Story:Meanwhile, in the Northeast

The Luckiest

78 PC

Varos Oqoma was an ordinary man, as far as he or anyone else could tell. He belonged firmly to the middlers, the caste compromising the bulk of the population of T'vaqi. He had been born in a hospital and raised in an apartment and shipped off to his local city Institute with staggering efficiency, and without so much as a stray word on his own part. He studied and graduated and married, took a well-paying job, settled down in a house. Varos was content with this. He liked being ordinary.

Varos worked at a packaging a few hoshavi away by train. The factory was owned by a company which was owned by a company which was owned by IVO. Varos worked as a Quality Manager. His job was to sift through packaged products and find the ones that came out wrong, then reprimand the employee responsible. It involved a great deal of paperwork, which Varos happened to excel at doing. He took pride in this capability.

Varos' wife, a bobbling fruit of a woman named N'sha, was right pleased with her husband. She stood every morning at the doorway ripe with appreciation, ready to place her hand at the side of his neck and wish him a good day at work. Always she would insist he stayed in their house a little longer, and always he would return only a waxy smile and say "I really must go," to which N'sha would relent. She liked to close the door on him softly.

N'sha's own day job as an Academic Reviewperson was simple enough to perform at home. Once a week, she was delivered a gargantuan stack of student transcripts. Over the course of the next ten days, she would spend her time thoroughly examining them. She was tasked to separate the transcripts into those that seemed "suspicious" and those that were "adequate". Once she was done with the week's sorting, she would hand off the suspicious papers to the deliveryperson, who carted them off somewhere she needn't think about. The adequate papers ended up in the community incinerator.

At work, Varos thought of his wife, and only of his wife. He spent his time daydreaming warm and blurry pictures of his house, where she sat patiently waiting for him to return. Very rarely was he required to devote enough thought to his work to disrupt this comforting mental haze. Even more rarely did someone approach him and strike conversation serious enough to draw him outside of his head. Varos, though a friendly man, was tall and stark with a gravely serious face, aspects which combined to create a rather intimidating presence.

Come evening, Varos would take the train back home, where N'sha would be waiting at the door exactly as he had left her. He would place his head atop hers and wrap his forearm around the back of her neck, closing the door with his free hand. They would stay like this until it was decided that dinner was in order. They would eat and talk fondly of nothing, and they would be satisfied. They would shuffle into bed together and wait until drowsiness took them, and when they each woke up they would be mildly delighted to see the other still there.

Varos felt more than comfortable in the routine. On one of countless gray mornings, he found himself on the train to work, having just dropped his Personal Card. It had slipped out of his pocket and fluttered beneath a seat. He had noticed, and was crouched low to the ground in search of it when he spotted a small square of paper, wedged under a crevice in the train wall. He retrieved it and quickly found that it was not his Personal Card, or anyone's Personal Card, for that matter; it was instead only a grimy note, on which words were written in a hasty scrawl. It read:

YOU ARE THE LUCKIEST IN THE WORLD

CALL FREQUENCY ████ SUBFREQ ██ SAY YOU FOUND THIS

LARGE QHI REWARD

Varos was startled. He dropped the note just as the train doors opened, and a draft carried it outside of the train car and onto the tracks. He scrounged anxiously for his Personal Card and stashed it back in his pocket, where it belonged. He left for the factory and paid the note no further mind. By the time the setting sun led him back to his home's radio, he had already forgotten the numbers. He said nothing of it to N'sha, for fear of disrupting her complacence.

The next day, Varos was sifting through packages, lost in a dull-orange daydream. His mind glowed passively. Despite his trained eye, there was a defect in the pile of products that he almost failed to catch. Something was different about one of them. It was not a torn edge, nor an improper fold, nor a loose fit, and Varos had to squint to be sure he was not seeing things. He bent at a right angle and reached down to grab the item, lifting it close to his face. In familiar messy handwriting, there was a note written on the packaging. It read:

YOU ARE THE LUCKIEST IN THE WORLD

FREQUENCY ████ SUBFREQ ██ PLEASE

LARGE REWARD

Varos held on to the item for some time. His daydream cloud was dispelled. With striking resolve, he hurled the package back into the pile, and vowed silently to think of the frequency no more. He figured there could be no good reward for such a shady endeavor. He figured his wife would say much the same.

