When Life Hands You Uranus : 3 / 9

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

The next three nights and two days were the worst weekend of Moss’ life. He couldn’t sleep. Each time a wave of exhaustion would wash over him, he’d lie down, but the moment he’d close his eyes, the memory of what he’d done would replay in his mind, and the fear of future judgment would jangle his every nerve, down to the tiniest filaments.

His anxiety gave him a sensation of desperate hunger. Unable to sleep, he went to an all-night convenience store and bought a bagful of frozen burritos, chicken pot pies, cheese balls, and fish sticks. Afraid that sugar might make him wired, he avoided the sodas and the candy aisle, but once he got home, he started drinking coffee as if it were water. He had nothing else on hand. Then he got busy microwaving his purchases.

Soon he felt bloated, greasy, wired, and strung out. None of what he ate or drank was good for him, and none of it combined well in his digestive system.

In an attempt to clear his head, he took a long hot shower, sitting on the floor so the water spilled over him like rain. When he could stay there no longer, he dried himself off, took paper and a pen, and sat down at the kitchen table to map out his thoughts.

At the top of the page, he wrote the first, undeniable fact, all in caps: I SHOULD HAVE SENT THE DOCUMENTS.

It was true, but in itself it wasn’t such a big deal. If he had sent the documents, Uranus would be ready for Barfield. Now, Barfield’s arrival would be a surprise. Okay. So far, so good: the second thing Moss wrote, all caps, was: NOT A BIG DEAL. Even if someone complained (which they wouldn’t), he’d simply say he’d forgotten to send them. Management would tell him not to do it again; Moss would promise he wouldn’t, and that would be the end of it.

BUT -- and here was a big “but”:

Neeka had given him documents for a man, and he’d sent the profile of a woman. The thought frightened him -- he could get in so much trouble. He wrote: DOCS FOR MAN, NOT WOMAN.

Right: the documents wouldn’t fit the person. Well, what if he never sends the documents at all? What would happen? A woman would arrive on Uranus; the miners would ask for her papers. At the very least, they’d want to know her name. She wasn’t likely to admit to being Barfield Owens, but who would she say she was? What could she do? She could pretend to have amnesia, but that ruse wouldn’t take her very far. Even if she gave a made-up name, there wouldn’t be any documentation to back it up. In any case, eventually there’d be an investigation, and the investigation would start with him, with Moss. He’d be found out, and probably go to jail. At the very least, he’d lose his job and have a hard time finding another.

He wrote, SHE NEEDS DOCUMENTS.

What if the documents Neeka provided could somehow work for a woman? Maybe if Neeka had given Barfield a gender-neutral name, like Dylan or Oakley or something like that... Even so, it would be hard to argue that a hottie like the one Moss created would ever be designated male.

The moment he had that thought, a light went off inside his head. Moss wrote his amazing realization in the center of the page, on a line by itself: NO BIO-DATA. He underlined it three times, circled the words, and drew arrows pointing to it.

On Barfield’s new documents, he wouldn’t be marked as anything -- yet. Not male, not female. His age, height, hair color, etc., etc. couldn’t be there. There’d be no photo or bio-data in Barfield’s new paperwork: those things would have to come out of the new physical profile Moss and Neeka had created. Which meant that the documents would be editable, at least to that extent. If he was lucky, the edit permissions weren’t keyed to Neeka. He’d have to check, once he got to the office.

Now Moss saw a glimmer of hope. It was odd, though, that someone as organized and prepared and -- well, let’s face it: someone as elegant, cool, and attractive as Neeka -- it was odd that she’d forget an important detail like that. Maybe Moss had thrown her off by his angry outburst, when he realized they were dealing with Barfield Owens. Then there was the tea and biscuits. In the end, Moss *had* shoved her out the door. She was distracted, sure, and Moss gave her the bum's rush in the end. In any case, she’d forgotten. If she *did* remember that she’d forgotten, she’d have to come back before the next teleport cycle (a week from now) to fix what she missed. Once Barfield left for Uranus, it would be too late for any changes or adjustments.

Then again, why would Neeka return? She’d assume that Moss had already sent the documents. In her mind, it would already be too late: she’d have to resign herself to letting the missing pieces sort themselves out. After all, those details could be added at Uranus, albeit a little awkwardly.

