When Life Hands You Uranus : 2 / 9

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Neeka Fimernikem promised Barfield Owens that his appearance would be altered. He assumed she was talking about plastic surgery, but that wasn’t what she meant at all. She had a more fundamental change in mind. It was a transformation made possible by teleportation.

To put it simply, a person could enter Point A, and arrive at Point B as someone else entirely. Of course, on the inside, they’d be the same: they’d have the same thoughts, the same feelings, the same memories. But on the outside, physically, they wouldn’t be the same at all. There were virtually no limits to the alterations they could undergo. And the changes were real, permanent, down to the core, not cosmetic or temporary.

It’s possible for teleportation to transform a person, but it’s very rarely done.

How does it happen? How does it work?

Point B on Uranus receives a load of cargo once a week. Occasionally it receives people as well. Whatever goes into the teleporter comes out on the other side, but how is it sent? It's sent as chunks of energy. One of the biggest hurdles in developing teleportation was telling all these chunks of energy apart. One chunk of energy looks pretty much like any other chunk of energy. How does the teleporter know which is which? Sure, some energy chunks are bigger, and some are smaller. Frequency and amplitude can vary, but still: if you’ve seen one ball of energy, you’ve seen them all.

And yet, the receiving station always manages to turn all that energy back into whatever objects they’re supposed to be, whether it’s a huge tank of water, or a carton packed with letters and parcels, or a shipping container full of fruit trees. How does it manage to do it? It’s simple: Before each item is sent, a data file is sent ahead of it, and that data file uniquely describes the object. The receiving side watches for the data file, and with the help of that file, the receiving station is able to recreate the box, or plant, or person that was sent.

In the case of living beings (like plants or humans), there is also a third component. In technical terms, it’s known as the JNSQ: the je ne sais quoi. In a human being, it’s that “thing” without which a body is simply dead matter. It’s the elusive elan, spirit, soul, or mind… it’s what makes you, you. It’s the only part that doesn’t change. It can’t change. If it’s corrupted, altered, or not sent at all, the living creature will die.

During the wild experimental days when teleportation was first being developed, one adventurous, irresponsible soul discovered that it was possible to substitute one person’s data file for another. When the wrong file is sent, the receiving station constructs the wrong body. The traveler does not come out the way they went in. Back in those heady early times, there were accidents and pranks that were both amusing (to others) and terrifying (to the victim). The changes were difficult, costly, or even impossible to undo.

As Neeka Fimernikem would say, these things are not secret, but they are not commonly known.

The five days after Barfield met Neeka were a flurry of activity. The preparations for his exile on Uranus involved a great deal of paperwork, physical examinations, and consultations, to say nothing of the arrangements and accommodations that were necessary. Neeka, with single-minded efficiency, checked off every task, filled out every form, filed every declaration and certificate, until only one item remained. Once she completed this last piece of business, she’d be done with Barfield Owens. Today, this last bit of business brought her to Point A. She needed to deliver Barfield’s documents -- the ones that establish his new identity -- and oversee the alterations to his appearance.

Neeka was quite pleased with Barfield’s new name: Leonard Lessius. It was a name she had chosen more or less at random from Earth’s historic archives. The name had a pleasant, confident sound, and she wished, with some regret, that she could be present to witness Barfield’s pleasure and surprise when he’d hear his new name for the first time.

Regarding his appearance, she decided that the safest route was to aim for opposites, or at least for different: dark blonde hair in place of light brown, green eyes in place of blue, tall in place of short, slim in place of stocky, and so on. It was a pretty simple plan. There was only one body part that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with: she knew that she liked men who had a generous package, so to speak, but would Barfield be happy or frustrated if he were better endowed? Would he be more peaceful and tranquil if his testosterone were lower, and his penis shorter? She’d ask the technician: he was a man. He’d have a feel for it.

