Tales From the Terran Republic

Vikkart walked hand in hand with Maatisha through Kaath Park as bright purple Laavash blossoms fell around them.

She looked up at him with adoring eyes as he leaned in to touch his nose to hers…

“Darling, it’s time to wake…”

He struggled to hang on to the image for just one moment longer.

“It’s time to awaken, my love.”

He reluctantly awoke and turned to the hologram of his beloved Maatisha hovering over a digital clock.

He really had to get up.

Sighing, he got out of his small bed and off of the thin but surprisingly comfortable mattress and folded the bed up against the polymer wall of the “cube” he now rented in lieu of his fashionable downtown flat.

It was tiny, he could almost reach out and touch both sides at once, but it was very well designed. No square inch was wasted. He then went to the sink/shower/toilet combo in one corner and took his morning poop and a quick shower, the water flowing down the hydrophobic walls and floor that covered the entire cube and down the drain.

It was surprisingly convenient. Any spills anywhere just disappeared, and keeping the place clean was a breeze.

He wondered why all dwellings weren’t made this way. It was, by definition, not expensive.

He took a few steps to the tiny but efficient kitchenette, folded down a table from the wall, pulled out his only bowl, and opened a cracked crockery canister he got at a nearby “carpet market” where people sold this and that while sitting on carpets with their wares. At least they did when it got its name. Now, they usually had folding tables.

He then placed a blender obtained from the same market and filled it with three different grains and pieces of a dehydrated vegetable, the traditional “four pillars” of the Garthran diet. Those four things alone were sufficient to keep a Garthra alive and reasonably healthy. He then carefully measured a little cupful of powdered milk from a cardboard box and then added a very precisely leveled spoonful of a dark powder, instant glooa, Garthran “coffee,” and filled the rest of the blender with water.

His trusty blender quickly turned the contents into “harvest milk,” a traditional beverage used by farmers when, well, harvesting. He got the recipe from OurVision, their YouTube. (He added the instant glooa as a little modification and one of his few indulgences).

He then poured a measure of it over his cereal and, standing at the table, munched happily as he pressed an icon on his phone.

A holographic projector built into the cube (for free!) projected a room-sized screen that was automatically oriented to face him. Why did those fancy places he used to live bother with those fancy screens? This was much better.

He thoroughly enjoyed his breakfast with a glass filled with the rest of the harvest milk as he paid close attention to the local and business news. It wasn’t really part of his job, but it never hurt to be well-informed.

His coworkers certainly would be, and he didn’t want to be left out or caught wanting… again.

There was another local shooting. It wasn’t in his current neighborhood, which would surprise many. It was from an upper-class entertainment district. It arose from an argument concerning an unknowingly shared mistress after one too many drinks at an upscale bar.

He snorted. He halfway knew the people involved. Neither deserved sympathy.

They were nearly as awful as he once was.

A paralyzing amount of cringe and genuine regret momentarily consumed him. By the heavenly stream, he was awful.

He shook it off. He had to get ready.

He finished his breakfast and packed his lunch into a used andsomewhat dented but still perfectly usable lunch box. He opened the little mini fridge and filled it half full with steamed four pillars and the other half with sliced marnook, an inexpensive leafy vegetable made even cheaper by it being in season. He doused it with kaan, a type of vinegar. He then topped the entire box with bargaa seeds and small dehydrated “minnows.”

Between now and lunch, the vinegar would soak into the marnook, softening it slightly and making a nice “slaw,” the cold four pillars would naturally warm to a much more palatable room temperature, and the minnows would soak up the juices from the marnook and the vinegar and become quite tasty.

He smiled. For just a couple of credits, he had quite the feast lined up. He wished he could top it with a little oil, but he was out and needed to wait until his next payday to stock up. He wondered if he could trade for a little voosh grease from a neighbor or something.

He liked voosh grease. It made everything better. He wondered how he ever got by without it.

Too bad he couldn’t afford voosh right now, but it was a small price for Maatisha’s safety and comfort. Her comfort was more important than his.

He could choose how much he had to endure. She couldn’t.

