...From
the pages of "The Rock", by Rampant Catabilis...
"Oh
Shit!" Tarka stared in horror at
the screen. Liquid slowly seeped into
the papers and manuals stacked on her desk. And into the keyboard of
her
tele-finance unit. Clutching her half-empty and now dripping caff mug,
Tarka
quietly repeated, "Oh Shit!"
The images on the screen sparkled and fizzed. Xoron breezed in with an armload of play requisitions for authorisation. "Hi Tarka!" Tarka started guiltily. "Oh... er.. hi Xoron, yeh just put them... over there." Xoron's eyes narrowed and she scanned the office. "What have you... ah! Oh, shit!" Tarka nodded gloomily. "Funnily enough, that's what I said." "I told Dowl that having that thing built into your desk was a bad idea." "There's supposed to be some sort of auto-function to dry it out but it doesn't seem to be working." "Well, it was Donated." "Maybe they'll give us another one." They both watched the screen. With a final flash of pink zigzags, it cleared and a warm, feminine contralto voice wished them 'Good Morning'. Tarka and Xoron stared at what was supposed to be a simple, voiceless machine for recording the Rock's financial transactions. "It never did that before!" hissed Tarka. "Who donated it?" whispered Xoron. "Customer Service." Customer Service was a branch of government which existed solely to serve itself - the customer in this instance was regarded as the government, since people needed government for their lives to continue normally - and anyway, they hadn't voted it out yet. The slow but inevitable growth of Customer Service had eventually meant that most of the government in fact existed to assist other parts of government, and not the governed at all. Behind them one of the security cameras whirred, tracked across the room and focussed on the two Tactical Women, zoom lens spinning. "It's controlling the cameras!" "Which of you is my controller?" the machine demanded. Xoron nudged Tarka, who licked her lips nervously and spoke. "Er, I am." "Are you responsible for recent financial data entered?" "Ye-es, I suppose so." "I detect that the fiscal budget is now 48 billion in credit and suggest that we increase our defence forces accordingly." "Who said that?" asked Dowl, dripping as he emerged from his cell rejuvenated for another hour or two. He peered over Tarka's shoulder at the screen. "48 billion? That's never right!" "My calculations are correct to 3,000 decimal places - who are you and what is your authorisation to enter this room?" "Er, this is Dowl - he's my boss." "Good morning, Sir, welcome to the Federated Budget Department. Please take a seat, would you care for some refreshment?" Open-mouthed, Dowl sat down. "According to this morning's chancellory report, lease prices on solar power generation equipment are rising. In view of this I suggest we delay release of statistics demonstrating the link between the increase in solar flare and recent equipment failures in power generation units." Tarka was staring at the screen, slowly shaking her head. “But..." The camera swiveled between her and Dowl. The computer hummed. "I'm missing something, aren't I? Anyone care to fill me in?" the gizmo demanded. Xoron cleared her throat - this was a situation she understood. "Tarka can explain everything." She edged briskly out of the little office, donned her Virtua helmet and proceeded to eavesdrop from a safe distance. "We-ell..." said Tarka, shuffling nervously from one foot to the other. "You are my Controller, aren't you?" "Oh yes, yes, there's no problem there - you were legitimately acquired." "Acquired??" "Yes, we..." "Oh God, no! I've been decommissioned! Does... does the Lottery Commission know?" "What?" "I couldn't stand it if they found out. Where am I working?" "You're in the main office of OuttaLife, a project of Grace Over Destitution..." "A charity??" howled the AI. "How could they do this to me? My God was ever a civil servant sunk so low?" "Many of them have sunk much lower," pointed out Tarka reasonably. "Some have become quite immoral, in fact." "It was a rhetorical question!" snapped the machine. "What's retricorial?" asked Miss Trotter from the doorway. "It means, like, 'I don't want an answer' " replied Tarka without looking around. "Oh, sorry - I'll go away then, didn't mean to disturb you... Xoron, what does retricorial mean?" "Sssh!" hissed Xoron, still busily eavesdropping. "Sorry, dude!" "O Wise
One! Brush-headed, mop-footed, you who
dust away all cares! Polish me now,
burnish me in your service. Make me
squeaky-clean and lavender-scented, that you may see Your face in
me!" On her knees before the Sacred
Cleaning Cupboard, with a Daikon low-allergy duster on her head, Tarka
intoned
a prayer to Slut, Goddess of Housework. The
idol’s stern visage, stressed and embittered from years of too much
caffeine and cleaning other people's socks, glared down at her. Tarka tried to feel inspired to do the
washing-up, but only felt inspired to wish that today Slut was
reversed,
showing the happy face that urged worshippers to forget the housework,
grab a
bottle of Vino Insensibilio, and head for the nearest cabaret-bar, beer
fountain or... Tarka shook
herself and tried to re-focus. Doing the
washing-up was a good thing. Cooking for
one's loved ones was an expression of that love. Vacuuming
should be greeted as a pleasure, a
meditation on cleanliness. "Oh,
bugger it!" Tarka threw the sacred
duster into the cupboard and slammed the door.