Moss, the technician, was very pleased to discover that his visitor was someone as young and attractive as Neeka, and he was further pleased to know that they’d be editing a person’s data file. Usually Moss’ job was solitary, routine, and fairly boring: he’d line up cargo units, check manifests, follow schedules. When each teleport cycle began, he’d push buttons and send confirmations in a strictly-defined and highly efficient sequence. It was important to not waste time or energy. Energy was money, after all. Efficiency wasn’t fun, but it was the essence of the job.

Altering the data file of a human being, on the other hand, was quite a different sort of work: it took creativity and a highly developed esthetic sense. It was also somewhat difficult, in spite of the advanced tools available. For Moss, it was the most satisfying part of his job, albeit the rarest. He spent many of his free hours reworking the practice set -- a standard bank of anonymous profiles meant for training and study. He liked to keep his hand in. And it showed: If anyone ever bothered to compare and rate that sort of activity, Moss would be placed among the best.

Honestly, though, in spite of the complexity, it was nearly impossible to utterly ruin a person’s appearance. The data-file editor had a powerful option: Apply Eigenvalues. This amazing function took the current physical settings and adjusted them, by applying proportions that were scientifically determined to be esthetically pleasing. Moss liked to challenge himself to arrive at a result that required as few eigenvalue adjustments as possible. He usually succeeded. He had a very good eye.

Obviously, Neeka and Moss each had their own set of expectations. Neeka imagined that she would design a new, average-looking person, someone who wouldn’t call attention to himself. Moss imagined that he would impress his attractive visitor with his design skills.

After chatting about Neeka’s fashionably antiquated eyewear for a reasonable period, the two got down to business. Neeka handed over a memory stick containing Barfield’s data file, and Moss loaded it into the editor. As soon as the profile finished rendering, Moss swore an oath so unholy, Neeka blanched a deathly pale.

“That’s Barfield Owens!” Moss exclaimed in disgust. “He’s the Mojan-Pardee Killer!”

“That’s classified information,” Neeka informed him.

“This man is a murderer!”

“He is going into permanent exile, and that fact cannot leave this room.”

“He’ll slip out of Uranus on the next teleport cycle! After killing everyone there!”

“No, he won’t,” Neeka explained. “He will never be able to leave Uranus. Once you alter his data file, we will block his exit from Uranus.”

“How will we do that?” Moss demanded angrily.

“We will take Barfield’s new profile and load it into an obligatory update for the outgoing gate on Uranus. The update will contain a block on the profile we’re about to create. If Barfield tries to leave Uranus, the system will refuse to transport him. You will transmit this update, with the block, tomorrow. Barfield won’t land on Uranus until next week. The update will execute immediately, putting the block in place. By the time Barfield arrives, the exit door will already be closed and locked. Barfield will never leave Uranus. Understand?”

“Okay,” Moss said, calming a bit. His anger was mollified a great deal by Neeka’s explanation. He was still upset, but he was also quite impressed with her command of the situation. Knowing that Barfield would have no way out of Uranus helped him get a grip on his turbulent emotions.

A second influence helped him regain his composure: he wanted to make a good impression on Neeka. She was remarkably attractive, quite observant, and clearly well-prepared. Moss took some deep breaths and counted to ten.

Then, Moss did what people often do in difficult moments all across the universe: he took a moment to prepare a cup of tea. As the water came to a boil, Moss apologized for his outburst. His evident sincerity, and the fact that he was able to accompany his offer of tea with authentic McVitie’s chocolate digestive biscuits helped greatly to restore him in Neeka’s bespectacled eyes. “We should have these biscuits on tap at the Nostalgia Project!” she declared. “They’re wonderful!”

At the same time, under his smooth, tea-sipping exterior, Moss was secretly hatching a plan. For now, he’d go along with everything Neeka said or asked. Later, when he was alone, he’d fix Barfield’s little red wagon. He’d settle his hash. He’d make sure that for Barfield, Uranus would be an unending slice of hell. But that would be later. Is vengeance really a dish best served cold? Sometimes “a little later” is "cold" enough.