Besides, he really didn’t have to “endure” much. He had come to like his little cube and his way of living. If anything, he was living better than he ever did before. His diet was much healthier, and having to walk to work had burned away the corpulence and poison from his wasted former life. Well, walking to the bus stop, then the train terminal, and then to his workplace. ṟＡℕo͍฿ËꞨ

He didn’t mind. The walk was pleasant, and the bus and train rides were his time that he could use to read, watch media, or write to Maatisha. Emails were much cheaper than the holo-calls that constantly drained what little extra money he had.

He made his way out of the building, taking time to greet his neighbors, who were exclusively stripes. His blonde coworkers wouldn’t be caught dead in this neighborhood.

More precisely, they could be very well caught dead around here. At least, they thought they could be. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

The dangerous area was several streets away. You didn’t want to go there (unless you wanted a prostitute, drugs, or a gun). Where he lived was a nice working-class neighbourhood that didn’t put up with that nonsense. Just as a blonde feared they would be caught dead here, a troublemaker from “the bleak” knew they would be caught dead if they started problems in the cubes.

In some ways, it was the nicest place he ever lived. There were loads of local and very inexpensive shops, carpet markets, little open space recreation areas, and lovely (and some not so lovely) art spray painted on the walls.

He even learned to play hoopstick, albeit rather badly. It was fun, though, and most importantly, free. You just needed a stick and a ball.

He also thought he knew how to play kangrel, a traditional board game. As it turns out, he, in fact, did not.

Down in the park, he was eaten alive, even by children. But, again, it was free. You just needed a pouch of game pieces. (He got a lovely old set from the carpet market.) The boards were etched into the park tables, sometimes by design, sometimes by hand. How ingenious was that?

Walking towards the bus stop, he grinned as people bobbed and bowed to him as if he were nobility. Laughing, he would give them “the wave” as they laughed back.

Being a “stripeless stripe” made him a local celebrity of sorts. However, it was all in good fun.

He was also a celebrity for another reason. Yes. He was “that one.” Everybody on the whole freaking planet knew about “that one.” When pressed, he always responded with, “Let’s have your cluster twisted to the point of bursting and see how you fare. I needed medical attention, for mud’s sake.”

That never failed to get a laugh. He was surprised to find that he liked making people laugh, even at his own expense.

It sounded like the baroness was doing quite well, though. Good for her. She had truly carved out a place for herself.

He smiled.

In a much more meager fashion, so had he. Here, he and Maatisha would be able to live no matter what. It may be tiny, both in size and in prospects, but his place was safe, secure, and surprisingly comfortable.

At the bus stop, he smiled and chatted with his fellow commuters. There was a newcomer who was visiting family. He smiled gamely at the questions, the same questions people always had down here. However, they were far more interested in the baroness than he. He had to disappoint them. His association with the baroness was quite brief, as eventful as it was, and he didn’t know her before their “courtship.”

On the trip to his workplace, he was delighted to find another email from Maatisha! His morning was officially made. As always, they were bittersweet. The more she insisted that she was well, the more he doubted it.

He saw the bruises. Outraged, he took up the issue with that bitch of a gangster. All she said about it was, “Accidents happen.” When pressed, she just smiled and said that Maatisha had “accidentally pissed her off” and suggested that a few thousand would certainly erase any hard feelings.”

Once again, what he had managed to save to make the slightest dent in Maatisha’s debt was gone.

However, Maatisha was safe, and the bruises faded. More importantly, they weren’t refreshed.

He couldn’t let himself lose hope, though. He had to remain strong... for her.

As he left the final subway and made his way to his father’s towering building. He had to, once again, run what his coworkers had dubbed “the pinch,” referring to the choke points built into their ancient fortifications.

The other greys sneered and made little cutting remarks as he passed. He long since stopped caring. Why should he? They didn’t know.

They didn’t know why he did all of this. They were so lost they wouldn’t understand even if they did.

They also didn’t know how little he thought of them and their opinion these days. The only opinions he cared about were his coworkers, his neighbours...

...and, of course, her.

The greys were faceless and, for the most part, nameless. They were worth less than the rubbish in the street as far as he was concerned.

The taunting continued in the lobby of his father’s building, but not by all. The more senior among their ranks were strangely polite, almost as if they knew something the cubs did not. Where the “cubs” made caustic remarks, they only smirked...

...and it wasn’t at Vikkart.

