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zzambrosius_02CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Assault and Battery; Friday at the Country Fair
Wednesday before the Fair rolled around, and Rose House was in a state of Chaos. Ambros decided that he was “in the way”, and slipped out the back to the garage: “I definitely need a new walking stick. I might as well get it done right now.”
An hour or two passed, with him hard at work.
Kim poked her head into the garage: “What’s up?”
He noticed her, and shut off the saber saw he’d been using. He pulled an earplug out and asked: “What’s that?”
“Oh. Earplugs.” She pointed back at the house: “We’re almost ready to head out.”
“Well, I’m about done with this. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
She blew him a kiss and went back inside.
He squeezed a rubber ‘foot’ one-quarter full of glue and seated it solidly onto the end of his new stick.
He swept up the sawdust and shavings and small bits of wood and leather that littered the floor of his very small workroom in Rose House’s detached garage: ‘Most of the room in here is food storage and random tools. Stuff that Marie and Luisa collected over the years.’
He stepped out of the garage and closed the door; he rattled the door to make sure it was secure.
He stepped into the center of the patio and set his feet in a fighting stance. He raised himself on the balls of his feet, ‘feeling’ the prosthetic leg as it mimicked his own. He sighed at the pain in the stump of his leg, where the prosthetic attached.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
He held the new stick on the palms of his hands and looked it over: “I cut this sucker off the plum tree in the rose garden last fall, while I was putting the garden to bed for the winter. Nice and dry now...it planed nicely, and the curve is just right...this wrist guard is pretty subtle, but it will give me a bit of protection if I have to use this in self-defense...’
He took it in hand in the way of a sword, and swung it through a couple quick forms: ‘The prosthetic works...okay, I guess. I just hope I don’t have to fight, that’s all. One wouldn’t think the Country Fair was a place where a fight was waiting to happen...but one did happen to me there last year.’
He went in through the kitchen door and kicked his shoes off. The difference in sound from the left sole to the right intruded on him. His knee hurt, refracted pain from the amputation, he assumed. He consciously avoided limping, as the limp had been putting unnecessary stress on his right leg and lower back.
“I think we have everything,” Marie said.
“Well, we better,” said Luisa: “The truck and the Jeep are both packed full.”
He followed them out the door and embraced them one at a time and all together: “You drive careful, and have fun. I’ll see you on Friday morning early, when I come out to site.” It was already hotter than it had been in early July the previous year.
He waved as they drove off west on Rosefield Avenue.
He returned to the house, deliberately putting full stress on the prosthetic. He went to his chair and rubbed some lidocaine salve into his leg, taking the sharpest pain down to a dull throb.
He got his lap desk and laptop and muttered: “I have thirty-six hours in this house alone, except for cats. I’m gonna finish the final edit on Mathilde, the story about the Exile, and I’m gonna publish it before I head out to the Fair. So there.”
He set to work.
He got up, stiff from many hours tapping keys: ‘All that’s left to do is formatting. I need a break; I ought to go for a walk.’
He took his walking stick with him, and went out the front door. He locked the button lock, the deadbolt, and the palm lock. Then he went carefully down the front stairs, not limping and not going sideways and not doing anything else to ease the pain in his calf.
He walked slowly and steadily along Rosefield Avenue, nodding at neighbors; he chatted with the letter carrier. As he approached the intersection with Haight Street he saw a curtain flick out of the corner of his eye. He stared at the house across the street, a nasty-looking yellowish monstrosity that had obviously been cut up into cheap apartments. He slowed his pace.
An old lady he had spoken to on a couple of occasions sat on her front porch, fanning her bosom with a deco japonisme fan. He stepped into her sight and she motioned him over. He sat beside her and she offered him iced tea; he accepted and then waited.
She staggered getting up; she lurched out of the house a few minutes later with a plastic cup of weak tea, a couple ice cubes in it, rattling unmusically against the sides. He sipped tea and watched the street, listening with half an ear to her gossip.
The window across the street flicked again.
He raised an eyebrow.
She said, gliding smoothly from the previous topic: “...new guy, rented the front bedroom on the ground floor from Eliot, I don’t like ’em, he’s a nibby-nosed sneak.”
“What’s he look like?” Ambros queried.
“Kinda tall, kinda thin...wears weird clothes, like a fop...weird whiskers, curly, ever’where except on his chin...”
“Like...muttonchops?”
“Yeah! That’s what they call ’em.”
Ambros nodded, and waited for the old lady to run down. He finished his tea; she bade him get about his own business; he smiled at her and strolled off toward the railroad tracks, seeking a bit more exercise.
He saw something interesting, sitting in the gravel beside the tracks: “Perhaps an eighth mile away...looks like a body.”
He briefly considered reporting it, but paused then: ‘People who call in mysterious bodies in this town sometimes come away from the investigation with a criminal record...’
He pulled his Shifter out and used it to call a drone. He parked the drone over the mystery mound and headed home: “I’ll look at it from the safety of my living room...” he muttered.
Once home, he went around to the back patio and began a sword form, trying to relax all the bits that hurt because of his bum leg. He switched to an iron pipe for the final trip through the form: ‘Forces me to use true perfect technique...’
He was almost to the end of the kata when he sensed—heard, felt, smelled something wrong. He dropped to the ground and rolled as a knobby walnut stick flew past where his head had been only a fraction of a second before.
He tried to roll smoothly back to his feet, but his wounded leg pained him. He fell back down, grimacing and swallowing the agony, making no sound.
His foe turned out to be a ragged beggar, and the dirty blanket that was all his clothing matched in color that of the apparent body that Ambros had seen down the tracks. Several thoughts swam though his mind as he spun the iron pipe through a series of parries, blocks and covers: ‘...this guy is the epitome of “the Flow of the Villaine”...I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t approach him...why follow me home and try to sneak up on me, though? And attacking me with a stick? Not the sharpest knife in the basket...’
His opponent slowed a little, worn out by swinging a heavy tree branch as hard as he could for several minutes. That gave Ambros the moment’s respite he needed to get back to his feet.
His enemy charged; Ambros let him smack into his chest, so they were belly-to-belly. He swept the guy’s legs and smacked his knee with the pipe, not too hard.
The man shrieked, then slapped at his chest. Ambros drew his weapon back to guard, ready to counter the next attack. His foe vanished, as if Shifted, and air fell into where he’d lain, bang!
Ambros stood there, fuming.