And so, after they consumed their tea and biscuits, Neeka and Moss got to work on revising Barfield’s appearance. Moss stifled his desire to show off. He listened attentively and did exactly what Neeka asked, in every case, without contradicting or correcting or offering improvements.

In the end, even Moss was surprised at the result. Perhaps it was the innate skill in his fingers. Perhaps Neeka had an eye as perceptive and creative as his own. In any case, Barfield’s new profile was perfect. Not “perfect” in the sense of chiseled manliness or movie-star appeal. It was perfect in the sense of being exactly what was wanted.

The new image was that of an ordinary man, a common type: not bad looking, but not one who’d stand out in a crowd. It was not a face or figure that would draw your attention; it was one of the invisible people who walk among us, unnoticed, every day. Barfield would be pleased to have such a body. He’d have to be enormously pleased to part with his old face: the face of one of the planet’s most hated murderers.

The last decision they needed to make was about the dimensions of Barfield’s new penis. Neeka, blushing, asked Moss for his opinion. He thought for a moment, then gave this suggestion: “Let’s give him one that matches his overall look.” To show her what he meant, he set up two sliders: one for length and one for girth. Then he slid them up and down, making the profile’s member longer and shorter, wider and thinner.

In spite of herself, Neeka was fascinated, and watched the image’s penis grow and shrink, until it arrived at the Goldilocks point: not too big, not too small, but just right.

That done, Neeka declared herself satisfied with the results. The new Barfield was “decent looking.” When the day came that Uranus started attracting women, Barfield would have a solid chance. I’d hit that, she told herself, and nodded approval to Moss, who saved the settings in a fresh new data file.

When Moss first laid eyes on Neeka, he had hoped to invite her to dinner after work. He further hoped and fantasized that dinner would lead to his apartment, and his apartment would lead to his bed. Until the moment he saw Barfield’s original profile, he’d been actively imagining Neeka naked. Neeka naked in his bed. Neeka naked in his kitchen. Neeka naked in his bathroom, brushing her teeth. Neeka, seen from the side, bending to look at… at… at something on the floor. His imagination hadn’t come up with the something quite yet: but the nakedness and the pose were there, and of course an evident willingness underlying all the imaginary scenes…

Now, with the prospect of doing harm to the world’s most famous murderer, Moss hustled Neeka to the door, explaining that he needed to get ready for tomorrow’s teleport cycle.

“Oh, I nearly forgot!” she exclaimed, as Moss was closing the door. “Here are our man’s new papers -- id, birth certificate, school records, personal history -- his whole new identity. You need to send these tomorrow, so Uranus is ready. They need to know that he’s coming. And give him a copy as well. He can familiarize himself while he’s waiting to leave.”

Moss looked puzzled. “He won’t know his new identity until just before he leaves?”

“No, he won’t,” she said. “Absolutely not. Listen, I’ve done this several times before, and I’ve learned a hard lesson. Do you know the very first thing a person does when you hand them a new identity?”

“They want to change something?” Moss ventured.

“Exactly. They want to change one little thing, then another thing, and in the end they want to change the WHOLE thing. It turns into a big, time-wasting mess. The only way a new identity works is if it’s done for them by someone else. It’s better if they’re surprised. Just like when we’re born.”

“Right, right,” Moss agreed. He pushed on the door, but she still had her hand on it, holding it open. She had a small big of unburdening to do.

“If you ask a person to choose a new name, they invariably pick one that’s obviously fake, or just sounds silly. And you can’t TELL them that it sounds silly. That’s why I choose real names from the past.”

“Yeah, that’s, uh, smart of you.”

“AND they want to look like a movie star.” She shook her lovely head.

“Yup,” Moss agreed. “Hey, sorry, I’ve really got to go -- work to do! Teleport cycle tomorrow!” He almost got the door closed, but once again she put up her hand and stopped him. “Don’t forget to send the upgrade to the Uranus portal, with the block.”