Vikkart smiled and smiled at his watch, a cheap plastic credit store special (he sold his fancy one long ago). He had a little time to pause at the fountain. He liked the fountain.

He sat and penned a love letter to Maatisha until it was... oops... five minutes later than it should have been.

The lobby was nearly empty as he rushed to the elevator.

It was empty.

“Hold the door!” a feminine voice called out, and his blood ran cold. It was Varkshaa, or “The Fangs” if she was out of earshot, a very high-level executive. Her nickname was due to her elaborately carved and embellished teeth, which were quite the fashionable accessory back in her day. Now, they serve as a cautionary tale about permanent “fashionable” body modifications.

Jewelled teeth hadn’t been fashionable for forty years.

She had never gotten hers removed, though. She said that it was because her teeth were too damaged. However, it was rumoured (in private) that it was because she just liked them.

They weren’t fashionable anymore, but they were certainly intimidating.

“Intimidating” was sort of her thing. Even her superiors kept clear of her.

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“Young Vikkart,” she smiled. “It has been quite a while since I’ve seen you in the fur.”

“Likewise, Varkshaa,” Vikkart replied smoothly, reminding himself that the old viper could smell fear.

“It must be nice,” she smiled, flashing those disturbing teeth.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” he replied, “What is nice?”

“Business casual,” she said as she gestured toward him.

Ah, more teasing. At least she had class.

“It most certainly is,” Vikkart replied. “It is quite freeing, not to mention every bit as comfortable as it looks.”

“And it shows you off nicely,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “I had no idea all of that... that... was hiding under all of your blubber.”

“Neither did I,” he smiled, refusing to be rattled. To be honest, he would much rather be trapped in that elevator with a viper. It would be safer.

“I wonder if your father is hiding something similar,” she smiled widely, her delicately embellished teeth gleaming wickedly, “I might just have to do a ‘hostile takeover’ and work the fat off of him.”

“I thank you on my mother’s behalf and wish you good fortune,” Vikkart replied with a smirk.

Varkshaa cough chortled, shooting a small gobbet of snot out like a cannon, hitting Vikkart square in the chest.

“Oh, you have grown up, haven’t you?” she chuckled as she withdrew her handkerchief and cleaned his shirt in a slightly lascivious manner. “Those blondes have rubbed off on you.”

She grinned slyly.

“Speaking of rubbings, have any of them offered any? I hear that some of them have a taste for silver.”

“I would thank you not to cast such dispersions about my department. They are nothing but professional,” he said, “Besides, my heart belongs to another.”

Varkshaa’s wicked smile grew serious.

“Vikkart,” she said, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, “About her. Have you managed to actually verify...”

The elevator chimed, and the door opened.

“Looks like it’s my stop,” he said coldly as he lifted her hand from his shoulder. “Enjoy your trip skyward,” he added with a definite “blonde” snippiness and then walked away.

Varkshaa just sighed and shrugged.

“I hope I’m wrong. I really do,” she said to nobody once the doors closed.

***

Later that day, a group of blondes clustered around the kettle, as was their habit.

“You gave Vikkart another sweet bun today,” Loaoo said to Keelii.

“Oooo!” the group crooned.

“It’s not like that!” Keelii said. “I just... I don’t know... He just seems so sad.”

“Sounds like you want to cheer him up, huh” Greetah snickered as she parted Keelii’s fur.

“Hey!” Keelii exclaimed, “What was that?”

“Just checking your skin in case it was starting to turn blue.”

“Oh, go jump in a lake,” Keelii snapped.

Everyone laughed as Keelii bristled... and blushed.

“Well, I have to say he’s filling out quite nicely,” an older blonde mused. “I might have to lick that spoon myself.”

“Moortisha!”

“What?” she snickered, “It’s not like you weren’t thinking it.”

“I was not!” Keelii snapped.

“Your nose betrays you,” Moortisha snerked. “That nose wants a sniff and not of your tea.”

“It’s not like it matters anyway,” Keelii grumbled, her arms crossed, “Maatisha... Maatisha... Maatisha... Humph.”

“So you do want to lick the punchbowl!” Moortisha grinned. “But can you blame him? You’ve seen the pics. That is one shiny little locket if I ever saw one.”

Vikkart approached, mug in hand. The tea there was complimentary, and he was all about free these days.