He tossed the pipe back into the pile of scrap metal he’d yanked it from and jogged up the back steps. He ignored the pain in his leg. He palmed and keyed his way in through the back door. He pulled one of his Commando sidearms from the belt hanging behind the basement door and drew his Shifter from his pocket.
He accessed a drone that hovered permanently above Rose House and used it to zero in on the apartment-ed house down the road. He Jumped, and stood on the porch in front of the suspicious window.
He banged on that window with his pistol: “Get out here, Harvey, if that’s you...”
No one replied.
Ambros placed his Shifter against the lock on the nearest door, and waited while the tech rolled the tumblers. He opened the door and entered, making no attempt to be quiet. The door to his right had no lock on it.
He turned the knob and kicked the door all the way around on its hinges. He stepped inside, one step, two steps, no one visible; he turned and leveled the gun at the door and inside wall.
There stood in the doorway a confused-looking elderly gentleman, who Ambros recalled having seen sitting upon the porch of the house he’d just broken into.
“What the dickens...” the man began.
Ambros interrupted: “Somebody just assaulted me. For reasons that I am not at liberty to explain, I suspect the man you rented this room to was behind it. Where is the asshole?”
“Dude, I have no idea. You gonna shoot me?”
“Nah.” Ambros thumbed the safety and put his pistol into a pocket. He looked around. There sat a bed, a dresser, a chair: the bed lay mussed, the dresser’s drawers were all on the floor, empty. “Kinda looks like he’s fled the coop.”
“Yeah well...he paid in advance, he’s free to leave if he wants to.”
“I guess so,” said Ambros: “Sorry to disturb you.”
“Long as I don’t get shot...”
Ambros nodded: “Take this. If he comes back, push the button. Then get outta sight, like out the back door and behind something sturdy.”
The fellow looked at the ‘panic button’ Ambros had given him: “Why the hell should I?”
Ambros frowned: “Well...if keeping a neighbor alive isn’t reason enough for you...” Ambros fished his wallet out and pulled a $100 bill from it: “More to come if I catch the guy.” He stared at the old man: “I won’t kill him. Scout’s Honor. Just want him out of mischief.”
“Okay...” the old man said, trailing off, nodding: “I’ll let ya know if I see him.
Ambros pushed past the landlord, and walked down the path to the street, musing: ‘Maybe I just won’t mention this little incident to the ladies...But then, maybe I’d better.’
He put the decision off.
Ambros dropped into an empty porta pot on the far end of the site from the Fair proper. He used his MPS to make sure no one was looking right at the thing and quickly hopped out. He pulled his rucksack out behind him and slipped it on. He smiled as he began his trek towards the gate.
He grinned at everyone as he hiked along. He sang along with a guy playing an acoustic version of “All Along The Watchtower” for as long as they could hear each other. His head filled with the smells of the Fair as he approached the first gate: patchouli, marijuana, sweat, and food: a hundred dishes from as many ethnic traditions, cooked on barbeques and camp stoves by people parked in various Staff camps by the roadway. His rucksack felt comfortable, and with the aid of his walking stick he could move along with just a trace of a limp.
He saw Bill, his friend from Samuel B’s.
“Hey, what crew are you on?” Bill hollered.
Ambros laughed: “I’m a parasite.”
“A what?”
Ambros waved his wristband: “A Significant Other pass...a parasite.”
He realized that he hadn’t seen Bill for a couple weeks, so he ambled over to the fence. Bill moved to meet him.
“You hurt yourself?” Bill asked.
“Nah, somebody hurt me.”
“What, out here on site?”
“No, no, I just got here a few minutes ago...no, somebody ambushed me, a while back. I was a little too careless...”
“Man, you do seem to attract some interesting attention. Miller, Masters, those nasty cops, who knows who else.”
“Not on purpose. It’s the project I’m engaged in that seems to attract people like Posse Comitatus and John Masters and that Miller guy.”
“Your project?”
“Yeah. Saving the world from itself. Or humans from ourselves. I am fighting above my weight, but I haven’t given up yet...This weekend I’m on vacation.”
“Hmm. Yeah, I get that. Well, have fun.”
“Oh, I will...maybe even too much fun.” He limped onward, despite his efforts not to.
At length he negotiated a wide s-curve in the road and reached the long straightaway that approached the main entrance. He passed by the “dragon booth” since he had his simulacrum of a Booth wristband, and then allowed a cursory search of his rucksack at a security checkpoint:
“Any glass, weapons, drugs or booze in here?” asked a short, dreadlocked woman as she moved a few of the top bits of clothing side to side, eyeing his wristband. She didn’t wait for an answer; she strapped his pack back up and waved him through.
Once he was through to the other side, Ambros stopped. He tightened the straps that held the pack closed and shouldered it.
He glanced back: a fellow protested as the Security Crew pulled things from his pack, one very similar to Ambros’. Two glass bottles filled with booze, a baggie of what looked to be pot, and...a wrist rocket style slingshot.
Ambros shook his head: ‘That guy is a fool. He has a ticket not a wristband, he’s visibly stoned and I can smell the alcohol from here. His pack certainly gurgled when they lifted it...he can’t possibly have thought they wouldn’t check him out. Or maybe...
‘Maybe he did. Some people don’t seem to be able to anticipate such things...’
He strolled on, in no great hurry. His limp became more pronounced, and he noticed. It hurt to do so, but he suppressed it, walking as close to normally as he could. He slowed way down.
‘I’ll get there eventually,” he mused. And he did.
Through the “staff” entrance and around the large sculptures of eagles and dragons and he was into the shade by the main entrance. His wristband passed another eyeball inspection and he passed into the first real “Fair” space just inside.
‘It’s early enough in the day that the really huge crowds aren’t on site yet,’ he thought. He spotted a man standing in line at the coffee booth near the front: a moderately tall fellow with a cloak of black and red over his shoulders.
Ambros noticed the cloak right away, and sat down to watch the fellow for a bit. The man got his coffee and turned, and Ambros’ confirmed his suspicions: the ‘cloak’ actually was a Chiapas flag.
“Not the official Mexican government Chiapas flag,” he thought: ‘That’s the Zapatista version: black over red, with a red star on the staff side of the black.’ He watched the guy go by, and decided that he didn’t know him.
He meandered on, recalling his first visit to the Fair: ‘So much has happened in the year since. If you had told me before I came here last year...I’d have come years ago...’
He arrived at the booth he’d been seeking. To his right, along a wide dirt path, pounded hard by years of visitors it stood, a welcome sight.
