Name’s Cole…Morty Cole

“Gotta go,” the girl said, taking a last draw on her half-smoked Pall Mall. She snubbed it out in the molded glass ashtray and hopped out of bed.

Morty marveled at how her upturned nipples jiggled tiny circles when she gestured. She was pretty and cute, he thought, the way a small animal is cute. Her slender ass swayed as she walked to the bathroom. He hoped she’d leave the door open, but she closed and locked it. The shower faucet squeaked, water flowed, and the toilet flushed. Maybe she thought she could find another customer before morning.

The hotel Régale was hosting a cyber technology seminar, and he’d met the girl in the cocktail lounge. She said she was a nursing student and needed money. Name was Laini. Morty didn’t believe her or that she’d be interested in him, a pock-faced, middle-aged man.

He rolled out of bed and pulled on his boxers, noting how his roll of flab hid the elastic. He touched the entertainment panel on the side table. The opening sequence to Trevor Hart Secret Agent burst across the wall display. A big-breasted blond swooned into Trevor Hart’s open arms. Then came a scream, a car crash, an explosion, and a rapid exchange of gunfire. Morty slid down the volume bar.

He clapped a pack of Pall Malls on his hand until a cigarette emerged. Lighting one, he took a long suck and exhaled then checked his watch. Almost midnight. Huh, little nursy-girl made good time.

With one eye on the bathroom door, Morty pulled his sample case from the closet shelf. He pressed the latches and lifted the lid. Inside were quantum processors and optical chips arrayed in tailored slots of black foam. Secure in slot 3Z-7102, the slot normally reserved for standard processors, was the quantum ‘Zuigau’ chip passed to him that afternoon in a discarded Gyro Palace sandwich wrapper.

The exchange in the park had gone almost as planned, except Dr. Ho hadn’t noticed the young man on the park bench pretending to play a video game. The man wore a red Manchester United football jersey. When the doctor tossed his sandwich wrap into the waste bin Morty was pushing, ‘Manchester’ leaped to his feet.

Morty swung the dustpan up, pressed the lever lifting the cover cap, and sent a toxin-laced needle into Manchester’s chest. The man stumbled, grabbed the back of the park bench, and sat for the last time. The needle dissolved quickly. Its pollutant-emulating toxins would be dismissed as confirmation of environmental warnings. No further investigation would be required.

Morty heard the water stop and the shower door slide. He pinched both interior edges of the sample case and lifted the chip display. Below lay the lethal dustpan, a hairpiece and mustache, and fragments of a plastic nose.

“Sir,” the young woman called from the steaming doorway while covering her chest.

“Yes, Laini,” Morty said, securing his case and thinking how strange it was that some women became modest after selling their bodies.

“I can stay the night if you’d like…for a little extra.” She glanced up at the projection. Agent Trevor Hart was one-handing his roadster on a winding road pursued by a convoy of rocket and machinegun-firing spies. “Oh, I just love it when he says,” she deepened her voice, “‘Hart, Trevor Hart,’ and levels those smoldering eyes.”

Morty wanted company. He always felt lonely and guilt-ridden after wet work. But the girl’s eyes remained glued to the projected action scene, her real interest, he suspected. “That would be wonderful, Laini, but no, I’ll just grab a drink downstairs then turn in.”

She shrugged and came out wrapped in a towel. On the edge of the bed she slipped on her stockings and kept her eyes on the projection—Trevor Hart rewarding himself in the arms of a chesty Italian countess.

Sighing, the girl rested her chin on her pulled-up knees. “A secret agent. It would be great to meet a man like that.” She glanced sideways at Morty.

He nodded.

 

That evening, the Régale lounge bartender asked whom to charge the drinks to. Morty looked straight at him. “The name’s Cole…Morty Cole.” The bartender shrugged and put a vodka martini on his tab.

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“The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things …”  – Through the Looking-Glass

 

Booths on one bare wall of the windowless waiting room were flanked by glass cases on two walls and opposite a single metal door centered on the far wall.