With a sense of added relief, Moss took his pen and wrote, NEEKA NOT RETURNING.

Even so, he’d keep Neeka’s memory stick on hand, just in case. He got up to drink yet another coffee, then froze in his tracks. Where was Neeka’s memory stick? Where had he left it? He couldn’t remember. He dashed to the front closet and went through the pockets of his coat. He ran to his bedroom, plucked his work clothes out of the pile of dirty laundry, and riffled the pockets. No memory stick there, either.

He urgently wanted to hurry to work and search the office -- not only to find the memory stick, but also to see if the documents were editable. But he didn’t dare. His presence would be signaled, and he’d have to explain himself. He couldn’t just go in. He’d have to wait. Bide his time, bite his nails, and wait.

A horrible, desperate thought came to Moss, just as he was falling asleep on the last night of his seemingly unending weekend. He closed his eyes and was about to drift off, when it hit him, floating up from the darkest part of his psyche: What if, when it was time for the teleport, he purposely sent the wrong data file with Barfield? What if -- instead of sending the data file for a person, he sent the data file for an empty cardboard box, for example? Or no data file at all? What if he corrupted Barfield’s profile, and made it unusable?

Certainly, Barfield would die. Or to put it more accurately: Moss would kill Barfield. Moss would become a murderer. And he’d get caught, sure as anything. The JNSQ would be transmitted; there would be a record of it. His every action would be logged. Killing Barfield would be a desperate move, but in the end it wouldn’t resolve anything.

Moss sat up on the edge of his bed and slapped himself in the face three times, hard. Then he started crying. What an idiot he was! Why did he put himself into such a mess? Who did he think he was?

 

---

 

The next thing he knew, he was waking up. The sun was shining. The weather was absolutely beautiful. The air temperature, the humidity, the pollen, were all at the most favorable, comfortable levels. It was a perfectly normal, perfectly agreeable workday -- or at least it should have been. Moss showered and dressed. He felt like absolute crap. He was drained, exhausted, and hungover. At the same time, he was buzzing with caffeine, anxiety, and existential fear.

On entering the office, his first discovery was that he’d left the console on. The gorgeous naked woman he’d created was still floating in the air above the workstation. The cleaning people must have seen it. There was no way they could have missed it. He hurried over to turn it off. His hands were shaking. He looked over every inch of the console: there was no sign of Neeka’s memory stick. He checked the control room as thoroughly as he could, without success. He hadn’t left it sticking in any of the data ports.

Moss broke out in a cold sweat.

He methodically worked his way through the office, starting from the door. He looked on top of everything, under everything. He tried to physically retrace his steps, but it didn’t help. In his mind’s eye, he could see Neeka handing him the stick, but his memory of it was a blank after that.

I’m fucked, he told himself. I’m well and truly fucked. I’ll have to call Neeka and ask for a new set. Then she’ll know I didn’t send them when I was supposed to. He sighed, and went to make himself a cup of coffee, to fortify his nerve.

There, in the kitchen, sitting atop the microwave, like the very picture of innocence itself, was Neeka’s memory stick. Gratefully, Moss snatched it up, and ran, hands trembling, to a computer console. He plugged the stick into a data port and found it was exactly what he hoped: Barfield Owens’ new documents.

The first thing he did was to make a copy, and he put that copy in a folder called ORIGINAL B.O. Then he removed the memory stick, and locked it in a drawer.

Next, he examined the documents. To his surprise and delight, Neeka had not only left him with editable files, she’d left him with (1) Barfield’s original documents, (2) the documents establishing Barfield’s new identity, and (3) an entire official planetary-government-issue ID-creation kit. With that kit, he’d not only be able to create ID cards, tax and credit histories, etc., etc., but also to automatically insert the appropriate corresponding entries in the planetary Office of Credit and Vital Statistics! Moss couldn’t believe his luck.

He set to work on a copy of Barfield’s new identity. First, he had to hunt for a few anxious minutes to find the upload feature that would extract all the physical data like height, weight, eye color, GENDER, and so on, directly from the new physical profile he’d created. Once he did that, the documents began to look real. The upload even generated photos for ID cards, drivers license, passport, and other documents.