‘Generations of visitors, really,’ he thought: ‘Generations of staff and workers and visitors, all those feet hammering the silt and mud and clay nearly into adobe...’
He nodded at Sparrow Woodruff, the booth’s resident matriarch and herbalist, and at Ketterly, whose jewelry held down the right side of the common space.
Sparrow called him over and said: “You are little later than we expected. The gates are about to open.”
“Yeah, at the last possible minute a guy called me about shrubberies. I had to bust it to my Salon and sell him some azaleas.”
Sparrow nodded and set to watering the path in front of the booth, using a large green watering can that floated in one of the metal barrels outside the booth.
Luisa didn’t appear; he assumed she’d be back soon, to begin painting. ‘Her stuff is all set up,’ he observed.
He put his rucksack in the back, where the big bed sat. Luisa and Marie’s bags and such sat about the mattress. He kicked off his boots and opened the pack, getting his sandals out and putting those on: “It’s already getting a little humid."
When he re-emerged into the booth proper, swishing his kilt into good order, he found Marie behind the salve counter and Luisa mixing paints and checking her brushes. The first slow trickle of fairgoers strolled by.
Ketterly looked at her phone: “First bus from Eugene downtown ought to be dropping passengers right about now!”
The booth gang began a slow but intent bustle of last-minute preparations. Ambros took the watering can from Sparrow: “I’ll work on this, you oughta wake up Mina.”
“What? Where?”
“I saw her in back, asleep in the larger bedroom...I saw her foot anyway; I assumed it was hers.”
Sparrow wandered back into the camping area while Ambros watered down the path in front of their booth. Sparrow reappeared: “Mina’s not feeling well, so I’ll cover her sales for the morning.”
They huddled and re-divided the booth shifts. Mila groused about the new policy that prevented them from sharing camping passes: “This would be easier if we could just send Mina home and call Anna in. And it’s not like the Dragon Booth Staff, or anyone from Registration ever asked our opinions about the change, either.”
Ambros drew Sparrow aside: “I can get Mina’s wristband off, and put it on your friend Anna...”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s do that...” Sparrow went off to make arrangements.
“It does seem to me,” Ambros said, rather tentatively: “that the actual operations aspect of the Fair is getting more authoritarian recently. As least, that’s the impression I get from listening in on various conversations around the place.”
An awkward silence ensued.
‘Not ready to discuss it, I guess,’ Ambros mused.
“What would happen if we challenged Operations on that?” Ketterly asked, a bit sarcastic.
More silence.
Ambros thought: ‘If Booth and Entertainment people ever challenged the folks at Operations, they might achieve some pushback.’ Then he thought: ‘Or they might blow up the whole Fair and lose what they still have...’
He decided to watch for a moment when Sparrow—or someone else—might want to discuss the situation.
He got his folding chair and sat down outside the booth, in a spot where he did not block access to any merchandise, and watched the crowd build.
The first group of bus-riders surged across the bridge, making a great deal of noise. Several teenage girls bearing hand-stamps showing them to be paying customers cavorted into view at the head of the crowd. Two of them ran to Luisa’s body-and-face painting station, stripped to their waists and began discussing paint possibilities. Soon Luisa began to paint.
Another girl stood by watching them, as though amused. Her outfit showed clearly how carefully she’d constructed it. She wore all blue, from her slip-on sneakers to the cornflower in her hair, above her left ear. Her jeans fit her perfectly, obviously tailored to her wide hips and narrow waistline; her top, a three-button affair with a wide collar, covered all but a sliver of her torso. ‘And yet...’ Ambros thought: ‘...though she shows very little skin, and no cleavage, the perfect fit of her garments displays her figure to excellent effect.’
He watched the swirls of people passing, and noted that many of the young men seemed to agree with him: ‘She’s attracting as much attention as her nearly naked girlfriends. Perhaps more...and she’s clearly enjoying that.’
From where he sat he could hear Ketterly clearly, and she knew it. She said, quietly: “We should talk about the authoritarian direction the Fair’s been going in.”
He replied, only a little louder, since he was facing away from her: “Why me? I’m only at my second Fair...I’m not very high Status in this situation.”
“Well you brought it up.”
“True, true. But only because people were grousing. If there’s to be a movement for more equity inside the Fair, it would have to come from inside the Fair.”
After a moment of silence she said: “That’s a point.”
The conversation went in other directions then.
His shift at one of the tills came on, and he moved over to sell salve.
Later in the day and his shift over, he followed Sparrow and Mina along the road towards the Dragon Booth. Mina reeled, dizzy and feverish. They half-carried her until they met her brother near the Security checkpoint.
The sun bore down upon them; even Ambros’ straw hat was not enough to cool him. He mused: ‘It took several hours to set this exchange up, thanks to the need to be sneaky with it...’
Mina’s brother had nabbed a wheelchair somewhere, and they got her in it. Ambros said: “Okay, everyone gather round so no one can see what I’m doing...”
He took the little tool he’d made and unfastened the wristband, sticking both into his pocket. Then he waved Mina’s Brother away: “Maybe get her to a doctor, dude.”
“My thought exactly,” Brother replied. He wheeled her towards the temporary parking area. They looked for shade, and found a bit.
Sparrow asked: “Have you written anything about the Fair yet? I recall you said you might.”
He sighed: “No, more’s the pity. I’ve been so busy...all over the world...”
“Yes, Luisa said you’d been travelling a lot. Oh, here comes Anna!”
Ambros fixed the wristband to Anna’s arm, looking around carefully before doing so: “There, as good as anyone’s!”
Sparrow said: “Are you coming back to the booth with us?”
He touched his wrist, surreptitiously activating his MPS: “No, I’m going...that way.” He pointed towards the highway, near where he knew Kim usually camped.
He got to the verge of the “No Regrets” campsite, and paused.
He could hear Kim and Jimmy arguing: ‘Not loudly, but intensely. Maybe another time would be better for my visit.’ He turned away. He heard Kim’s voice clearly:
“I’m tired of this, Jimmy! Yes, I spent last night with Luisa! You were with Marie! I thought we had this stuff all worked out, damnit!”
He could not hear Jimmy’s reply.
‘Which is good,’ he thought: ‘He’s learning some stuff, like not to yell...”
