Beyond the Maiden Galaxy, named for the sponsor of the first intergalactic telescope’s appreciation for young girls—“Hot Chick Galaxy” was already taken—and further still to the swampy backwater planet most sane species treated like a cheek-pinching and hairy-moled aunt, lived a clump of brown mass known as Wyllmma Farsee. And she was having a bad day.
Wyllmma was not having troubles in particular relation to the crappy planet she lived on, but it wasn’t helping.
“No. Look at the light on your machine. Notice how it says you are a nidorous garff-brained buffoon who has no business owning a Sterling 2000.8 since you probably can’t even spell it!”
Well, at least that’s what she wanted to say to the schnook on the line. At the last moment, however, the thought of not living—or even working—in a climate-controlled, humidity-equalized building and, instead, living out on the swampland after losing her “wonderful, oh sir I love working here” job made her change her response. Her tiny triangle of workspace was not exactly homey, but it was better than the world outside.
“No. Look at the light on your machine. Notice how it says you cannot run that Near Reality program with the parental controls switched on because it’s rated NR21+. If they switched off easily, a child would shut them off in less time than it just took to tell you so, sir.”
“But I just want to see the females and have some alone time. Can’t you fix it? Didn’t I contact the fix line?”
She touched a few points on her screen and said, “There. I have remotely disabled the parental controls for you. Have a nice day.” You wanton copulation obsessor.
The company always had the fixers under surveillance, but if what the support crew said when the calls had ended were held against them, the company would have no workforce. And, really, NR porn was just the logical evolution of that particular medium, she supposed: Printed, visual broadcast, interactive visual broadcast, and now NR.
Well, at least the copulation-obsessed derks out there were helping advance technology, right?
Thankfully, that was her last caller. She was grateful for the use of non-visual communication with these brain-function-challenged adults who called the fix line every day, most of the males she assumed unlikely to even be dressed. At least there was that slight barrier between her and what she hoped were aberrations of society. Originally, visual phones had been used, but the constant eye rolling of the customer support reps made such visuals cause the company to nearly close business.
She’d made it to the transport, got in, avoided eye contact with other pathetic fat, brown Tandaranians like herself, and bulleted across the wasteland to her living quarters. Windows were another thing which had caused more trouble than had been anticipated. The original bullet transports had been made entirely transparent. However, the only thing worse than the disturbing view of green haze and dying vegetation was watching it go by at 100 megaplanks per yocton. The original models, however, had lightened the spirits of the mental health industry tremendously by increasing their revenue and giving them traumatized patients awaiting years of therapy and brain remapping. The company responded by projecting images on the walls of happy people living, obviously, somewhere else.
Wyllmma stepped out—well, it would be more appropriate to say she was thrown out—at her stop. She walked the remaining distance in the green haze, trying not to pay attention to the one thing worse than the look of her planet: the stench. All Tendaranians had their olfactory sensors severed at birth, but nature’s cruel joke of making other senses compensate for a missing one made opening one’s mouth outdoors a thing to avoid. Even protective eyewear was a thriving business due to how easily one starts to smell with one’s eyes when the stench reaches level 12 on an olfactometer; the readings only reach 15 because anything more is physically incapacitating for most species.
No other planet in the universe has better air-tight seals than Tandar, not even the Demorans whose planet’s atmosphere has been known to kill several species with one breath. This, rather inconveniently, causes a mandatory extended decompression quarantine on all of their exports. Sadly, few ever know the sweet joy of a fresh marbledant. The main export of Demora, however, is a liquor made from the marbledant fruit, and few can say they haven’t tried that sweet joy; it’s made Demora a very rich planet. They just don’t entertain much.
Upon reaching her abode, Wyllmma threw her bag down on the table, and threw off the oppressive black, skin-tight jumpsuit required for all office jobs on the planet, attire rumored to have been instigated by companies fearing the loss of cinchers, attachers, fridlops, and other office supplies. What she wanted was her plush, puce robe and slippers that brought out the purple in her eyes. These luxuries she had imported from a planet that knew actual comfort. She then flopped onto the fluffy, self-adjusting, portable Ultimate Relaxer 4000 that had cost her a full lunar rotation’s pay to ship in but always reminded her the credits had been well spent. This was her sole comfort from the barbarous and utterly sepulchral outside world.