Varos did not file any paperwork for the defect, and he issued no reprimands. Despite his best attempts at ignorance, he found he could not lull himself back into his daily trance. He felt clumsy and stiff, as if he were giving directions to himself from outside his body. This unfortunate state of being pervaded him. It felt absolutely foreign.

For the first time in his life, Varos Oqoma was utterly bored.

Varos decided immediately that he did not like being bored. He thought of N'sha, but the images he saw were too startlingly clear. He tried thinking of his work as an exciting game, but he found no diversion there. All the while, his thoughts kept drifting back to the frequency, and he had to force them aside as though pulling a lever.

Varos left work that day in a disheveled state. His eyes were dark and his cheeks sank into the skull. He felt as though something was interminably wrong with him. Worse, he feared something had always been wrong with him. He fidgeted with his Personal Card on the train seat, holding out for his wife. Surely, he thought, N'sha could explain what was happening. Surely she could diagnose why he felt the way he did.

Then he thought longer. He considered that N'sha may be amazed by the situation. He considered that, possibly, she would encourage him to take the reward, whatever it was. She would tell him what he felt was simple surprise, and nothing else. The possibility unnerved him.

Varos thought it cruel that a few words could stir up such worry.

Varos opened the door to his home and was at once calmed by the sight of N'sha standing there. They engaged in their usual arm-around-neck gesture, but Varos felt a clamminess set on her skin. He pulled away from her and saw that she seemed frightened.

"I looked through an odd transcript today," she quavered, staring beadily at Varos.

"Oh," said he.

N'sha retreated to a table nearby where there sat a gray tower of paper. She plucked a page off the top of the stack and stepped near Varos, holding it close to his face so that he could see the writing. In neatly printed letters, where a student's name should have been, it read:

YOUR HUSBAND IS THE LUCKIEST IN THE WORLD

TELL HIM TO CALL ████ SUBFREQ ██

SO MUCH MONEY FOR YOU

Varos' heart went white. He stared at the page for a few breaths, forehead creased. He wanted nothing to do with this. With concerted effort, his face melted into a gentle smile, which told N'sha all that she needed to know.

"Don't worry about it, dear," said Varos.

"We shouldn't worry about it," she echoed. And that was that.

The following morning, Varos felt better. He was in good control of his thoughts. He felt ordinary. After a morsel of food, he said his usual I really must go to N'sha and left for work.

Varos did not see the note affixed to the door until evening, for his wife, in her usual fashion, had not closed the door until after he was out of sight. At the factory, he had already begun to re-immerse himself in his warm visions. He thought little of the frequency or the reward until he saw the paper square hanging flimsily at eye level. He knew already what it would say, and was thoroughly unenthused at the idea of reading it. He approached it to tear it off the door. In that sharp, unclean script, it read:

COME ON MAN

JUST CALL

PLEASE

Varos took delight in ripping the paper apart.

That night, in the bed with N'sha, Varos fell asleep second. He spent a long while awake, staring alternately at her silhouette and the ceiling. In those moments before heavy sleep descended like a curtain, Varos could not help but feel that he was the luckiest man in the world.

Crossed Swords

14 PC

"It's coming down heavy, Hito. I'd call this off while we both still have our integrity," Paq shouts amidst curtains of rain.

"It's the coast. The Storm's always coming down," I reply.

"Thought I'd try."

Unamused, I retreat into my tent. In the brief reprieve from the weather, I survey my remaining belongings: two disposable recording devices, a Sthampi combat blade (two-handed, wooden hilt), my portable radio, and a few dripping-wet pouches of radish loaf. I stuff both recorders in the pocket of my rain-trousers and drag the blade out of the tent with one hand. The loaf goes untouched.

Paq shouts at me again as I walk towards him, armed.

"I could just give you more land, you know. Really valuable land. I admit, I deceived you a little when you bought this chunk of Viqho here, but I really did need it off my hands, you understand."