“I’m done with this for now, Jimmy.” Kim’s voice still reached him: “I have a supervisory shift at Teen Crew HQ in half an hour and I still need to eat. You need to stay here, and not try to go wandering around the camping areas with a hand stamp, you’ll get tossed...Well, all right then! Maybe you should leave! Don’t go back to Rose House, though, unless you’re there to get your things...I don’t know! Your pile of graphic novels and your other jeans...Yes, I’m breaking up with you! No, you won’t be homeless...find Ambros and he’ll send you back to Commonwealth Prime. Get back to studying the shit you’re supposed to know by now!”
“Fine!” Jimmy yelled.
Ambros winced: ‘Okay maybe not all the way learned.’
Jimmy came storming out of the cabin tent, swearing in three languages.
Ambros gestured to him: “C’mon, vato. I’ll get you home.”
Jimmy spat.
Ambros relaxed into fighting stance.
Jimmy didn’t notice, and Ambros got worried. Then the younger man’s eyes went wide.
“You gonna...” Jimmy began.
“No,” said Ambros: “But no matter how irritable you are, you gotta not do things that piss other folks off. Uless you intend to do that.”
“Yeah, well...”
Ambros interrupted again: “Stuff it, Jimmy. If Kim breaks up with you, which side do you think I’ll be on? Or Luisa and Marie?”
“I’m going to be a father soon!” Jimmy was beside himself with anger: “I have some rights!”
“That’s still to be determined, vato.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Ambros shook his head, disgusted: “At this point, a sperm that you produced fertilized one of Kim’s eggs. For you to be a father, you have to learn to act the part, in the way Kim wants you to. Re-read the fucking by-laws! The kid is a full member of the Collective as soon as she’s born. You, on the other hand...”
Jimmy stood there livid. Ambros again relaxed into a fighting stance, suddenly, and more obviously. Once again, Jimmy didn’t seem to notice, at least not at first.
“This really worries me,” said Ambros, sadly.
Jimmy stopped cold.
Ambros caught and held the younger man’s eye: “You act in a threatening manner in my general direction, but don’t notice that I’m preparing to defend myself. It’s almost as bad as your jealousy and pig-headedness. But I guess that’s all of a piece: you’re really bad at sensing a changed situation. You can’t seem to see it when you’re pissing off Kim. You poke at her until she explodes. You read the Household by-laws, and deliberately misunderstand them, and talk and act like you’re immune to criticism.”
Jimmy said: “I...” then trailed off.
Ambros growled: “Listen, Jimmy...if you do anything to hurt Kim, or rather...if you fail to become the man she thinks you can be...”
“What?” Jimmy asked, suddenly looking worried.
Ambros turned away: “You’ll regret it, that’s all.”
Jimmy suddenly became serious: “Are you threatening me?”
Ambros laughed out loud: “Nothing I could ever do to you would hurt as bad as Kim kicking you out of her life for good. You’re real close to the edge, Jimmy.”
Jimmy lowered his eyes, and stood thus downcast for a few seconds. His tears began to fall.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’m not who you need to apologize to. That’s Kim. And she’s gone, she slipped out while you were arguing with me.”
Jimmy shook his head: “Now wouldn’t be a good time anyway.”
Ambros grinned wryly: “That’s better.”
“What?”
“You figured that out. You are learning, just...”
“...not fast enough,” Jimmy said, despondent.
“Okay, being short with you, even cruel...that seems to be getting through. So here’s the real shit: It’s not that you aren’t learning quick enough, vato. It’s the constant backsliding. Get it together, or you’ll lose it all. You’ve already got two strikes on you now.” He tipped his head: “Over there, between the porta-pots and the treeline, I’ll send you off to Prime. Katalavénete?”
“Endaxi.”
With Jimmy safely away, Ambros stood for a while contemplating the state of things, from his own flaws to to Jimmy’s, and to the danger that loomed over the Multiverse. After a few bleak moments of such reflection, he shook himself, thinking: “I’m supposed to be on R&R...and I need to get back to the Booth soon, anyway...’
He worked his way back through the parking lot, leaning somewhat upon his walking stick. His Booth wristband got him a shortcut through a parking/camping area that a Security worker called “The Craft Lot.”
He emerged into a cul-de-sac that had wooden playground equipment and a large sandbox. This debouched into a path that he recognized: ‘Chela Mela Meadow to my right, food booths and a stage to my left.’
The sun had set, and twilight filled the air. A young woman spotted him, and approached with a stern expression on her face. She had very short hair and had dressed fairly butch, in lace-up boots, tailored jeans and a lavender-and-black plaid work shirt with a black necktie.
She stepped up to him and said, with no prelude at all: “You look like you know stuff!”
He raised an eyebrow, partially suppressing a grin, and said: “I know a few things. What’s up?”
“I’ve been wandering all over looking for some place called the ‘Craft Lot’. You got any idea...?”
He laughed then: “As it happens, I just passed through there. Go back the way you came; look out on your right for the playground area. Through that and past the Security guy, and you’re there.”
“Thank you!” She trotted off towards her goal.
He ambled on. A woman walked right in front of him: ‘Or rather: through the space I was about to pass through myself. Lucky I saw her and slowed down enough...barely.’
He pondered that for a possibly unnecessary time, wondering at such blindness. Then he grinned crookedly and moved on.
The Rose House family had arranged a meeting for after Sweep; Averos said Bruce wanted to talk with them. They had gathered in Kim’s tent, since it was the only one (marginally) large enough to contain their little planning committee. Kim, Ambros, Marie, Luisa, and Averos were there.
They’d invited Jimmy on principle. He was not yet out of the running for membership in the collective, and had apologized (yet again). Kim had simmered down, but remained cold to him, glaring occasionally.
Averos had dropped directly into the tent, since he didn’t have a wristband.
“So we’re just waiting for Bruce, now.”
It was not a question so no one answered. They began to chat about various subjects that came to mind, waiting for ser appearance—in holographic form, an Ant wouldn’t fit into the tent in real life.
“Authoritarianism feels like a brutal, abusive relationship,” Averos said, in response to Luisa: “In part because Authoritarians—mostly—grow out of abused children. An abused child who grows up to revere their abuser is bound to push that abuse off, sometimes onto their own children, sometimes onto entire nations, or classes of people, whom they define as ‘Other’.”
“What about...” Kim began.
Luisa spoke into the pause: “What do you get when an abused child grows up to detest their abusers?”
Ambros laughed a little, bitterly: “You get me.”
Averos raised his eyebrows and said: “Indeed. That agrees with my studies of Ideological Anarchists in multiple Timelines.”
“What do you mean?” asked Marie.
