would do. The economy would bustle, constrained only by the inability of businesspeople to speak Earther. Mongcut would have to pay high wages to native Earther speakers, just in time for a wandering Earthling who was damn sick of Peitou. Solipsism seemed apparent, except for my contact with others with an equal claim. We disembarked. I followed Gramps's advice, phoning a native Mongcut he recommended, who specialized in making sure Earthlings made it onto their return flights in addition to organizing what occurred in between. I recalled Manchild had not followed Gramps's advice and had not been heard from for a Brim solar year. I planned to look him up. The phone was answered on the first ring.

"Hello," it said.

"Hello," I responded, per what was now intergalactic protocol. Gramps hadn't mentioned if the Mongcut was male or female. "I am an Earthling on vacation. Are you male or female?"

The voice giggled. "Which do you want?" Again the giggle.

"I prefer females."

"Then I am your man. Where you come from?"

"Peitou."

"Are you a friend of Gramps?"

"Yes."

"How is Gramps?"

"He is bored and lonely."

"That is Gramps. Good he himself. My name Mama. You need helper?"

I was wary, despite Gramps's recommendations. "Yes. How much?"

She laughed. "You no worry. You rich man. Earthling. All rich. Want special service?"

I hesitated. "What special service?" I asked. Ten minutes and I was dropping conjunctions. Why did they exist anyway?

"Up to you. But Mama know what Earthling likes. Especially males. Very pre-dic-table." She stumbled on the word, proud she got through it.

"Double credits for full works. You sound like big handsome Earthling. Big stud, you. I tell from voice. Never wrong yet. Ask customers."

Stud? My brain sifted and located a reference about male equines on Earth, a species that had survived because it had the insight or luck to be domesticated by the apes that dominated the planet. Either that or something about a stiff board of wood.

"How long you got?" Mama asked.

"Two weeks. How much?"

"Maybe you want special, special service. Never no complaints. And make sure you get home. Must sign contract, though."

"For what?"

"To make sure you no sue Mama if my boys have to zap you. Tell truth: happened many times. Usually, as matter fact. Nobody want to leave. Pleasure center activated."

I pondered. Special special service? Hard to resist the duplication of such a juicy adverb. "How much?"

"You at phone spaceport?" Mama asked.

"Yes, I am." Within seconds I was handed a microbong full of the sweetest bang I had tasted. While it was crossing my brain barrier, expelling the worries that reverberated within, a female Mongcut in a skimpy top appeared and began a coordinated caress with her tentacles. My brain raced: what could four upper appendages do?

I picked the dangling receiver up. I could barely spit the short sentence out. "How much?"

"You rich Earthling. Why care? Million credits, most. Maybe two. Three? Who know? I not Supreme Being. No complaints. Best time ever in wasted life. Not want to go home, but I make you. Part of contract."

A million credits? I only had the money I made busking. I was desperate. "You take the EarthEx card?" I asked, assuming the answer was no.

"Of course. Just signed up. I suc-cess-ful inter-galactic busy-ness-person you know."

"Many multisyllable words, Mama," I said. "Your Earther very good."

"You get ten percent discount, polite Earthling stud."

On Earth I never questioned that I was a coherent being, in control of my actions. Oh, I had a subconscious, to be sure, but civilization kept it in check. Once again the value of the conscious brain was questioned. Time passed quickly. Much too quickly. It passed so quickly it didn't pass at all. I screamed when my escorts arrived and damned them to Intergalactic Hell, whatever that was, as they dragged me away. I recalled tearing off a couple of tentacles in my fury. I knew they regenerated like a skink's tail, so felt no guilt. Finally, someone shot an airjet of something I would like to track down for personal use into my arm, and the next thing I knew Gramps was carrying me from the Peitou spaceport. Gramps opened my eyes with his thumbs.

"How is Manchild?" he asked.

"Who? What? Where?" I managed.

"Never mind. Have a good time," Gramps said, releasing his thumbs.

My eyelids responded to gravity. I muttered an incoherent response.

"What?" Gramps asked, leaning forward.

"Mutter, mutter..." I replied.

"That's what I thought you said."