Sleep? Eat something horribly bad for me? Call Mom like I’ve been putting off doing now for, well, not long enough?
A blue-green terrak climbed up onto the UR 4000 and nuzzled her shoulder.
“Eenot, what do you think? Should I sleep or attempt to deal with the woman who conceived me? I wish she had done it the old-fashioned way so that I had a father to call instead. I just can’t see more of that ‘I’m so disappointed you won’t at least give me an egg to create a grandchild’ look she gives me at barely ‘hello.’ How do you say ‘You’re an out-of-your-brain, derrible, gleak of a person and get a .02% score on the great mother scale, so I fear criminal prosecution if I let you do it in any form to another being.’ Hmm? What are the words?”
“Meeeekkkk” it purred back at her and seemed to decide the Renlly 6000 made less demanding company and went and sat on it.
“So it’s not just the males of my species, huh?” she replied to the terrak’s rebuff. Wyllmma longed for having enough reactions with males to even qualify for saying she had “negative luck” with them, but all she qualified for was the perma-buddy in the masculine world. She just wasn’t an image that brought to mind copulation and perpetuation of the species, but she had considered saving up for the reduction procedure. She wondered if life would be a bit better with a lot less of her.
Then she decided Eenot’s decision to sit on the Renlly food chiller was merely to encourage her to eat something deliciously unhealthy, and she patted her pet for its good judgment call.
Her mouth was half-filled with frozen crendling when the visphone rang. Assuming it was the ever-true Fryydden on the line at the ¾ derra, she answered it, spoon still in her mouth. The visage appeared on the wall screen of a brown-skinned woman with similarly purple eyes and greenish hair, although the color was fading with her age into something a bit reminiscent of the swamplands.
“Hello, love. You look like Tandarack.” (This was the name of the putrid swamp slurp which made up the outside world of Tandar.)
“Uh, thanks, Mother. You always know how to boost a girl’s opinion of herself.”
“Girl? You’re practically an old woman. How long do you think you can keep my future grandchildren alive in that body of yours, anyway?”
Okay, so that’s what she seemed to say with her eyes, according to Wyllmma’s astute senses. The real comment was, “Hello, love. I haven’t gotten a vis from you in too long. Are you doing well?”
It wasn’t the smell, the accatharsic job, or her general lack of a social life that made her want to leave this planet. It was this feeling she had right now. This guttural feeling of inadequacy, anger, and knowledge that it was just going to increase as this call went on was what made her want to be anywhere—anywhere—but on this slab of green semi-toxic, coalesced gas.
She didn’t believe the public service visuals that showed how safe the swampland was by having children laugh and play in it. “It won’t kill you. We promise!” was their ad slogan.
“Uh, greetings, Mother. I meant to holo you. Er, uh, how are things with you?” she tried to deflect the question.
“I wanted to let you know that I will be visiting you next quarter luna. I will be staying at your place for a few derras. Of course, that’s okay. Isn’t it? I mean, I don’t need to get a hotel?”
It appeared her mother’s passive-aggressive tendencies had continued.
“Oh, uh, sure. Of course. I would love to have you,” she lied.
“I am going to be in your horrible neighborhood to give a lecture on why we shouldn’t have or live in horrible neighborhoods. I do hope you’ll attend.”
“I, uh, am busy that derra, Mother.”
“But I will be lecturing for all eight, dear. Oh, it will be fun. At least I know you’ll enjoy the garuff cream puffs we’ll be serving,” she said and laughed.
It was yet another jibe at Wyllmma’s weight gain over the past few years. Par for the course with “maternal” conversations.
“Mother, I, uh—“
Wyllmma suddenly dematerialized.
“Hello? Hello?” the visphone continued.
* * * *
Wyllmma rematerialized with blaring whiteness all around her. Tandaranian irises did not quickly compensate for bright light, for there was never a need. Shutting her eyes just made the sense of being watched by incountable beings seem to encroach upon her, so she tried to search for a way out of—well, wherever she was.