“Well, if I recall correctly, Ambros’ CV on the Kyklo declares that he and his old affinity group in Seventeen passed through an Ideological Anarchist stage before moving into a more ‘Situationist’ kind of anti-ideology.” He looked at Ambros: “Yes?”
“Close enough.”
“Well...” said Kim.
Marie said: “That makes perfect sense, from my own psychology studies.”
“Does it?” Kim asked.
“Yeah,” Ambros said: “In my case...”
Silence.
He continued: “In my case, I was looking for some...grid, some way of rationalizing all of the irrationalities of my upbringing. If I’d been a better hitter, I might have found that in baseball...which shows how silly ideology can be, that Anarchism was the next phase I entered.”
“I guess,” said Kim, uncertainly.
“Anyway, eventually the anti-authoritarians in my affinity group started questioning our own ideology...we started asking what we did believe. More important, we asked why we believed this-or-that, and started taking apart our ideology, truth-testing premises, studying the empirical evidence. We read the Situationists with intense interest.”
“Not the Situationist International? They were Marxists!” Jimmy said, unbelieving.
“Ah, but...Marxists of a very peculiar, anarchic stripe. We subtracted the ideological marxism from their writings, honed in on the anarchistic playfulness, and on their really powerful critiques of alienation and commodity fetishism...the idea of The Spectacle seemed manifestly true, and we went from that to a kind of anarcho-Situationist critique. We weren’t the only ones doing that at the time.”
“What the hell is anarcho-Situationist...” said Jimmy.
“You’ve read my blog, right?”
“Umm...yeah...?”
“Did you read any of the comments from other people?”
“I did, some of them.” Jimmy looked uncomfortable: “Seemed like no one agreed about anything.”
Kim broke in: “Go back and read it all again, love.”
“Huh?”
“They do all agree on quite a lot. They just concentrate on the places where they don’t agree, so they can strive for...”
“Greater agreement,” said Luisa, nodding hard: “I thought the same thiing you did, Jimmy, at first. Go back and re-read all the arguments, thiinking about what isn’t said.”
Jimmy frowned and sprawled across the bed again.
Marie looked at her watch, which hung on a chain around her neck: “Is Bruce really ten minutes late?”
“Bruce can’t be late,” said Ambros.
“Then are we early?” asked Kim.
“No,” said Averos: “Bruce—and all his kind—arrive and leave at exactly the correct place and time.”
“You been talking to them, too, huh?” asked Ambros.
Averos shrugged: “They come to visit fairly often, now. I know what they are talking about, on a mathematical level. Well, in your Lines terms, like a kindergartner talking cause-and-effect with a physics Phd. The other day they wanted to talk about mirrors...”
“What about mirrors?” asked Kim.
“I couldn’t figure that out. They seemed to be talking about mirrors as Gates, but making no sense to me. They kept asking me questions, as if they thought I knew something about such a phenomenon.”
“Do you?” asked Ambros.
“No. But then, there are odd combinations of cause and effect that happen on the edges of the Known Multiverse. I’ve seen some really obscure calculations on the Kyklo from psycho-physicists...”
“Like somebody sneezing and causing a Timeline split.”
Averos raised his eyebrows.
Ambros shrugged and said: “Arrenji talked about that happening in Religious Lines.”
The conversation went different directions, then, as they spoke to one another in twos and threes.
“Can the Squids even lie? I mean...” Kim had been talking to Averos.
Averos replied: “I don’t think so, but I believe they could be mistaken.”
“How so?” Ambros asked.
“Well,” said Averos, and paused: “They are, after all, still finite beings, right?”
“Not as finite as we are,” said Luisa.
Everyone but Averos laughed.
But Averos said: “Amusing. But, mathematically...”
“Yes?” Luisa asked.
“No matter how many nines you add to ninety-nine-point-nine, you still don’t have a hundred,” Averos said: “Thanks to their cyborg nature, the Squids can add a million more nines than we can, but still...”
“...there’s bound to be Timelines where they are wrong, or mistaken,” Luisa pointed out.
“That, too,” said Averos, enigmatically.
Kim steered the conversation back to Truth and Untruth: “Whatever; I’m interested in how and why we lie to each other so much, in the USITs. Nearly everything people believe about politcs, economics and culture is based on lies we tell each other, and tell ourselves, every day of our lives. It’s no wonder it’s all in such a mess. How do we escape that?”
“What are we to do, you mean?” asked Ambros.
Averos said: “There’s an adage taught in the Commonwealth’s Primary Skolae: ‘You can’t stop lying to other people until you stop lying to yourself.’ I think that’s where any one person would have to start.”
Ambros laughed: “Fascinating.”
“Yes!” Kim exclaimed: “You quoted that line in your sword classes, more than once!”
“I got it from a famous—or infamous—martial arts teacher, not from the Commonwealth, but yes, I agree with the idea.”
“Is it ever right to tell a lie?” asked Jimmy.
Ambros leaned back and closed his eyes: “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Go on,” said Kim.
He shrugged: “I don’t have it in a very organized form yet, but here’s the basic idea. Just because I know something and you ask me about it, does not mean I am required to tell you. You may have ulterior motives or a hidden agenda. If I detect that, I may not want to give you information.”
“But to tell a deliberate lie?” Jimmy had sat up again.
Ambros shrugged: “In the stated circumstance, I would try to remain silent; as a fallback, I’d make a joke. But: if I am interrogated by a policeman or prosecutor, or some other entity that has no right to the information? I would, as a last resort, lie. ‘Like a gentleman,’ as they’d say in England. I’d use a very simple lie, tailored to the questioner’s biases.”
Kim said: “I was thinking about Rational Hellenic, how it’s structured, how its grammar and vocabulary interact to make it harder to lie...”
Luisa made an encouraging sound.
“Well, since RH was originally invented as a code, and the Exile and Sokratos worked really hard on ‘regularizing’ all of the verbs...and they wanted to be precise about things, so they carefully defined each word in the vocabulary, and also each prefix and suffix, so that any word one said in the language had one and only one meaning...”
“Every word has a meaning, and every meaning has a word,” said Jimmy, as though quoting something.
“Exactly,” said Ambros: “What it adds up to, though, is that you can’t so easily shade the truth, or lie by weaseling your words. The only ways to lie are the classics.”
Kim laughed: “And those are?”