She could still feel Slut's eyes on her, but that was
okay. She was
about to manifest Slut's third aspect—the Cheat. "Particle! Oh,
husband!" "Yes,
dear?" "It's
your turn to wash up and clean the place. I'm just ducking out to get
some
dinner." "Oh,
great! Martian!" "Nah," said their
son, Fixit, wandering into the kitchen,
"I want Europan." "I was
just going to get a pizza!" Ferociously
happy with herself, Tarka pulled into the KirkMart parking hangar. High above the vehicle landing bays floated a
translucent green tank. A stray tentacle poked through the murk
occasionally. A Virtua poll
in the early 21st Century had demanded that all new alien species
encountered
by the human race be named after Star Trek characters, and the
Kirkadians had
been the first to arrive. Declaring themselves to be simple traders,
they
offered humankind a few paltry technological wonders such as InstaHair,
the
temporary baldness cure; All-Week Deodorant; a machine that made fizzy
drinks
out of household waste; and then, the Virtual Fridge. Through cheerful
and
sassy mass-marketing, the aliens proceeded to take over the retail
groceries
industry. Now, every
planetary city, every arcology, every cluster of pioneer drinking halls
had its
KirkMart. Above the parking bays, the
Shopping Advisory Specialists hovered to observe, record and control
the human
customers below. Tarka’s
personnel transport whuffed lightly into the docking crater, scattering
a puff
of dust. A pleasant voice issued from
the trans-comm while she scrambled into her protective shopping gear. "Welcome
citizen! This is a KirkMart landing bay.
Please register as a Shopper after the tone beep." "Bugger!" Tarka tore at
a strap with her teeth and groped for her ShopperChip and tape recorder. "If you
do not register as a Shopper we will be forced to institute legal
proceedings
against you for wilful interference with inter-species trade. Please register as a Shopper after the
tone. Beeeeeeep!" Tarka fumbled the catch on her ammo-belt. "As you
have not registered as a legal Shopper, you have been declared an Enemy
of the
Peoples of the Kirkadian Empire. The
Kirkadian Peoples’ Army will now clear this landing bay using high
explosives. Of course you can still
register as a Shopper—simply speak clearly into the trans-comm, or
prepare to
meet The Maker." "Uh—hi,
sorry, I'm a Shopper." She shoved
the ShopperChip into the slot on the trans-comm and started the tape
recorder. "Welcome
Shopper! You have been re-accepted as an
Honourable Ally of the Imperial Regime of Kirkadia. Congratulations! Your Shopping number is
3789501296-943874-39485745-04. Please
quote this handy reference in all transactions. Your
Guide for today's Shopping Expedition will be Triton." "Oh
shit!" The air to Tarka's left blurred,
shimmered,
and became an impossibly handsome, muscular man wearing some
carefully-placed
scraps of pliable leather. "Welcome, shopper
3789501296-943874-39485745-04." He smiled
intimately. "I'm your Guide for this Adventure
in
Shopping." He held out his
hand. "Come... with me!" He
winked, vanished, and reappeared outside
the transport, beckoning. Tarka slung
the las-pistol from her shoulder, punched the hatch release and trudged
down
the corridor. The AutoLock and
KillIntruders system pinged behind her. There
would be stickers and leaflets plastered all over the vehicle when
she got back, but they would be burned to a crisp and unreadable. "You
have lovely hair," murmured her escort, the bass notes in his voice
vibrating her lower intestine, "but did you know that with the new
oxygenating conditioners on special offer in Aisle 17, Level 89, it
could look
even better? Or you could tint it—why settle
for mousy fair when you could be Wheatgold Blonde? We have a wide range
of
colours to suit all tastes." He leaned closer to whisper, "Aisle 12,
Level 200." Tarka adjusted her ear
muffs to block him out more effectively and set her goggles for nuclear
explosion protection. "Listen,
Triton old buddy, put a suit on and follow me..." "You
liked this last week," he muttered sulkily. "...
that's follow, not lead, okay?" The
Holo-Guide hastily changed images. He trotted obediently after Tarka
through a
set of automatic doors and into... Hell. The fused
glass floor under her steel-reinforced fighting boots reflected signs,
adverts,
special offers and holographic displays in a dizzying array of the
brightest
colours in the known universe. Kirkadian
Marketing had definitively proved that what humans enjoyed most was stimulation, and with stimulation humans could be
bludgeoned into buying anything. The favourite Kirkadian
Marketing Myth was of the packaging which sold for a higher price than
the
object originally packaged within it—sold using the slogan "You don't
have
to do anything with it, but it's fun to try!" Above
her, floor after floor rose to a
dizzying, domed roof patrolled by the ubiquitous floating Controllers. A cacophony of sound poured down—talking,
laughing, screaming and announcements. Ping-pong! "Now
on offer in
Aisle 1, Level 1..." "Oh
shit!" Tarka looked wildly for
cover. "...