Then Moss hit a wall. What was this new person’s name? He drew a blank. The only names that came to mind were TV news anchors, characters from books and movies, political figures… all of them, famous. None of their names would work.

Then, just when he needed something serious, a string of silly names paraded through his mind. They came from a late-night comedy show, and once they started, he couldn’t make them stop: Bertha Twins, Ophelia Hiney, Derry Yare, Eileen Dover, Frieda Livery, Gladys Friday, Gloria Sass, and of course, Molly Spencer-Downe...

Moss gave his head a hard shake and went off to lunch. Stepping outside into the fresh air stopped the crazy names from coming, and food, in his experience, seemed to help resolve problems. As he thoughtfully consumed a healthy salad, he mentally took a step back and tried a different tack. He’d seen the name that Neeka had chosen: Leonard Lessius. Did the name Leonard have a female form? Leonora? No. Too grand. Isn’t Lessie a girl’s name? Lessie? Leslie? No, it just didn’t sound right. Lessee. Qualified lessees get immediate approval. No.

He returned from lunch without a new name. So he took to the interwebs. He knew that Neeka had chosen “Leonard Lessius” from history, but he soon found that “History” is a large, nearly infinite, category, as is “First Names.” Here are some of the categories he tried, without a successful, or even promising, result:

• sexy first names
• porn stars from history
• first names
• first names that don’t suck
• I don’t know what to name my baby girl
• best first names
• most popular names by year

As many parents can attest, it’s difficult to choose a suitable name. Unless, of course, you’re inspired from the start, or have family traditions to follow.

Moss switched to a random approach, leaving names per se behind: now he searched for words that popped up in other places… names of plants and trees… types of boats… names of planets, suns, and asteroids.

At last he ended up with Linnea Valerianella. He was more-or-less pleased with it. He didn’t know anyone with either the first or last name. The complete name didn’t show up in the interwebs, which was good -- no one was already using that name. Also, it was a clunky, weird kind of name, but not too weird or clunky. The name kind of stumbled off the tongue, like a problem or a tongue-twister, and Moss liked that. Plus, the last name sounded sort of like a disease. On the whole, the name vaguely suggested racy science fiction, like the pulp stories of the early atomic age.

Most of all, it was a name, and that’s what was needed. What mattered even more was the fact that Moss was tired of searching and thinking. This was it: Barfield had a brand new name. Hopefully he’d hate it. Hopefully, he’d have trouble remembering it. Best of all, he might have trouble pronouncing it.

Moss took a bathroom break, then sat down again at the terminal. He took a look over all the documents, knowing that it’s important to check your work. Everything looked… well… better than good. The documents looked great. They looked real. They were real.

It was a good thing that Moss was so thorough: He found an entire group of documents he’d missed the first and second times through. There were school records. The grades generally followed Barfield’s actual grades. Moss was tempted to lower all the scores, including the state test scores, to make Linnea look like an idiot, but he realized that doing so might raise questions about her employment history. So Moss didn’t touch the grades. He did make some changes to the classes, though: he changed Calculus to Cooking, and Statistics to Sewing. He added a note to the last Phys. Ed. class on the cards: “It’s unfortunate that Linnea can’t pursue a career in field hockey. It would suit her better than anything else.”

Moss thought it was funny. Eventually someone might see it. You never knew.

Then he hit a major snag, and his heart sank, even lower than it had last weekend. There was an entire class of documents that he didn’t dare touch: all of the papers connected to Barfield’s new job on Uranus. There were work contracts, releases, tax and payroll forms, as well as other assorted paperwork -- all of it filed with the Nostalgia Project and already “signed” by Leonard Lessius. None of them could be altered. Even if he could change the documents before him, there was no way he could touch the Nostalgia Project’s records.

Heartsick, Moss looked up at the clock. It was late; it was already seven PM.

 

---

 

Back at home, Moss ran through the same emotions he suffered during the weekend. He sat down with pen and paper to work out all the possible outcomes. I’m fucked, he told himself. Well and truly fucked. He wrote on the pad, all caps, FUCKED.