The group fell mostly silent at his approach (with some giggling).

“So, what, or who are we talking about?” he asked with a smile as he filled his mug and selected his tea.

“Just baking,” Moortisha replied. “We were just asking Keelii about her sweet little buns,” she said causing more giggling and Keelii’s nose to turn nearly purple.

Moortisha grinned.

“So, Vikkart,” she smiled, “Do you like Keelii’s buns?”

“I adore them!” Vikkart replied innocently, “Her approach with those fragrant delights truly brighten my...”

He looked with confusion at the now spasming assembly and Keelii’s practically glowing nose.

“Okay,” he sighed, “What did I say this time?”

Blonde and grey culture (and idioms) were vastly different. Whatever could buns mean besides...

Suddenly, shouting and screeching filled the cubicle farm that they all shared.

A grey was waving around a tablet and yelling at young Teegla, the most junior in the department, even greener than Vikkart (if a bit more qualified).

The blondes around him flattened their ears and hissed quietly, glaring at the intruder. However, Vikkart, no matter how humbled, was still grey. This other grey just invaded his home and was attacking one of his people, their youngling at that.

“Oh, HELL no,” he said as he set his mug beside the kettle.

“Ladies,” he said, “We shall discuss Keelii’s buns at another time. Excuse me for just a moment.”

With that, Vikkart calmly started walking towards the disturbance, leaving wide eyes and hushed whispers behind him.

“What is going on?” the manager demanded.

“What’s going on?!?” the grey shouted, “This... vermin... sabotaged my budget, that’s what! I want her fired!”

“I will investigate this,” the manager said wearily, “and will take it up with her if necessary.”

“Oh, you will do more than that!” the grey shouted, “Do you realize how much money this thing has cost us?”

“Probably not one credit,” Vikkart said as he walked up.

“You keep out of this, trash pelt!” the grey shouted.

“My pelt notwithstanding,” Vikkart said, “I know this department, and I know that report. It does have her name on it as the initial scribe. It also has the names of her mentor and the manager who I know reviewed it personally because he used it to teach me a certain macro. So, if someone is incompetent, it would be him.”

Vikkart stepped forward far too close to the other grey.

“Are you seriously implying that our manager, a man who has been here since before you were the ejaculation your mother should have swallowed, got it wrong so badly? Are you saying that an entire department far more qualified than you will ever be somehow erred to such an extent?”

Vikkart sneered at the intruder.

“This department does not make mistakes. That we leave to you.”

“Well...” the grey spluttered and then turned his anger towards Vikkart.

“What do you know?” he snarled. “You are just down here because you are so much of a waste that your own father wouldn’t even let you manage a water cooler!”

“As well he shouldn’t,” Vikkart replied with a shrug, “That much is clear. What is not clear is why you have your position. Wabaan, is it?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It means that you are the last person to talk about nepotism,” Vikkart said as the entire department crowded around them.

Vikkart snatched the tablet from Wabaan’s hands.

“Now let’s see here...” Vikkart said.

“Give that back!” Wabaan shouted as he lunged at Vikkart, who turned away from him sharply, elbowing Wabaan in the process.

“That is an assault of a superior!” Wabaan shouted as the older blondes started shooing everyone back a few paces.

“Oh, I see where you fucked up,” Vikkart sneered as he tossed the tablet to the ground in front of Wabaan. “It isn’t due to our data, and coming down here like the piss-soaked snotling you are won’t provide you a swimming buddy. You are taking the plunge over this one, dude.”

“How DARE you!” Wabaan shouted, “I can have you fired, you... you... waste of a grey pelt!”

The room gasped and fell silent.

“Yeah, I said it!” Wabaan yelled, “Daddy’s little bitch! You are only down here because no grey will touch you. Maybe one of these blondes will!”

“Incorrect on two points,” Vikkart said coldly. “One, nobody here is going to ‘touch’ me. We are professionals down here and don’t carry around like you upstairs, spreading and bending for just the promise of a future promotion.”

Vikkart then walked towards a nearby cubicle.

“And as far as you getting me fired,” Vikkart snarled, “My position is far more secure than yours, secured by my holdings. In fact, I can take this very uncomfortable stool and beat you within an inch of your life and still clock in tomorrow.”

