A LARGE ROOM WITH no LIGHT
1001 words by Stanley Lieber
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Hello, I'm Calbert Whimsy, Master Of Ethics at Policy School Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. For twenty-five generations the men of my family have stood watch over your children and their education. Granted, twenty of those generations were vat-grown, simultaneously, over the last decade. And yes, we correspond. Ah ha ha ha. I've made a little joke. It is a pleasure to see you here, you all say. Likewise, I'm sure.
As you may have guessed, I'm not really Calbert Whimsy. Somehow, though, they've fitted me in here, floating paralyzed amongst these sharks. The Families. Their publicists, attorneys, clergy. And now I've got to give this speech to the Green Consortium assembled. I've had better days.
Thirty years ago I entered this profession, not knowing what to expect.
THE STRAND is a luxury liner, Old British flag and technically off-limits to agents such as myself. This class of people are not supposed to be subjected to operational trifles such as political assassinations and internetwork intrigue. Let's just say I'm off the clock. The Lunsford affair was a wake-up call nobody wanted to hear. The collective, meaty fist of the Green aristocracy simply mashed their alarm clock and rolled over on their 800 thread count sheets. Probably right into the wet spot.
Overheard from my place behind the podium:
"I'm warning you, don't try to kiss my ass. No, I mean it. Don't kiss my ass. I'm serious, now. Don't. I hate it when people try to kiss my ass. Now, you may kiss his ass as often as you please!"
And:
"He said it was life or death. He was pounding against the police vehicle, just going to town. My man at the dispatch center reported the machine wouldn't authorize his identoplate. So, no entry to the back seat. I told him, it must have been a clerical error. Nothing to be done, you see. I got the impression his partner was irritated, but he didn't say anything as he drove me away from the rioting crowd of students."
Raucous laughter, all around. These people are not funny, and they don't even know it.
From time to time an especially gregarious, exceptional student will vex us all. I know each and every one of you is smiling now, thinking that I'm talking about your child. Well, I'm not. Ha ha. Let us stipulate that I'm not referring to your particular little brat.
You might say this is a bit of a roast. I'm not entirely comfortable, exposed like this.
But the weak humor is contagious. Someone in the audience gets clever and plays back the sound of crickets chirping on his vintage wrist chronometer. I squint and realize it's my support man, apparently trying to blow his cover. I want to yank his bolo-tie and pin open his testicles with a handful of these platinum salad forks. Connecting us directly in this context is unacceptable. But you can't launch wetwork from aboard THE STRAND without a hype-man. And you can't control any agent good enough to be fielded for this mission. So we'll be ad-libbing from here on in.
The other entertainments start and mercifully I'm cleared to leave the stage. I'm not quite sure what all I've just said, but the audience seems to more or less approve. My counterpart will have to sort it out later. I wasn't exactly provided with a script.
This particular sector of the south Atlantic is out of bounds to commercial traffic. In fact, at this time of year, THE STRAND is the only ship permitted to ply its waters at all. That's why I've been slipped onto this floating coke mirror. It was the only way to get me past Plinth Mold's perimeter security. In other words, Piro.
I've learned to hate Piro.
Before I know it I've been scooped back up on stage. This time the lights are dimmed and I can make out players from various fandoms that were listed on the mission brief. I throw in some targeted references to key episodes. Consortium classics. It goes over well.
We've heard from a lot of educators tonight! But no one's even mentioned the litigators! Let's hear it for general counsel!
This brings on a spate of vigorous cheering and I am whisked off again.
Four thespians in black tights take to the stage, each bearing brightly colored puppets sewn onto the fronts of their shirts. The effect, in combination with the spotlighting, is that of disembodied cartoon animals who glide back and forth across the stage, seemingly disconnected from the floor. The copyright dance. I refer to these creatures as thespians, but in actuality they are Consortium members plucked randomly from the audience, as is the annual tradition with this group. The script, such as it exists, is familiar, and the audience members cum dancers have little trouble falling into line. Their friends and family are by this time well and truly soused, and voice their approval at considerable volume. Monitors throughout the ship pipe the performance even into the head. Men are pissing themselves listening to it.
I catch myself drumming on the table and stop immediately.
On schedule, the chemical takes effect and I vomit across the lap of my companion. Over her protestations (etiquette, you see) I am pulled away from the table and assisted to my cabin. Once alone, I remove my outer garments and verify my stresspants one last time. Impulsively, I clip the bow-tie from my stage costume onto my wetsuit under my chin and then squeeze myself out through the porthole, exiting my cabin forever.
The ocean is slick and black. My visor activates as I hit the water. A large room with no light.
Instantly my testicles shrink up, even as my stresspants activate.
At last, my orders stream to life, glittering in my field of vision across the back of an enormous gray whale.
Plinth Mold.
It is time.
To be continued...
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creative.commons.attribution-noncommercial-noderivs.3.0
1OCT1993 | INDEX
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