He also laughed: “Lie outright, with a straight face. Or: tell part of the truth, the classic ‘lie of omission’ and let your victim lead serself astray. Finally, the most artistic: tell the whole truth, but so unconvincingly that your questioner believes that you’re lying...”
“Oh!”
“Se can’t even complain later. Right?”
“Correct!”
Averos broke in: “But Ambros has a point: the more complex your lie is, the more likley it is to fail. It has to do with the nature of complexity, in any realm of human endeavor. From physics to interpersonal affairs...”
“But complexity is good, even required, in Biology,” said Luisa. “The more complex an ecosystem is, the more life it can support.”
And Marie said: “Also, in human family structure, and in the organization of the Commonwealth, complexity leads to greater stability.” She nodded at Averos: “You pointed that out yourself.”
Averos frowned: “Good points. I’ll have to think about those points. I’ll get back to you...” He began making notes on a tiny lapscroll that he drew from a pouch on his belt.
“On the other hand, complexity in ideology, especially when based on false premises, is extremely unstable...” Ambros mused: “And remember our conversation about this subject? The same system can appear complex or simple at different scales.”
Averos was taking notes, but he paused to nod at Ambros: “Yes.”
A sound intruded: Bruce appeared in the corner of the tent, about one-quarter sized and insubstantial.
“Zzzgreetingz.”
“Hey Bruce,” said Ambros.
“Ambros-Unit. Family-Unit. Averos-Unit.”
“That’s who is here,” said Ambros: “What’s up?”
“This is an ‘expression’, yes?”
“Yes. Tell what’s new. Why did you want to meet us?”
“Ambros and hiszz family are in a racezz to preserve what they can of their world, in a Time of great instability in the Multiverse. It is Our-unit’s task to aid them as much aszz we can.”
“How did this become your job?” Jimmy asked.
“Zzzz. We have chosen. We have always chosen. As it must beee.”
“We do live in dramatic times,” said Marie.
Averos grinned: “But ‘Save The World’ is not necessarily an interesting storyline for drama or any other artistic endeavor.”
“Our-Unit is not troubled by this. Our-Unit is puzzled by ‘fiction’.”
“Would our family’s story not make a good novel, then?” Kim asked.
“Not written as a ‘save the world’ story. It has to be...” Luisa paused: “To make a good story about us, you would have to engage the reader or listener in us as fictional characters. The writer would have to make us sympathetic to a certain kind of reader.”
Kim asked: “What kind of reader are you talking about?”
“Whatever type the author is aiming at. Consciously or not...”
Kim looked thoughtful.
Ambros laughed: “Fortunately, we as individuals and as a family do adventurous and philosophical stuff as well. One problem would be winding all of our narratives into one skein.”
Luisa said: “It would be easier to use one narrative, and show how one person’s experiences echo from the other characters.”
Bruce’s head swiveled around, looking at each of them: “Humanss are strange from Our-Unit’s viewpoint. When you want to tell deep truth, you make up stories.”
“You have that part right,” said Luisa, smiling.
“When you believe you are looking...zz...’forward’ in Time you often are looking back, and you cannot tell the difference...it iszz not your fault, it is how you are.”
Averos was nodding: “But is there even such a thing as an ‘arrow of time’ as far as you Squids are concerned?”
“There iszz and there isz not. All is co-created.”
“What’s that mean?” Jimmy asked.
“He means...” Kim began.
After a moment, Averos said: “From where the Squids sit, the future creates the past even as the past creates the future.”
“You know thisss to be true, Unit-Averos.”
“Intellectually. By means of math. You know it in your—does your species have a soul?”
“...unknown. None of uss die.”
“You never...never?
“Not as you do. If an Ant is destroyed, another can be hatched, from the same queen, or the queen’s...’daughter’ you would say. This new Ant can taste of the dead Ant’s being and become her. The machine part...always, another machine can house the memories. And the Squids...”
“And the Squids?” Kim pressed.
The Squid part of Bruce rubbed its tentacles together and produced something like speech: “We do not wish to discuss this now.”
The machine part beeped and then sat quiescent.
“The differences in how we see things have huge implications to our...partnership," said Ambros: “Our individuality is both strength and weakness. The same with your...collectivity.”
The machine spoke again: "I sssee that from your point of view. But strength and weakness, in this subject and others, are not the same to you as they are to OurUnit."
“I suppose not,” said Marie.
Bruce spoke again, via the machine: “OurUnit desires to study your species at closer range. We theorize that Bruce-Unit could visit this...zzzFair. Could we do thisss?”
“We might get away with that. You’d have to appear to be an ‘ambience performer’. That is...” Ambros stopped, thoughtful.
Luisa said: “Yes. If you two were obviously together, like if the Ant was on a leash...”
“...people would be puzzled,” said Kim: “They’d try to figure out if the Ant was a robot or a person in a costume. They might never consider that it was really an Ant.”
“We will...ponder thisss. We foresee...misunderstandings.”
“Is it a bad idea, then? Best to skip it?” Kim inquired.
Bruce remained silent, except for little buzzes and beeps.
“Would people see Bruce as a monster? Something dangerous?” Kim wondered.
Luisa said: “In one sense, Bruce is an archetypal monster. That is, a categorical mismatch.”
“Expain that.” Marie demanded.
“So, the classic monster is something that...I guess...grates on one’s assumptions. Ants are very small, Bruce is huge by comparison, and threatening just because of his size; ‘he’ appears to be a gigantic ant. See?”
“...sorta.” Kim sat frowning.
“Okay,” said Marie: “At the Kids’ Stage near our booth earlier today there was this...performer. Looked like a woman, but with fake whiskers and dressed in extrememly exaggerated men’s style suit. She...her act involved...dancing like a crane and warbling like a wren. She sang nonsense, like Lear or Carroll.”
“And?” Ambros said, curiously.
“...most of the kids thought she was hilarious, but a lot of the littler ones were...disturbed. Some of the parents had to take their littlest kids away.”
Luisa nodded slowly: “They saw what they didn’t expect to see, and it frightened them.”
“Expect only what happensss,” said Bruce: “Then you will not hesitate when you zzsee the unexpected.”
“Extremely Immature humans are not equipped with such discretion,” said Averos: “When se is a little older, a child can see such dissonances as amusing.”
“This is the ssort of thing OurUnit wants to explore. We do not experience...‘childhood’.”
Averos frowned: “No, of course you don’t. You never experience a child’s struggle to understand what is around it...”
“But even adults sometimes balk,” Kim interrupted: “...if only momentarity, when faced with ‘monstrous’ imagery.”