“You? Ha!” Wabaan laughed, “Daddy’s little bitch wouldn’t have the—“

***

Vikkart, holding a wad of paper towels over his split lip, stood anxiously on the carpet in front of his father’s desk, staring at the back of his chair as his father looked out the window.

“I just got the most curious email from Caabark, he said. It contained a most interesting file from the security cameras on your floor.”

His father turned his chair to face his son.

“Would you like to see it?”

“I... Um... I was there...” Vikkart said weakly.

“You certainly were,” his father snickered as he got up and walked to his liquor cabinet...

...and pulled out two glasses.

He poured a measure into both and handed one to a very confused Vikkart.

His father was smiling.

“I find that the burn of a fine fanneel is the perfect pairing for a bleeding mouth. Let’s take a look...”

He pulled Vikkart’s hand with the paper towel away.

“His uncle will be pleased that the snotling got at least one good shot in before you sent him to the emergency room,” he laughed. “Drink up.”

Vikkart drank, trying very hard not to wince. Hard liquor and cuts do not mix well.

His father smiled at the traces of blood on his son’s glass.

“Am I getting fired?” Vikkart wailed no longer able to stand the pressure, “Please don’t fire me! I need this job! Please!”

“Fire you?” his father laughed. “Just when you rise in my estimation, you go and prove yourself a fool once more.”

“Father?”

“That snotling went down where he didn’t belong and started stirring up the blondes. Worse, he targeted the newest and weakest of the bunch. They couldn’t tread him underfoot like he deserved, but you could. That grey pelt of yours isn’t wasted. You put it to good use.”

His father drained his drink and refilled both of their glasses.

“If you hadn’t made his face the shape of a stool, do you know what would have happened?”

“The blondes would have been angry?”

“Ex fucking actly!” his father replied empathically. “And it wouldn’t have been just that floor, especially if that dipsnout pressed for a termination, which he most certainly would. You should know by now who actually runs this outfit, right?”

“The blondes?”

“Got it the first time,” his father smiled. “You haven’t seen a blonde revolt, and I hope you never do. They don’t agitate or slow down like the stripes. They quit... permanently. Every single one of your coworkers can get a job somewhere else within a month, two at most. Imagine if your department was cut by twenty-five percent, and then that twenty-five percent started calling their friends with offers from their new firm? I’ve weathered it once and hope to never do it again. This company could have bled worse than that snotling’s face when we piled him into the ambulance.”

His father laughed.

“And don’t worry about criminal charges,” he said. “As far as the police go, this is ‘just one of those grey things,’ and they couldn’t care less. More importantly, his uncle considers the whole affair as doing his idiot nephew and this whole company a favor. He’s passing around the video more than anyone.”

He clapped his son on the shoulder, causing Vikkart to reflexively flinch.

“And word is indeed spreading through the blonde horde,” his father said. “Many a mug around many a kettle is being raised in your honor during yet another of their unauthorized breaks,” he added with a chuckle. “In fact, most of the dripping building is on one of those right now.”

He shrugged.

“Meh, they will get back to work sooner or later. Rule number one of management,” he said, “Don’t piss off the blondes. And you, my son, have quite the way with them it seems.”

“I don’t know about that,” Vikkart replied weakly.

“You honestly think we don’t have snitches all over the building?” his father laughed. “By an overwhelming majority, you are considered ‘the only grey pelt in the building worth a fuck.’ That alone guarantees your continued employment. It would be suicidal to fire you.”

He looked at his son appraisingly.

“You were officially sent down there to ‘learn the business.’ But we both know it was to run you off. But did you? Did you learn the business?”

“Creators, no!” Vikkart laughed despite himself. “I can barely craft a decent report. I don’t even know how to make a spreadsheet. I can only use canned forms, and I can scarcely do that.”

“So, what was wrong with the bloody snotling’s budget?”

Vikkart huffed dismissively.

“Damned idiot just blindly copy-pasted the data from our report into last year’s formulas. That worked just fine until this year. It would be off by a little either way but within the acceptable error thresholds and it would probably be better than that moron trying to do it himself.”

“Why?”

“Shipping costs have risen over one hundred and fifty percent, thanks to the thrice-damned Forsaken. His budget failed to include that little detail. I mean, how stupid can you be? Not to mention the...”