“Glimpse, watchers, we have a shy one. Wyllmma, dear, you are an entrant on Intergalactic Heat!” spoke the announcer in Intergalactic, the default language of all NR.
Wyllmma had heard of the pay-per-reality show, but having a picnic in the putrid swamplands was higher on her list of fun times. Even a long visit from her mother would be preferable.
“Send me back. I am not worth watching and I have no intention of running through your mazes for food like some little eenar, nor will try for bonus points by mating with other species on your precious show. Just send me home and find another candidate.”
The giant blue announcer laughs, as does an unseen crowd. “Oh, dearie, you seem to have misunderstood your situation. We have been monitoring the thoughts of all of the creatures on your planet and have chosen you above all others—quite an honor, really, especially on such a pathetic little planet.
“But you have no choice in the matter. Be good Near Reality for our viewers or we will drop you on the nearest barely habitable planet and record your slow death there. Either way, we own you until you win. See, this is why we say no one loses on our show! Now go to your room and get into your approved attire—not that your current outfit isn’t quite hilarious. You have your first competition in 15 molderacks.”
Blinking, Wyllmma could finally make out more than just the creature’s size; it had a large mouth and glistening white fangs—probably capped for the show. There seemed to be a crowd of strange creatures all around her, but she noticed the halo of Near Reality on them, explaining how so many races and breeds would ever seem so close to her home planet. They had to have been in orbit, she assumed, at least when they abducted her. Abducted…wow, what could she do now? She walked into the rather charming bedroom and looked in the closet.
“Uck!” she exclaimed at the skimpiness of the clothes provided. “You call this clothing? I’ve heard of swimming attire on other planets looking like this, but no one wants to cover themselves with water from Tandar.” She wondered if she could wear all of them at once in an attempt to actually cover herself. The bedding looked comfortable, but it was virtual bedding that just felt like you were covered in soft warmth. Not cheap, and bad in a power outage, but quite luxurious.
13 moleracks, huh, well they didn’t make me head of the stitching club for nothing! She got out her portable stitching kit she always had handy for emergencies and quickly turned the designer swimming suits into a short jumper of many colors. At least she still had her comfortable shoes.
She walked out into the arena to uproars of laughter, but she held her dignity.
“Well, well, what do we have here? I see we should have patted you down for contraband. Still, if you are willing to bear the humiliation of wearing such a suit of many colors, we will let it slide for now. Your test is to dive into that tank of serraks and bring back the key before you suffocate. Sound fun? Any questions? Oh, and you will be competing with Jarryll here for it. Only one of you will win.”
Having never swam before, Wyllmma questioned whether dying slowly on a desolate planet wasn’t preferable to making a short spectacle of her death in this manner. The most important part seemed the rapid sinking, though, and she assumed her bulk would work in her favor. She looked over at Jarryll and gasped.
He was quite thin, but he seemed to be all bendy muscle, at least by how he seemed to turn into a pretzel in front of her. He looked like a sinewy meal for the serrak and like he would be too fast and lithe to be caught.
She asked the announcer, “What do I win besides my life if I win? Surely there’s more to this competition than that.”
“Well, er, uh, that’s usually enough for most higher-functioning creatures.”
“You’ve seen my life; you know what I have back home.” Sorry, Eenot, I’m finding my way back to you, I promise. “Why should I extend my life just for the sake of your show ratings? There is no water anyone would be crazy enough to swim in on my planet, so I have no advantage here. Tell me why I shouldn’t just sit here calmly while the clock runs out?”
He looked at her determined expression and wavered. “What do you think, crowd, shall I give her something else? Food, clothing, or something else?” he looked down at her while he was told the insta-score results. “Really? I see. Well, it seems they think you should pick one item or privilege. They want to see what you will choose, for you are an intriguing specimen.”
I would like a tour of the ship—but not by you. Let me see all of the ship with one of your underlings.”
He looked at her, offended.
She responded to his glare, “I just don’t like you very much. You are my kidnapper, after all.”
“Fine. Competitors get ready to dive. And DIVE!”