I take the recorders out and wave them at him. The rain reduces the devices to a gray-orange haze from his point of view, but he knows their purpose well enough.

"Hito, I'm sorry, I just can't take it back. It was a detriment to my income," he appeals.

"Doesn't matter anymore," I tell him, approaching closely enough to discern his facial features through the downpour. "I own the land now. My dad can cover the costs. A smart guy like him earns a lot of money as Grand Magister."

"So why go through with this?"

I stop walking a few paces before him. I adjust my grip on the blade, holding it vertically by the hilt with both hands. The tip digs into the coarse sand of the beach. I let a gust of wind catch my hair before I speak.

"Because, like you figured out, this is about integrity. You deceived me, and you had no remorse. Now we're settling things like my ancestors would've."

"That's idiotic!" he yells back at me.

"You won't die. The closest medical care facility isn't far by foot, and I stocked immediate first aid in an old shack nearby."

Paq simply stares at me. I don't care enough to argue further. I toss a recorder to him, which he fumbles and picks up out of the sand. He holds it up to his face.

"This won't work in this weather," he says.

"It's functional. Made special for use underwater. Press the button and say what you have to."

He hesitates several times, bringing the device to his lips and away again, as if undergoing some acute bout of forgetfulness. Finally, he speaks, with enough booming clarity to be heard through the torrent.

"My name is Paq Olori. The date is 9642.0. Through this recording I am confessing to the unlawful evasion of Council-imposed taxes, and the illegal redirection of these saved funds to private investment agencies. This was done with the explicit purpose of accruing investment value for my own corporation, Industrial Installment Services. Proof of this can be found in investment logs located within sub-floor one of IIS' headquarters, inside a room which can be opened with key-code

."

Paq stops the recording forcefully, tearing the device away from his face.

"Your turn," he shouts.

I hold my recorder to my face and speak.

"My name is Hito Taqar. The date is 9642.0. I manipulated my father's connections in the Bureau of Academic Affairs to gain an unfair advantage on the Cognitive Capacity Exam. You can verify this by showing this recording to Magister Atsoq Lin'mi of the BoAA and telling him the jig is up," I say. Quickly, I add, "My father, Grand Magister Sivro Taqar, is unaware of this."

Rumbling thunder punctuates my statement. I stop the recording and take a step towards Paq. I outstretch my arm, holding my recorder within his reach. He shrinks back and pauses before doing the same. We exchange devices; I place his back in my rain-trousers.

"There," I tell him. "You back out of this, you can expect to visit prison. Same goes for me."

"I just don't see how it's fair. You already knew about my funds," he replies angrily.

"How else was I meant to drag you out here? All I've done is make things more fair with my own confession."

Paq scoffs and stoops down, knee to the ground. He stuffs the recorder I gave him into a thoroughly soaked robe pocket. From a patch of yellow grass, he produces an absurdly pointed saber. The weapon appears almost like a novelty, something that would appear in a children's illustration of warring factions long ago. Its hilt is perfectly smooth, the triangular blade shining white even in the Storm. Paq resembles a caricatured criminal as he grips it tightly.

"Straight out in front of you," I tell him.

He obeys, his outstretched arms holding the saber perpendicular to his body. I match his stance, adjusting my position so the tips of each blade barely touch.

"Three steps back."

Both of us follow my command.

"At the next strike of thunder."

There is a lull in the rain. For a few moments, I register only a drizzle. Paq's arms falter, struggling with the moderate weight of his saber. We stare at each other.

Suddenly, the Storm descends upon us again like a wall. A flash of lightning and a crack of thunder. My legs kick off the ground automatically, lunging forward towards Paq's vague silhouette. I briefly lose sight of him in the rain, disorienting myself until his form reappears by my side, saber held high above his head. He swings and misses. I bring my blade around to my other side in preparation for a slash, but am met with a sharp, metallic resistance from his weapon. I stumble backwards, caught off-guard by the maneuver. I don't have enough time to react before Paq swipes again, his blow only barely deflected by my blade, which I hold close to my chest. The impact is just enough to knock me off balance, and I fall to the ground on my back.