“Is that something that happened to you?” Marie probed.
“Yeah...there was a parade, one of the unscheduled—well, ‘ambience’ parades that pop up occasionally.” Kim paused a moment, then said: “This one was a bunch of grownups dressed as babies, with diapers and giant pacifiers. About half the crew wore stilts, so you couldn’t help but see them. It was weird but funny, you know?”
“Uh-huh,” Ambros said, recalling the display.
“But anyway,” said Kim: “The last one in the line was an unshaven man, dressed as a woman, with a huge wig, and on stilts, with ridiculously big fake breasts and a really ugly, exaggerated make-up job.”
“‘She’ was the ‘mom’, huh?” asked Luisa.
“Mom, Nurse, Babysitter, whatever,” said Kim: “It freaked me out for a second. Of course, I’m an adult. I could step back, mentally, and ‘get’ what the show was all about. What they wanted to poke fun at, or at least part of it.”
Ambros rubbed the scar around his left calf and snarled.
“How’s the prosthetic working?” asked Averos.
Ambros shrugged: “It’s a pain in the knee, y’know. Tommorrow I get the cloned replacement installed. I’m told that’s even more painful, for a while. Looking forward to when it’s all over.” He got out a jar of cocaine-lidocaine oinment and rubbed some on the area of the scar.
“Have we figured out how he got cut out of communications yet?” Kim asked.
“No,” said Averos, appearing grumpy: “Well, we know how the machine worked, and who worked it, and where the parts for it came from. The trouble is, it’s just a lot of time watching video to figure out who got each of those parts from the warehouses, and who put them together into an ATL-style static-jammer. If the villain is smart, se sent different friends or agents to acquire various parts...they are all off-the-shelf technology, useful for many kinds of machinery. We’ll track the perpetrator down, eventually.”
“I suppose,” said Kim.
Jimmy said: “So the dude sends a friend for a gadget, then another for a thingamajig, and a third for a whatchamacallit...”
“A smart villain would do that,” said Ambros.
“But eventually all those bits hafta get together, right?”
Averos agreed: “And there is holo-video of most public areas available from various sources. There are lacunae in that information, though. Including a large area near the blind that the assassin used, so it’s damn hard to go backwards from there. No, we have to view holovideos from all the warehouses, watch for people taking the specific parts, trace those parts to whatever machine they go into...eventually we’ll figure out what happened by process of elimination. Or...”
“Or?” asked Jimmy.
“Or, Magistri Iyelisi is working on an algorithm. An ‘artificially stupid’ tracking program. She might find the person before we do.”
“Oh.” Jimmy pursed his lips, thoughtfully: “Ambros, you seem mostly irritated by the inconvenience, and by the pain, rather than vengeful.”
“I’m trying to stay cool about that,” said Ambros.
“I’d want revenge, for sure,” Jimmy replied.
“Yeah. It’s a reasonable reaction. I have been talking to Skavo about things like that. Se has a lot of interesting ideas. About violence. Right?”
“An Ideological Pacifist...” Jimmy began, scornfully.
Ambros shook his head: “Se’s not wrong about everything, Jimmy. Se’s naive about Nazis and the ATLs. But se is not wrong about everything. We’ve been talking about magnanimity lately. Look it up.”
“Okay...” Jimmy still seemed doubtful.
“Lust and grace, vato...and rage and sorrow. You mustn’t bury those things, you gotta feel them and come to terms with ’em.”
Jimmy opened his mouth but Ambros put a fist by his ear: “No, don’t. You don’t have to acton your emotions to feel them and deal with them.”
“Pay attention, Jimmy,” Kim said.
Jimmy looked around the tent. Ambros could see by his expression that Jimmy saw the way they all looked at him: probing, testing, wondering about his ability to adapt to the world they offered him.
Jimmy nodded, then hung his head. He rolled over onto his side and looked at Kim, worriedly.
Ambros leaned back against the wall of the tent, contemplating ‘The Jimmy Problem’. Then he stopped himself short.
‘Jimmy is not a “problem” to be solved,’ he thought: ‘Not a thing but a person. Maybe he’ll never be a full member of Rose House...but he’s already a Commonwealth citizen, albeit very low-Status...’
He shook his head and attended to the conversation.
Kim said: “In a way, the Commonwealth is a Luddite society, not that we refuse tech, but that we control it collectively.”
“That’s actually what the Luddites wanted to do,” said Ambros: “They wanted to destroy some specific machines, looms that cut into their livelihood, and made cheap, low-quality fabric for export.”
“Interesting,” said Averos.
“They got a lotta bad press,” said Jimmy, on firmer ground where ideological anarcho-anything was in play.
“Got that right,” growled Ambros: “But they were a real danger to the ruling class of the time, because they had a coherent ideology that explained the mess poor people were in and laid the blame where it belonged.”
“Where did the blame belong...” Kim said, then: “...of course! On the ruling class.”
Jimmy laughed: “If you lived then, and wondered how it came to be that you your earlier job, making stockings and growing potatoes, just disappeared, and now you were so poor that your daughter had to work at a factory and she got pregnant because the factory owner raped her, and you have family stories, a history of sorts about when your clan owned sheep and grew multiple crops, and your grandad had actually had a little cash money...”
“And along comes your local ‘Nedd Ludd’,” said Ambros: “...who has a coherent explanation about Enclosure Laws and the exact way your family—your whole village, really—had been impoverished over the course of several generations...”
Jimmy spoke into the pause: “...then you are pretty likely to listen to Captain Ludd. Maybe even take the Secret Oath and pick up a hammer and head for the factory.”
Kim said: “So they scared the factory owners, the...the middle class of the time...”
“And that caused them to be outlawed and their ideology deliberately distorted by the press.” said Jimmy.
Luisa said: “People still use Luddite to mean ‘against all tech’...”
“Shows what a good job the propagandists did, back in the day,” said Ambros.
Jimmy said: “I’ve always wondered how prescient the leaders of the Luddite movement were. I mean, they had enough information to see where the Enclosures were heading: creating an impoverished working class for the industries owned by their ‘betters’. Could they have seen through to the kind of brainwashing that was about to start? ‘Work to succeed; succeed to be idle; and consume: consumption is Status...’ but with all of it rigged against them, so that Status, and idleness, or even just a comfortable life is always just out of reach.”
“Who knows?” Ambros shrugged: “If any of their number did see it coming, how would they convince the rank-and-file?”