“Right, right, yes, I’ll get right on it.”

“Obligatory upgrade.”

“I won’t forget. I’ll do it right now, before I do anything else.”

“Okay,” Neeka said. “I guess that’s it.”

“Yup,” Moss chirped. He smiled and waved as he closed the door. Then he threw the deadbolt. Neeka was taken aback by the sound. She didn’t understand why Moss so suddenly wanted to get rid of her, but in any case her work here was done. She threw Moss' rudeness off with a shrug and walked to the nearest taxi stand.

There are people who shouldn’t work alone: people who need an anchor for their flights of fancy. There are people who need a sounding board, so their thoughts can quit roiling and rolling inside. There are people like Moss, who need someone to look over and say, Hey! What the hell are you doing? Are you kidding me? You can’t do that!

Unfortunately, Moss had no anchor or listener or witness. He was alone in an office where he could fire anything he liked straight through to Uranus. There were no checks and balances. Uranus could only receive; Uranus had no way to talk back.

Moss rubbed his hands in satisfaction. It wouldn’t take him long to royally screw up Barfield’s profile. His plan, in a nutshell, was to create a new person, a new profile for Barfield that would be as ugly and loathsome outside as Barfield was inside. He’d create it, transmit it, and just before sending Barfield off to exile, he’d give that killer a lecture about what a vile piece of scum he was.

Of course, Moss had no idea what Barfield was really like, as a person. He knew only what he’d heard about the man, what he’d seen in the news, and all of that was awful. Worse than awful. Also, it should be noted that Moss’ life hadn’t been affected in any real way by the Mojan-Pardee Killer. Not one of his personal acquaintance had been murdered. In fact, he didn’t know anyone even remotely connected to any of the victims. And yet, he was offended by the fact that Barfield Owens existed. He was indignant that Barfield Owens was leaving prison. It was a desecration, a profanation, a travesty of justice. He was outraged that Barfield Owens still had life in his body. Moss was offended on behalf of all those who were unable to feel offended, and he was determined to make Barfield Owens feel the weight of his disapprobation in his own body.

Moss fortified himself, but not with tea and chocolate digestive biscuits. This time he needed something stronger: he prepared a pot of strong, hot coffee, and microwaved a bagel sandwich with egg, sausage, and cheddar. Moss cracked his knuckles and sat down at the console.

After reloading Barfield’s original profile, he started making changes. First of all, in a fit of indignation he shortened the man’s penis to the point that it would be difficult to pee. Then, working from the feet to the head, he changed nearly every part of Barfield’s body, aiming in every case for the grotesque.

When he finished, he surveyed his work. He laughed with wicked satisfaction. The new profile looked like something out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. If this figure was female, you’d expect her to be living in a cottage deep in the woods, cooking children and cackling in a crow-like voice.

Then Moss glanced at the clock. To his surprise, it was nearly midnight. He’d been so absorbed in the destruction of Barfield that he’d lost track of time. He stood up, stretched, and went to the lavatory. When he returned to the work station, the grotesque creature he’d created was still floating in the air above the console. In spite of all the time Moss spent creating the figure, it startled him. Frankly, it frightened him. It made him aware of the late hour and the fact that he was alone in a place where periodically a void opens, a vivid darkness that led to Uranus, icy blue with cold.

His reaction gave him second thoughts. Maybe Barfield would like looking this way: scary, intimidating, off-putting. It might feed his sense of power, and cow the other miners. His very ugliness might deliver Uranus right into his hands.

Disappointed, Moss sat down again. He deleted his awful creation and reloaded Barfield’s original profile. Then he set to altering it once again. This time, he aimed for oafish, stupid-looking. He made a broad, flat face with wide-set eyes. He shorted the torso and legs, and lengthened the arms. He gave the figure elephantine ears, a teeny tiny nose, and a shock of hair on the very top of an otherwise bald head.