I nearly scramble to my feet, but Paq has me cornered. He stands between my sprawled legs, his short frame now seeming enormous, his saber's wickedly pointed tip aimed at the bridge of my nose. He breathes heavily. His eyes are frenzied with disbelief.

"Is this... are we done?" he pants.

Pure vitriol shoots through my veins at the movement of his lips. I have lost to the lowest of the low, been conquered by a man who thinks nothing of disrespect. The magnitude of my fury is so great, so unquenchable, that my next action is the only thinkable choice I could make.

Without so much as a flinch, I wrench my blade upwards into his abdomen with one hand. He cries out. For a moment I feel, perhaps for the first time, complete and total satisfaction.

Then I am on my feet, sprinting to my tent. My actions sink in with sweeping clarity. I burst through the entrance, trampling the radish loaf as I scramble for my radio. I grab it and twist the dials with shaking fingers, contacting home.

"Hey, dad? I kind of need a little help..."

Exchange

231 TT

TASTY MHORO MARKET

FRESH FRUIT PUREES PIES

WE ACCEPT TRADES

So the sign reads. I lift it with hands still wet from washing the last harvest. My back aches in protest of the exertion, and I stifle a grunt. I bring the wooden slab above my head and slide it into place atop my stand, where it rests upright against a metal wire which keeps it from falling. I dust my hands off and check for splinters - none. My wheelcart, painted a distinctive green, sits within the confines of my vendor space. That should be all the setup for the morning.

I roll down my sleeves and take my place behind pyramids of crates, each with TASTY MHORO carved into the base. Most are stocked full with Mhoro fruit products: jams, baked goods, and the like. The Mhori themselves fill the pyramid peaks, stuffed in cross-woven baskets which barely keep from overflowing. Each perfectly spherical fruit sparkles in the sun. I keep a bucket of water on hand at all times, for when the little beads from the wash dry out. The promise of freshly-rinsed produce is irresistible to the usual market-goer.

Already the street is populated, even though most of the morning stands haven't finished assembling their displays. The corrugated-metal rooftops of urban Doron distort the morning light in rusted peaks and valleys. Residents of the painted brick homes take guarded steps into the road, taking care to avoid tripping on the myriad labeled boxes and baskets that line the ground. Vendors have to be wary of the early crowd. Most sellers, myself included, refuse trades outright before setup is complete, for fear of the dreaded lowball. Distraction is a terrible thing for the business-oriented; last week, while organizing his wares, the man across from me traded a hand-carved V'shi set for the buyer's left shoe. The shoe fell apart in his hands.

There are no actual rules to the Doron market. They aren't even scheduled; vendors and customers simply show up when they feel like it. During the warmer months, the market is busy through night and day. Since total anarchy is hardly productive for most, the "no-official-rules" aspect comes with the basic stipulations required for a market to function. Justice is enforced by the indiscriminate eye of the locals. Blatant stealing is rewarded with a mad chase from a dozen angry shoppers. For some time after the Unification, the new government made Magisters patrol the vendor streets, but they turned a blind eye after figuring out that the justice mobs were more inclined to harass them than the actual criminals. The public always wants something to anger themselves with, and the uptight patrol provided the public with exactly that. I provided the public with snacks.

It isn't long before patrons arrive at my stand, scrutinizing with squinted eyes. I let them peruse on their own time while I trace shapes in the clouds. Most prospective buyers simply examine the display and move on; I learned long ago not to force purchases. Soon enough, the customer comes to me. Indeed, that is exactly what happens.

The man has an elderly, fishlike face, his nose flat and his head thin. There is an uncanny absence of wrinkles on his face and neck. The tufts of remaining hair on his head are sun-glare white, each lock pulled into an unappealing wave crest by friction and bad sleep habits. His dotted pupils meet mine as he approaches, speaking in a voice much gentler than I anticipated.

"Do you take trades?"

"We do. Check the sign," I say, gesturing up to the wooden board with bolded lettering.