A new human strode boldly from one of the booths toward the exit. It wore red tights and a canary-yellow, breast-peaked T-shirt, and had spiky blue hair, pouty lips, and impossibly blue, saucer eyes. A second human wearing a white dress shirt, dark tie, and beige canvas trousers, walked out more slowly, her face buried in a schematic design for a fusion rocket motor.

“Next, L-F-O-O-Z, you’re next,” a handsome young walrus called from one of the assignment booths. A doughy blob in one of the glass cases looked around. None of the other blobs moved. It looked down at the label on its case. “Yes, you, Lfooz. Please come along. Don’t worry. Your name will change when you get assigned.”

The blob slid over the case wall onto the vinyl tile floor then oozed toward the assignment booth. The walrus official walk-paddled to the other side of a low counter and motioned for Lfooz to slide up. The nested stack of trays on the counter looked like one used to display jeweled earrings for purchase or to distribute communion cups.

“You understand why you’re here? Why this is important?” the walrus official asked, wiggling his close-cropped whiskers. Lfooz wrung itself like a wet towel. “Okay, let’s start with the basics. Do you know what you want to be in life?” Lfooz gave a slow twist.

“These,” the walrus said, setting a display tray in front of Lfooz, “are life choices.” The tray held capsules of all colors. “The one you pick determines your attributes: interests, character, intelligence, sense of humor, skills, and your setting—race, sex, nationality, family background. Some like to call it ‘the hand you’re dealt.’ Once you make your decision, you’ll proceed to birthing, forget your experience here, and live out your life. At life’s end, you’ll transfer to Ever-Endeavor (see explication in “Time Cube”) to harvest the fruits or wretchedness you’ve sown. Shall I show you some of your choices?” The walrus waved a flat flipper over the display trays.

Lfooz pointed a pseudopod. “What me? A walrus? Yah, some choices you only get once in life. I was being cocky—thought if I did something stupid they’d give me a do over.” Lfooz motioned to the door on the bare wall where the women had exited a moment before.

“Those two?” Lfooz’s dough body rose and fell. “You get to drive your life choice out of the showroom, but they’ll still have to go through birth, childhood, and adolescence. Sorry, that’s life.”

He pointed to a red capsule. “This one’s very athletic and doesn’t think too much. It comes in male and female versions, or a mix of both. Fans cheer and mates throw themselves at you. You make a lot of money, cover yourself with tattoos, abuse yourself with drugs and alcohol then die young in a bar fight. Comes with a full guarantee.” When he got no reaction, the walrus pointed to the blue capsule.

“This little baby is brilliant and also comes in male and female makes. It’s an inventor, a creator, makes a boatload of money designing stuff, but doesn’t have much time to spend it or to find mates. It lives a long quiet life with cars and cats for companions. Also guaranteed.” Lfooz rolled two doughy arms together, and the walrus moved on.

“The green capsule provides everything you need: food, housing, medical care, clothes, and you don’t have to lift a finger. You spend your days outside, looking at flowers and pigeons, and collecting money from passersby. It’s nondescript, most people won’t care what your sex is and neither will you. Guaranteed.”

The walrus went through the entire stack of trays and choices, and got no reaction. Then he asked, “See anything that interests you?”

Lfooz’s boneless mass rose and fell twice. It extended a dough finger to specific attributes for several capsules: the first, second, fifth, eighteenth, thirty-seventh.

“I see,” said the walrus, “you want a balance, to be a stable, healthy, wise, hard-working, dependable, and friendly person who divides time for family, profession, and other interests.” Lfooz rose and fell slowly.

“Of course.” The walrus pulled a small cloisonné box from a rear shelf. Within its gold interior was a single white capsule. “This one can provide everything you hope for.”

Lfooz scanned the attributes list, each line followed with a single word “optional,” and pointed to the blank on the last line.

“No, it carries no guarantees.” When Lfooz looked puzzled, the walrus explained. “My mistake, it does have one guarantee. However you arrive in life, whatever your situation, your fate will be determined by decisions you make and the courage you have to see them through. This life starts where it starts and has neither ceiling nor floor.”

Lfooz took the white capsule and walked upright from the booth, determined to take the best of whatever life offered. No guarantees.