Once again, though, the effect was unsatisfying. It still seemed in some way inadequate.It didn’t express the hatred he felt for Barfield. Then Moss abruptly realized, to his disgust, that he’d re-created his own Uncle Nathan. Nathan was a good, kind man, and didn’t deserve to have his face given to a mass murderer like Owens.

Sighing, Moss wiped his work from the system and reloaded Barfield’s original profile. It was now 2:15 in the morning.

Moss tried over and over, one attempt after another. He made one with huge hands and feet and a tiny head. It was too ridiculous. He made one with a tiny body and a huge head, which prompted warnings on the console: the proportions were anatomically dangerous. He tried erased and started again countless times, but none of his results expressed his visceral disdain for Barfield. None of them were sure to be a punishment in and of itself.

And now it was six o’clock. Four more hours, and he’d have to kick off a teleport cycle. It took about an hour to prepare, so really he only had three hours. By now, though, he was hungry and tired and not thinking straight. He needed a break.

Moss exited the building and walked two blocks to a 24-hour diner. He ordered a plate of eggs, ham, and toast. His brain was befogged. The coffee didn’t help to clarify anything; it wasn’t waking him up at all.

Then, something happened that gave him the key -- or so he thought. You have to understand that Moss was a man who, in spite of his work, had never traveled. He’d never been to another planet. In fact, he rarely ventured out of his city, out of his neighborhood, except to go on vacation. Even then, he’d never been anywhere exotic or different -- never to a place that would open his eyes to the wider world -- to the life beyond the four walls of his parochial experience.

Three men who sat at the other end of the diner were loudly flirting with the waitress. She tried to brush it off good naturedly, but they wouldn’t leave her alone. They progressed to touching and groping her whenever she passed their table. Moss quite rightly was offended, but he didn’t say or do anything about it. The last straw came when one of the men grabbed the waitress outright and pulled her onto his lap. She loudly protested, which brought the cook and the dishwasher out from the back, and the three men were told to leave. They resisted until another patron offered to call the police. The three were about to storm off, when the cook stopped them and instructed them not only to pay their check, but also to leave a generous tip for the waitress they’d abused. They threw some money on the table. The cook wagged his chef's blade at them, and they added some more money. Then a little more. Once the cook was satisfied, he let them go.

As soon as the door closed on the three malefactors, everyone in the place began talking at once. At last, Moss’ head was clear: finally, he was awake. He paid his bill and ran back to work. Now he knew what he wanted to do.

Moss was well aware of the fact that there were no women on Uranus; only men. He’d met some of them, and they were -- for the most part -- big, burly guys. Moss imagined that if a woman did arrive on Uranus that she’d be treated much the same way as the waitress in the diner. Except for the fact that there’d be no one to hold the miners back. There was no one who’d call the police; there were, in fact, no police to call. Moss didn’t realize it, but he was projecting his own misogyny onto the miners. He assumed that they were like him, and given the chance, they’d treat a woman badly.

So, he decided to deliver a woman into their hands. He believed that if he transformed Barfield into a hot young woman, she’d be at the miners' mercy. She’d be the unending object of their collective lust; she’d suffer all their jibes and kinks, and there’d be nothing and no one to stop them.

He deleted his last attempt at making Barfield grotesque. Then he loaded up one of the standard female profiles from the practice set. It didn’t matter what she looked like now; he’d amp her up, all the way to eleven.

First, he scanned the interwebs for images, using terms like bombshell, babe, bimbo, and the phrase sexiest woman ever. He collected the photos that he found most arousing. When he felt that further searching wouldn’t yield anything sexier, he went through the photos he’d saved, and winnowed his collection down to an even dozen. Then he cycled through the twelve images methodically, altering the profile in one way and another as he studied the pictures.