His father just smiled and sipped his drink, only occasionally interrupting to ask a few questions every now and then.

“You can stop talking now,” he said.

“Father?”

“I’ve made my decision.”

“Your... decision?”

“The snotling is getting ‘archived’ over this one. Both his budget and him stirring up trouble downstairs was the last mote. This wasn’t his first screw-up.”

Vikkart shuddered. Being archived was the grey’s version of getting fired. It was worse than getting fired, much much worse for one of them. Due to family connections and a certain code, firing a fellow grey was rarely done.

What was done was archiving them, “filing them away,” for the rest of their employment. They would be demoted to the lowest level suitable for their status, put alone in a private “office” in the basement, and forgotten. The meaning was obvious. They had lost their place there and they should find another... Now.

There was something akin to a dungeon down there, but there were office chairs instead of chains.

“So that opens up a position,” his father continued. “and we prefer to promote from within...”

“Are... are you...” Vikkart stammered.

“I am,” his father said. “I’ve already conferred with your superior, and she is completely on board with the decision.”

“Varkshaa...” Vikkart chuckled ruefully.

His father looked at him strangely.

“How did you know?”

“I should have known her jumping into the elevator wasn’t by mistake,” Vikkart said, shaking his head, “It is not like her to be tardy. The raptor was likely perched, waiting for her tender little morsel to scramble past.”

“Sounds like her,” his father laughed. “Anyway, she liked the cut of your trousers and approves of your work. As she put it, you ‘creating a vacancy all by yourself,’ was the final grain on the balance. She would love for you to join her team.”

Vikkart hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” his father said, “You are much more qualified than the file folder you are replacing.”

“It’s not that,” he said, “I just will miss my coworkers.”

“Oh, you will still be in touch. Who do you think they report to?”

Vikkart felt nauseous.

“Think of it as you still being able to look out for your people,” his father said. “The elders of the blonde horde are already making a pool concerning this very possibility.”

“But I’m not ready!”

“The fact that you have that concern indicates that you are,” his father said. “Besides, with the executive position comes executive pay. You can maybe free your girl after all.”

Vikkart gasped. He hadn’t thought of that yet.

“Vikkart...” his father said cautiously, “Have you heard of the princess in the tower?”

“The princess?”

“It is an old scam,” his father said.

“Maatisha is NOT A SCAM!”

“And I hope you are right, son,” his father said, “Up until now, I was willing to let this play out. It was ‘harmless’ and, well, it kept you working, something that I long thought impossible. You have even ‘grown up’ into a fine young man. I thought you worthless. A good businessman recognizes his mistakes and turns them into profit when he can. Remember that.”

His father sighed.

“But you are now going to be in a position where you will have an influence on this company and access to funds, authority to create budgets, and the like. If this is a scam... and I hope it isn’t...” he added quickly, “But IF it is, you could do real damage to this company and to your coworkers.”

“She’s real!” Vikkart exclaimed, “I know she is!”

“Then let’s spring her,” his father said. “Tell your captors that you can pay in full. I’ll back you up to a million credits. I’ve offered ten times as much for someone to marry you before,” he laughed. “If Maatisha is real, they will have no problems releasing her. If she isn’t, they will come up with some bullshit excuse and try to string you along some more, just like that princess in that tower. Tell them that it’s a lump sum or nothing.”

“Father! If I stop paying...”

“If she’s real, they won’t turn down the money,” his father said. “I’ll even go up to five million. If that’s not enough, then nothing will be. Either she will be free and with you, or she will evaporate like the phantom she unfortunately is.”

He put his hand on Vikkart’s shoulder again. Vikkart was too overwhelmed to flinch.

“Either way, your suffering is at an end, and you can start your life for real, here, at my side. Go. Take the day and call these brutes. Don’t give them the whole five million if you don’t have to. You need to start working on your negotiating skills. Start with the debt as it is and really pay attention to what is going on.”

“Yes, Father,” Vikkart said, “And thank you.”

“Go,” his father said, “Handle your business.”

After Vikkart left, the door opened, and Varkshaa entered.

“I honestly hope I’m wrong, Vark,” Vikkart’s father said.

“Me, too.”

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