"Oh, beautiful," he smiles. His voice wavers a bit. I expect him to say something more, but he only holds his hands behind his back with a toothless grin.

"Do you want something specific, or are you just looking around?"

"No, no, nothing specific."

He turns around and begins idly investigating a Mhoro basket. He keeps his hands clasped behind him with a death grip, to the point that his forearms begin to wobble. I dismiss the old man's eccentricities and turn my attention to a short line of approaching buyers, eager to turn their belongings into sweet treats. From the exchanges I receive 3 qhi, a stack of signal paper, and a whittled pen-holder, handing out a few fruits and pies in return. I place the paper and pen-holder in my wheelcart, stashing the qhi in a satchel which hangs over my shoulder.

During a brief absence of patrons, I consider it appropriate time to wet the display fruits again. I turn away from the street and grab my water bucket. When I swivel back around, the man faces me.

"Hav- agh!" I startle, nearly a quarter of the bucket sloshing out onto the ground, splashing the feet of my robe. The man holds a Mhoro tight in his right hand, its skin dark and smooth enough for me to discern my reflection. His brow is furrowed in concern.

"I am sorry to scare."

"Ahm... It's fine." I set the bucket back down. "Do you want to buy that fruit?"

"Yes."

"Great. Standard price of 1 qhi."

"I do not have new government money. You take trades, yes?"

"We do take trades," I sigh, again gesturing to the sign. "What do you have for me?"

"Nothing," he grins. It's a different grin from before. His mouth curls up and twitches on one end. There is something obviously sinister about it.

"If you're going to steal, I'll yell," I tell him, reaching again for my bucket. In a pinch, a splash of water usually works to surprise a would-be thief in time for a mob to descend.

"No, no, I will not steal. The fruit is yours." His grin fades.

"That's right. If you don't have anything to trade, you can go to the Bureau and exchange old currency for qhi. Otherwise, you can't buy anything here."

"I want to know," he whispers, "what can I trade if I have nothing?" His voice, which had taken on a shaky quality, is barely audible above the bustle of the market. I relax my grip on the bucket.

"If you have nothing, you can trade nothing."

"So you say I can trade nothing?"

"No- listen. There is nothing you can give me in exchange for that fruit," I explain. Irritation suffuses me. I'm not in the mood for philosophy.

"What of my clothes?"

"I will not accept your clothes as payment."

"So then are my clothes nothing?" he grins wickedly again. His grip on the Mhoro tightens, the veins in his hand on the verge of escape.

Somewhere nearby there is a commotion, spurred on by dozens of shouting voices. A quick glance over reveals a set of wildly flapping robes in pursuit of a sprinting man with a wheelcart, qhi banknotes and assorted trinkets spilling out with every step he takes. I feel a brief sense of sorrow for the owner of the cart, a vendor clearly inexperienced enough to keep his qhi and trade items in the same place. Witnessing the event, the man speaks up at a louder volume.

"So how could my clothes be nothing, but not the colorful papers?"

"The papers- the qhi have value. Everyone agrees that they are worth something. Your clothes are independent of that."

"Before Unification, less than twenty years before now, the papers would be nothing," he asserts. His voice is steadier than before.

"Yes."

"So if thought is what makes the value, why can I not trade my thoughts for your Mhoro?"

"Because it's only your thoughts. Not everybody's thoughts."

"One thousand handfuls of nothing is still only nothing," he chuckles. At the last syllable, his other hand emerges from his back to grip the Mhoro, as if to make a point.

Unwilling to converse with a stone wall any further, I take in my surroundings. Clouds obscure the sun. The market is approaching its busiest hour of the daytime. A line had amassed behind the man, each member bearing the group's collective impatience on their face. I stare the old man in the eyes.

"Just take the fruit."

His grin twists and stretches, reaching up to corners of his face I had thought impossible. With his two-handed grip on the Mhoro, he bites into it with a thunderous crunch. He chews with a look of smug pride on his face as juice escapes his lips. After savoring the bite for as long as he can manage, he licks his lips and tosses the fruit into the wheelcart, shuffling away from the stand and out of sight. The next customer approaches.