“However they might have done it, they didn’t,” said Luisa: “Most of the planet is asleep.”
“Asleep?” asked Averos: “Or in an induced coma?”
Bruce—or the quarter-sized holo that represented it—suddenly stirred: “Bruce-unit has consulted with Our-Unit. We will wear a leash, and visit the Fair. This must occur tom-morrow, yes?”
“That’s right,” said Averos: “You and Ambros arrange a time, and we’ll get you set for a trip to the Fair.”
“Are you going to Scarborough Fair,” sang Kim.
“Parsley sage...” the rest of them joined in.
Bruce swivelled the Ant head back and forth. Antennae waved, the movements echoed by tentacles both Squid and mechanical. “Bzzt,” the machine said: “This-unit will contact Averos-unit early ‘tomorrow’ by your clock.”
“Cool,” said Ambros: “I’ll meet you at the War Room when Averos calls.”
“It musst bee.”
Bruce faded away, silently.
Averos touched his MPS; he said: “Good bye,” and vanished.
Kim and Luisa happened to be sitting side-by-side. Kim wrapped her arms around Luisa and they snuggled, almost kissing. Marie rolled over and embraced Ambros, kissing him and snuggling.
Kim slowly removed Luisa’s top, unhooked her bra and buried her face in Luisa’s bosom. Luisa moaned a little, and lay back, relaxing.
Jimmy pulled himself into a sitting position, crossed his legs tailor-fashion, and placed his hands on his knees, palms up. Instead of closing his eyes in meditation he watched all the ensuing lovemaking with a blank expression.
An hour later, Ambros looked over at Jimmy where he sat, still in the same position, and said: “Well done, vato.”
Kim had straddled Ambros; from where Jimmy sat, he could clearly see her kolpi as she rode Ambros to her orgasm. Marie and Luisa were in each other’s arms, doing nothing much at that point.
When Ambros recovered from Kim’s ministrations, he repeated: “I mean it Jimmy. Good job.”
Jimmy shrugged: “I know a test when I see one.”
Marie whispered in Luisa’s ear. Luisa said: “Go on, enjoy...”
Marie stood up and shed her remaining bits of clothing, saying: “This is something I want to do, Jimmy. It’s not a reward, okay? You didn’t earn this by sitting quietly...” She walked over to the bed and lay down beside him.
“Maybe you shouldn’t offer, then,” said Jimmy: “if you think it will reinforce bad mental habits in me...” He made no move to escape, but also made no move to begin any intimacy with her.
She stretched out, hands above her head, arching her back: “Your choice.” Her breasts drooped a bit, but not much; Commonwealth medical treatments were having an effect.
Jimmy stripped off his shirt and wriggled out of his shorts: slowly, deliberately, giving time for Marie to change her mind.
When he penetrated, he did so slowly, as though waiting to be rebuffed.
Luisa folded her arms across her breasts but watched closely as Marie bent her knees and raised her legs.
Jimmy climaxed almost immediately. As he began to withdraw, Marie said: “Stay.”
He subsided, his weight pressing down on her. Her hair splayed across the pillow, a wild mess of auburn. The tent was close and stuffy, but cooler since the sun had gone down.
Kim sighed then, a little smile on her face; she winked at Jimmy, who roused himself and began to move again.
Marie supressed any sound she might have made: that was her habit. Luisa rolled on her back, hands above her head, the canvas floor of the tent beneath her. Kim nudged Ambros and whispered: “Go. You know she won’t make a move herself, or call for you...’
He crawled across the floor to her and she grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down on top of her. For a while he couldn’t think.
When he looked around again, Jimmy had sat back up, and resumed his meditatory position near the end of the bed. He watched impassively as Kim began to make love to Marie, her face between Marie’s thighs.
Jimmy didn’t react even when Kim motioned for Ambros to enter her from behind.
They all walked along Strawberry Lane, holding hands in twos and threes and changing occasionally. Jimmy looked thoughtful, Kim and Ambros hopeful.
Marie and Luisa spoke together quietly, mostly inaudible even to Ambros’ improved hearing.
They rented a sauna room at the Bathhouse. After showering they sat on the benches in the steam, and talked about their feelings for each other.
Marie and Luisa wondered at themselves having so much of an attraction to men after all those years in a lesbian relationship.
“Oh, I know that the ‘cognates’ thing means we’re disposed to favor Ambros,” said Luisa: “I felt it when we first met. By the time I knew how complex the relaltionship was going to be, I was...not trapped, I guess, but enmeshed in feelings...”
“In love,” said Marie: “Let’s not mince words, my love.”
“You’re right,” Luisa admitted.
Kim leaned back. She rubbed her breasts, where sweat dripped and irritated her. She said: “I took Ambros in as a lark. Something I often did, back then...a whole year ago! I’d work hard all day at Teen Crew, then wind up at some party...”
“Was I a lark, too?” Jimmy asked.
“You know very well that you were; I told you so at the time. But I didn’t have unprotected intercourse with you on Valentine’s Day, aiming at getting pregnant, as part of any lark. I want you in this household, and in my bed on a regular basis.”
“Regular,” Jimmy mused: “Just not exclusive.”
“Precisely.”
Ambros said: “I do love each of you, and all of you.”
“What, me too?” asked Jimmy, lightly.
“Yes, you too, you macho nitwit. It’s always likely to be a brotherly thing between us, cause we’re both so totally hetero male. But it’s there, right?”
After a pause, Jimmy nodded: “Right. And I do appreciate your...mentorship? I hope I have the ability to fit in with this family, and in the Commonwealth...” He frowned: “And that’s all on me, isn’t it?”
“Mostly on you,” said Kim.
“But how many more fuck-ups will you forgive me for?”
Kim shook her head: “Not many more, lover. I don’t know how many that is, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you. Today ended as a hopeful day, but you are still really near the edge, endaxi?”
no subject
Date: 2020-08-08 05:51 am (UTC)'If Booth and Entertainment people ever challenged the folks at Operations, they might achieve some pushback.’ - no if about it...happens all the time. Sparrow usually goes to those meetings.
typo 'Uless you intendto do that.'
'Like sonmebody sneezing' typo
typo 'Kim steered the converstaion'
typo 'dleliberate lie'
typo 'The machiine spoke again:'
typo 'becase of his size'
typo 'not that twe refuse tech'
typo 'She waked over to the bed'
typo 'But i didn’t have unprotected'
no subject
Date: 2020-08-08 05:53 am (UTC)