When he finished working from the photos, he had a result that was definitely along the lines he was aiming for. However, it still needed some tweaks, some adjustments. He made the chin smaller, the eyes bigger, the neck longer. He tapered her legs, narrowed her waist, enlarged her hips and breasts. He gave her delicate arms and hands. He gave her tiny feet, and narrow shoulders to accentuate her breasts. He plumped up her lips and raised her cheek bones. His fingers flew as he harmonized and sexualized the body in front of him. He made her hair blonde, then dark, then red. He made it curly and straight, before settling on wavy. Of course, her hair was long and shiny.

Once again, time disappeared for him. When he finally felt he had nothing more to add or change or adjust, he saved the profile. Then -- just to see the effect -- he hit the Eigenvalues button. The lines shifted subtly; the function made almost imperceptible changes, but the effect was astonishing. Moss gasped at the Venus floating in the air before him. She was irresistible. She was truly unbelievable. She had an electrifying, otherworldly allure. Moss gaped like a fourteen-year-old. Then he looked at his crotch. Without his even feeling the reaction, he saw a long, strong erection trying to poke its way out of his pants.

He let out the breath he’d been holding, then he looked at the clock. OH MY GOD, IT’S TEN AFTER NINE! If he didn’t start moving fast, he’d never make the ten o’clock teleport cycle. He hit SAVE on the console, then ran to grab today’s manifest, and dashed off to line up the cargo in the bay. As he was doing so, he suddenly remembered that he needed to load the new profile into an update for the Uranus out-portal. He started moving faster. He double-checked the manifest against the cargo pods, then ran back to the portal. He checked the order of the data files against the manifest. It all checked out. Then, he loaded the new profile into a copy of the out-portal program, and tried to mark the program to be transmitted as an obligatory upload. He got a loud beep and an error message: Cannot add ‘obligatory’ attribute to an uncompiled program.

Shit! He hit COMPILE. Another beep! Another error! He had forgotten to mark the profile as a block. Okay: fixed that. COMPILE. Moss looked at the clock. Five minutes to ten. Would he make it? What would happen if he didn’t? Maybe Barfield would escape from Uranus and teleport to point C. He’d go on another killing spree, and it would all be Moss’ fault.

Two minutes to ten. Moss got ready to start the cycle. If the upload wasn’t ready, he’d have to send it next week. Oh, God.

One minute to ten. COMPILE COMPLETE. Hands shaking, he marked the program obligatory update, added it to the cycle manifest, and hit GO, just as the clock hit 10:00:00.000: precisely on the mark. He'd never cut it so close before. Never.

The engines stirred. An electric whine rose in pitch. The void opened. An uncanny aura filled the building. Every hair on Moss’ body stood on end. Then, one by one, faster than you can count, the cargo pods disappeared. Moss checked the readings: the data files were transmitted; the cargo was gone. The file count was correct. The pod count was correct. The files and the pods aligned. The out-portal update was transmitted. Everything was correct.

Moss hit CONFIRMED. The void closed. The whine came down and stopped. The engines slowed and finally shut off. The aura began to fade. For a moment there was a kind of echo, a subtle left-over ethereal vibration that took its time in dissipating, until the whole building fell silent.

Moss sat there, listening, hearing nothing, conscious of his breathing. He trembled slightly. Then he smiled.

He’d done it! He’d dealt his very own secret justice for the victims of the Mojan-Pardee Killer. It was a strange, silently jubilant moment. He didn’t move from his chair for about five minutes. He would have stayed there longer, enjoying the sense of victory, had not the strain of his all-nighter abruptly caught up with him. He felt immensely tired. Moss needed to get home, take a shower, go to bed. Tomorrow began his weekend. He’d have the next two days off, and there was nothing he needed to do. He could relax and do nothing but gloat for two entire days. No -- longer than that: He'd have three nights and two days. He’d have plenty of time to revel and recover.

Ninety minutes later he climbed into bed, feeling clean, virtuous, and triumphant. He expected to sleep very well that night. He pulled up the blanket. He closed his eyes. His head sank into the pillow.

Then, suddenly his eyes snapped open: He’d forgotten to send Barfield’s documents!