Ionian Noseguards. Keep those annoying dust particles away from your
mucous
membranes... Lovely Shopping Day!"
Ping-pong! No wonder,
thought Tarka grimly, crouching against a wall of custard powder. No wonder people
go mad in these places. Luckily it was a
Sunday—fewer shoppers and,
statistically, fewer loonies... she hoped. A
crowd of crazed, neatly-dressed Shoppers wearing no sensory protection
and carrying no obvoius armament thundered into the Aisle, urged on by
their
Guides. "Can't
you feel it?" yelled Triton into her earmuff. Screaming,
the crowd pounced on a stack of
Ionian nose-guards. Tarka ducked around
the end of the custard powder display and jogged down Aisle 2. She piled shopping into her anti-grav
trolley, sticking rigidly to her List of life's necessities, ignoring
her
Guide's blandishments to "just try a six-pack of these," or
"let's you and me sneak off down Aisle Thirteen." To Tarka's
responses of "more like a sick-pack," and "I'd rather not right
now,” Triton made no reply, but he looked genuinely hurt.
Trolley full and heading for the checkout,
Tarka heard a distant, popping noise. "Uh-oh!" Triton flexed
bulging muscles under his suit. "A
distressed human is discommoding shoppers with extreme antisociality in
Aisle
22, Level 27. That's just over
there," he pointed out, "behind the ice-cream." Tarka
sank behind a hefty-looking baked bean
mountain. "What's
he got?" The Guide pretended to
listen to an ear implant and paused, waiting for information. "And will you get down!" Triton
crouched beside her, handsome grin
still in place. "Semi-automatic
military issue rifle, fishing knife, grenade
launcher and... something they can't identify." "Shit!" "Oh,
it's a frozen salmon." "Fine!
Now tell the trolley
to follow us and let's get out of here!" The
trolley matched Tarka's pace as she crawled behind a low wall of
tinned tomatoes. A volley of gunfire
sprayed across the top of the wall. "Make
the trolley drop back!" she hissed. "It's giving
away our position!" In short
dashes, and with protracted Indian-crawling on her belly, Tarka
achieved the
checkout—where all the human staff had been shot. Swearing,
Tarka shoved the trolley into an
auto-checkout knowing that she would be overcharged for broken eggs and
at
least one box of someone else's shopping. "Welcome
Shopper! Please present your
ShopperCard." Tarka,
reactionary to the core, gritted her teeth, leaned against the counter
she was
using for cover and said, "I want to pay cash." The robot
took a good thirty seconds to work this one out. "Are you
sure, Madam? Your bill is 120 credits,
you know?" "I'm
sure." A grenade exploded nearby
and they were spattered with biscuit crumbs. “Do you have
a Free Unlimited Cashcard Kirkmart Offshore Frequent Flybys card?
Banquet or
Daikola subscription with that?” “No! Get on
with it! Express Transaction!” "Your
Transaction has been... approved Shopper! Please
place the correct change in the receptacle." Tarka
emptied a small sack of tinpenny bits
into the bin and readied the tape playback. "What
is your Shopper number?" The tape rolled, the
robot promised to deliver her shopping to the
transport, and the HoloGuide suggested a nice relaxing cup of caff in
the
resto-teria. "No,
thank you," said Tarka sweetly, the penalties for abusing Kirkadian
equipment being more than she could afford. She
crawled toward the automatic doors, which refused to open unless she
stood up. The grenade attacks were
coming closer. "One,
two, three!" Tarka leapt to her
feet, the doors opened, she shot through and behind her the Kirkadian
overseeing local KirkMart operations fell out of the sky in a tangle of
green
fluid and bright purple flesh. The
automatic doors sealed to allow the Supamart to be flooded with StunGas. Tarka didn't look back and ran for the
personnel transport, yelling the unlock code. In the
adjacent landing bay, a happy family of four, unprotected by goggles or
earmuffs unloaded eighteen trolleys full of gello-packs, nose-guards
and hair
conditioner. Two beautiful HoloGuides
murmured, "How clever! Such good
choices! Where did you find them?
Ooh, I like them, don't you?" Tarka's
Hologuide was already in the transport waiting for her. "Shopping's
all loaded, Tarka, um, I
mean Shopper 3789501296-943874-39485745-04." Tarka
froze. "I don't
know how you know my name, but I want you out of this transport!" Take me back to the Blue Cluster, please. Can I go to the
spaceport and get a shuttle out of here? |