He considered the possibility of sending Barfield the way that Neeka meant for him to be sent: with the documents she’d prepared for Leonard Lessius, and with the (male) profile that Neeka had created. Moss could send a fresh update for the Uranus out-portal with a new block profile. That would be his fall-back plan. He’d give up his idea of justice and vengeance. He had to be ready to go that way, right up to the last minute.

Moss thought he’d have trouble falling asleep, but he was so exhausted from his sleepless weekend, and its rollercoaster of fear and emotion, that he dropped off immediately.

He slept the sleep of the dead: deep and dreamless.

Somehow, when he woke in the morning, the answer broke upon him like the sunrise. He wouldn’t need to alter any more documents. He only needed to add a few. The solution was so simple, it made him laugh.

Moss knew that the Nostalgia Project would pay Leonard Lessius the same exorbitant salary as all the other Uranian miners, and he knew that the money would go directly into Leonard Lessius’ bank account. No one was going to go to Uranus to look for the man. No one on Uranus had anything to do with payroll. The two environments were blind to each other: the Nostalgia Project was on one world, and the Uranian mine was on another. Literally. There was no direct back and forth. Any communications between the two would have to run through the entire teleportation cycle.

Moss wouldn’t need to touch Lessius’ work documents at all, and he wouldn’t need to generate new work documents for Linnea. All he had to do was create a marriage license, uniting Leonard and Linnea in matrimony. Then, he’d add Linnea to Leonard’s bank account, credit history, and other financial vehicles (such as his retirement account and investment portfolio).

Once that was done, Leonard would be paid and Linnea could spend. No one would need to know how the exact plumbing worked between one end and the other. Not even Linnea.

Moss gave himself a pat on the back. It was quite an elegant solution. He walked on air for the rest of the week, and looked forward to chewing out Barfield before sending him off to his doom. To pass the time, he downloaded a tawdry novel written in the atomic era: Slave Girl of Gor and as he read, he pictured Barfield, acting out every scene, kneeling, naked, wearing nothing but a collar, in her new, firm, ultra-sexy body.

 

---

 

Barfield himself arrived at the teleport terminal three days later at six in the morning, with manacles on his hands and feet, accompanied by two guards. Moss was a little put out by the early call, alerting him to the arrival. Still, today was the big day!

When he met Barfield in person, Moss was shocked. The man was nothing like he’d imagined: he was short, about a hundred millimeters shorter than Moss, and somewhat stocky and slow. He had a quiet, even humble, air, and -- Moss had to say it -- He didn’t look as though he could hurt a fly. Barfield, whatever he’d been in life, didn’t look like a mass murderer, or even a regular murderer. He looked like a plumber or an electrician. He looked like someone you’d be glad to have living next door.

Moss shook off the impression, and led Barfield and his guards to the kitchen. One of the guards set a chair against the wall and sat Barfield on it.

“We don’t have a waiting room, per se,” Moss explained, “and the transmission room isn’t very comfortable, especially considering that the cycle won’t start for four hours.”

At this, Barfield glanced at the clock on the wall, but said nothing.

“You can help yourselves to whatever’s in here while you wait,” Moss continued, “but I’m going to make myself some breakfast, so if you want anything -- coffee, tea, pancakes, egg sandwiches -- I can make it for you now.”

“No, I’m good,” the first guard said, and the second guard echoed him. Barfield gazed at the floor and didn’t answer, so the first guard nudged him.

“Oh, me?” Barfield asked in surprise. “No, I’m fine. Thanks.” Then he turned his gaze back downwards.

“Okay,” Moss said, feeling incredibly awkward. “Well, I want some, so here I go.” He punched a few buttons, and soon his mug was filled with a steaming brew. Outwardly he smiled and played the good host, but inwardly he was kicking himself. It was pretty stupid of him, but he hadn’t counted on guards being present. That put the kibosh on his plan to lecture Barfield before sending him off. So he took a couple sips of coffee, then ventured to ask, “Are you two going to stick around? The whole time? Until he goes?”

The first guard, who was the older of the two, looked at Moss with some suspicion. “You want to be alone with a murderer?”