Wyllmma soon found that her fat made her both more buoyant and something impossible for the serraks to miss. She saw, quite far ahead of her, the flipping feet of her opponent. She mimicked his movement and began to finally go down. The swishing of water against her feet and against her suit was distracting, as was the giant serrak that seemed to find her quite a curiosity. She just kept flipping her feet and heading downward, glad she’d followed her opponent’s lead by holding her breath. But how much longer could she hold it in?
Jarryll was heading towards her now, hey in hand. He seemed like he was trying to mouth something mean to her, but he couldn’t waste the air. Could—and should—she tackle him with her last hint of breath? That was so barbaric.
His swift rise was suddenly yanked back. His foot was tangled in some kind of weed. He could not break free and was nearly out of air. Wyllmma grabbed the key he handed out to her and threw it out of her hand as her fat helped her quickly surface. She gasped for a breath while the crowds cheered and then dove back down towards Jarryll. His mouth was open and he would soon be dead, if not already. She got out the cutters in her stitcher kit and hoped the company had meant it when they said the kit could work under water. Her mother had chastised her for overspending on useless accoutrements, and she nearly laughed at the irony.
The cutters made quick work cutting the vine, but it had cut into Jarryll’s leg and brought the attention of the serrak. Now Wyllma swam for her life and not just the hope of saving Jarryll’s as she fought back the panic and kept holding her breath. They were nearly there—all of them, serrak included, but she held out hope that the one truly useful thing she had done in her life could actually end well. Upon breaking the surface, all spotlights on Wyllmma and what she carried, the bright light seemed to scare the serrak out of his meal and he swam away from the scene.
“Someone lift us out of here!” Wyllmma screamed at the crowd. The weight of herself wet on the surface was hard for her to handle, especially while trying to lift up Jarryll. Arms and tentacles surrounded her and raised first her bundle and then her body up out of the water. Once set upon her feet, she stumbled over to Jarryll’s body and wondered why no one was making a move to save him. She pushed through and started pressing on his lungs—or where she assumed they would be. She had guessed correctly because water was spat up in her face from the coughing body beneath her. She sat him up to help expel the rest of the water he’d inhaled.
If Mother could see me now . . . Okay, she would first go off for a while about what I’m wearing, but then she might actually be proud of me.
“You have broken the rules,” the announcer explained.
Wyllmma glared at him.
“This contest is disallowed because both of you survived. We were willing to let him die since you returned first with the key, but you have made it necessary for us to have another contest immediately. I’m sorry, but you have made quite a nuisance here.”
Wyllmma grabbed his face and showed him the shimmering NR fans all excited over this turn of events. “You wanted ratings and popularity, didn’t you? What do you call that? Now give me a towel—How could I have left home without that?—and a tour of the ship. Please,” she mocked.
She was allowed to put on her robe and slippers while her outfit was washed or, more likely, replaced, as they soon confiscate her stitching kit. As requested, a lowly member of the crew appeared at her door to show her the ship.
Wyllmma feigned interest in the engine room, the operation deck, and even the hydroponic garden—although that really was beautiful and smelled like ripe ovalattas—but tried to seem uninterested when they finally reached the dematerialization room. She looked over the shoulder of the officer as she delivered a blow to his neck and he collapsed.
At least this one was a humanoid. Now to get out of here before my luck runs out.
Thankfully, the technology was similar to that made by her company and she could easily access the Help Me menu.
I’ve never been so grateful to have my derky job in tech support.
It took longer than she wanted to figure out how to use the contraption, but she found her living room coordinates stored in the machine’s memory. Wyllmma pressed the controls just as the announcer had come into the room to transport himself somewhere apparently important by the look of his attire. She twitched her nose in a teasing goodbye and was gone.
* * * *
“Visphone ON! Dial emergency channel!”
A holoprojection of a town security officer appeared on the screen. “May we help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to report a crime in orbit. I was abducted and—“ She heard the hum of a security shield being erected around her apartment and she heaved a relieved sigh. “Yes, so I was abducted from my apartment to be a contestant on Intergalactic Heat…”
“The reality show? Really? Did you get to be on pay-per-reality? That’s so cool.”
Wyllmma rolled her eyes and continued filling out the report from the comfort of her Ultimate Relaxer 4000, Eenot purring on her lap.
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