“Oh no, of course not!” Moss replied, laughing nervously. “I just thought it might be a little boring for you two.”

“We get paid to stand around and make sure things don’t happen,” the first guard replied. “Consequently, being bored is part of the job. A BIG part of the job. That’s why we’re paid the big bucks.”

The second guard scoffed and repeated big bucks in a bitter tone.

“You have to consider,” the first guard continued, “that we aren’t just keeping society safe from our prisoner. We’re also keeping our prisoner safe from society. There’s two parts to this job.”

“Umm, okay,” Moss said, and wondered whether now was a good time to politely leave the room. As if sensing this, Barfield looked up at Moss and asked, “Will Neeka Fimernikem be coming?”

Moss looked down at him and waited two beats before responding. Then he said, “No, she’s not.”

“Oh.” Barfield said. He didn’t sound surprised or disappointed. He sounded like a man who didn’t expect anything to go his way. He looked at the floor, then back up at Moss. “Did she leave anything for me?”

“Like what?” Moss asked.

Barfield took a breath. He didn’t know how much he could safely say. His new identity was a secret. Was this man in the know? So he ventured, “Some documents?”

Moss tilted his head back, and looked down his nose at the prisoner. He couldn’t deny it. He’d have to give the man his documents eventually. So he replied, “Yes, she left a packet for you. I need to print it out. You’ll get it before you leave.” Barfield nodded, and looked once more at the floor. Moss nodded to the guards and left the room.

When he got to the control room, he told himself, This is going to be one long morning. He kicked off the printout of Linnea’s documents. Then he queued up Leonard’s documents to print as well. Why not? Leonard was supposedly her husband. As the printer hissed and shifted papers, Moss wondered how he was going to manage this. The lecture, the insults were clearly out of the question. The guards weren’t going to let Barfield out of their sight until the teleport took him away. As far as the documents were concerned, he’d have to put them in Barfield’s hands at the last possible minute. Barfield might have enough time to see his new identity, but Moss had to make sure that Barfield wouldn’t have enough time to react -- especially not in the guard’s hearing.

The print job was maybe 10% complete, and Moss’ mug was now empty, so he headed back to the kitchen. The two guards were sitting in the doorway, one inside, one outside, facing each other. Barfield sat in a corner, still gazing at the floor. Moss walked over the coffee machine and punched the buttons again. As the coffee brewed, the first guard gave the second a playful nudge, and said, “Uh, hey, Moss? I was just thinking -- your job... it’s all about Uranus.”

The second guard snorted and said, “Yeah, Uranus is your job.” He laughed. “It's Uranus, all day long.”

FIRST GUARD: Moss, I can see you're thinking about Uranus. It’s all over your face.

SECOND GUARD: Have you ever seen Uranus, Moss?

MOSS: Uh, no.

FIRST GUARD: I guess there aren’t any mirrors in here. You know what I mean?

SECOND GUARD: Did you ever think about the fact that everybody can see Uranus except you?

FIRST GUARD (gestures to Barfield): Hey, Owens, you better get a big cushion to take with you. You’re going to land on Uranus!

SECOND GUARD: No, he’s going to land on YOUR-anus!

FIRST GUARD: I guess you've heard all the Uranus jokes, huh, Moss?

MOSS: Actually, no. This job is, uh… well, not exactly secret, but not many people know about it.

SECOND GUARD: Nobody knows about Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: He doesn't like to talk about Uranus.

SECOND GUARD: Owens is going to hear all the Uranus jokes. This time next year, he’ll know Uranus, inside and out. He’s going to eat, sleep, and breathe Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: He’ll be looking at Uranus every day.

BARFIELD: I guess.

SECOND GUARD: Some people would be pretty excited to see Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: Nobody wants to see Uranus. Nobody wants to hear about Uranus.

SECOND GUARD: I hear Uranus is very exciting. Owens can't keep himself away from Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: Yeah, yeah, but Owens: when you leave, don’t let the door hit Uranus.

MOSS (sotto voce): Jesus Christ.

SECOND GUARD: I hear Uranus is full of ass -- I mean, gas!

FIRST GUARD: Hey, Owens, you know, once your in, Uranus will never let you go. Uranus will be your new home.

SECOND GUARD: Hey, yeah -- but, you know, when you get there, Owens, you won’t need a map and two hands to find Uranus. It’ll be right in front of you!

FIRST GUARD (to Barfield): How about that? Uranus will always be in front of you!

SECOND GUARD: Unless he turns his back.

FIRST GUARD: You do that, Barfield, and your anus will point at Uranus. You see what I did there?

SECOND GUARD: Yeah, yeah, but, Owens, be careful out there! You don’t want to fall on Uranus! You don’t want anything to get stuck in Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: You know, Owens, I hear that the mining station is very roomy, very comfortable. That’s important -- it would be terrible if Uranus was too tight.

SECOND GUARD: Or too loose! You don't want Uranus to be too loose!

FIRST GUARD: I guess not.

SECOND GUARD: I hope it’s really lively out there, Owens. You don’t want Uranus to be dragging. You want Uranus to be bouncing.

FIRST GUARD: But you don’t want Uranus to be loud.

SECOND GUARD: Do you think there are any musicians out there? I’m wondering what kind of sounds would come out of Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: I think there’ll be a lot of low sounds.

SECOND GUARD: You don’t think you might be high squeaks? I bet you can hear a high-pitched whistle coming out of Uranus.

FIRST GUARD: I'm sure they can make all kinds of sounds come out of Uranus.

Moss felt an enormous sense of gratitude when Barfield raised his head and asked his guards, “Do you think I could get a cup of coffee?”

“Uh… yeah,” the first guard said, and Moss could see the two guards mentally struggle to find a joke connecting coffee and Uranus. Failing that, the younger guard got up and fetched a steaming mug for the prisoner.

“I’ll have those documents for you before you leave,” Moss told Barfield.

“Thank you,” Barfield replied.

Time dragged until nine o’clock. By then, Moss had prepared the cargo pods and the data files. He prepped Barfield’s documents for transit, as well as Barfield’s physical profile. He triple-checked everything.

Then, at nine-forty, he went to the kitchen and said, “It’s time. Will you follow me?” and he led them to the transit room. The guards looked around and said, “This is not very secure. We’re going to have to stay in here until he’s gone.”

“You can’t. If you stay here, you’ll end up on Uranus.” It wasn’t true; they’d actually end up dead, since there were no data files for them, but there was no point in explaining everything.

“I'm not going anywhere near Uranus!” the younger guard said, laughing.

"Yeah, keep Uranus to yourself," the older guard added.

“You’ll have to take the manacles off him,” Moss instructed, “and you--” here he addressed Barfield-- “will have to strip.”

“I have to be naked?” Barfield asked.

“Isn’t that what I just said?” Moss answered testily. It wasn’t true; Barfield didn’t need to strip at all. Moss, inspired by last night’s reading, added it as one more indignity. If he could have found an excuse to put a collar on Barfield’s neck, he would have done so, but that would have been too obvious: it would be a step too far. In any case, he didn't have any such thing.

“I don’t like this,” the older guard said, as he unlocked the shackles.

“We can lock the room from the outside,” Moss told him, “and I have to lock down the entire transport area as soon as the three of us exit.”

The guards left, carrying the chains and Barfield’s clothes. Moss handed Barfield the packet of papers and said, “Here’s your new identity. I hope Uranus gives you everything you deserve.” He didn’t mean that last phrase as a joke -- he meant it ironically, as a menace, and he gave Barfield a significant look. The look would have clarified his meaning, had Barfield only seen it, but the prisoner was too busy looking at the new life he’d been assigned.

“I -- uh -- what? -- wait!” Barfield called. “Wait! This can’t be right. This must be a mistake!”

Moss turned to smile as he closed the door and locked it. He had another snide comment to deliver, but a glance at the clock told him that he had only three minutes to get to the control room. He could hear Barfield’s muffled shouts: “This is a woman’s file! It isn’t mine! This is a mistake! This is wrong! Wait! This is for the wrong person!”

“What is he saying?” the older guard asked, with a look of concern.

“He said he’s sorry for all the wrong he’s done,” Moss lied. He hurried the guards to the control room, and hit the GO button exactly at 10:00.000. The teleport went off without a hitch.