---

The T-4200 (Part 2 of 2)

By J. R. Johnson

(…Continued from Part 1)

Carl scrambled to follow Mango past the loading dock to the parking corral. Her T was an early model with a lot of light-years on it, but its shell still shone and its maxillae were well-filed.

He stepped gingerly up onto one forelimb and squeezed between Mango and a delivery box.

“So,” she asked over her shoulder, “why do you need to get to the Core bad enough to spend a couple days’ pay on the trip?”

He snorted. “Try a week. I work for the government.”

Her eyes widened.

“No, it’s cool, I like my job. Second Assistant Director for Core Planning and Development.”

She didn’t respond, a familiar reaction when he talked about his job.

“My bank’s on Wilder.”

The trip took five minutes Carl didn’t have, and every step jarred his sore legs as the T-4200 plodded down the street.

Their ride was too big for the drive-through.

“I’ll be right back.”

Mango’s vague nod betrayed the distraction of interface immersion. She had some sort of game going, if her twitching fingers were any indication.

Carl wished his Rock ‘em, Sock ‘em stats were the only thing on his mind right now. He’d tried to put away childish things, as his mother called them, but gaming was the only real fun he had. Erika wasn’t wrong about one thing: he didn’t feel like he belonged in this new life.

With his interface down, getting cash meant queuing for an actual teller. His was a young woman with finger extensions and a constellation of diamonette implants dusted across both cheeks. Carl took the bills and headed back outside, sending up silent thanks that at least his vices were cheap.

Mango and the tortoise were gone.

“Seriously?”

Laughter rang out behind him.

“You don’t think I’d leave without my money, do you?” She grinned.

The tortoise crouched over a fountain at the building’s edge, scaring the koi.

“We were blocking traffic and T needed a drink.”

They started the process of redirecting the T’s attention. Mostly that involved yanking on his harness until he noticed they were there.

“Have you ever lost your T before?” She looked curious.

“Never. It’s not like they run away, right?”

She pursed her lips. “Right. Which means someone stole it. Who,” she asked, “would steal a T-4200?”

Carl fidgeted with a frayed saddlebag strap.

“A kid, maybe?”

It wasn’t plausible, even to him. What kid, Carl wondered, wanted a slower-than-mud vehicle whose only redeeming ability was stepping around spatial dimensions? Especially a government strain whose genetic code was blended with homing pigeon DNA. After maturity they only translated to one place unassisted. In Leo’s case, Administration HQ.

Mango gave him a look that said she was halving his estimated IQ. “Because who wouldn’t want a free trip to the bureaucratic center of the Galaxy.” Her fingers tapped the T’s leg. “Why you, and why today?”

Carl bit his lip and decided to come clean.

“I do have to sign something today.” He gave what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “If I don’t pass those documents up the chain of command by five o’clock Core Time, the Treaty of Caramelo won’t be ratified.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re involved with the Treaty?”

He looked embarrassed, or pretended to.

“That’s big!” She raised both arms as if telling a fish tale to disbelieving listeners. “Really big. Life and death big. War and peace big.”

He shot her an abashed smile. This was exactly the sort of reaction he hoped for from the women at the gym bar, but never got.

“And for the first time ever your T is missing? This can’t be a coincidence. Which means that whoever stole your ride is trying to sabotage the peace process.”

Carl’s smile withered as he came back to reality.

“That someone is probably tracking you right now.” She peered around the bank parking lot.

“Don’t worry, I killed my interface,” he said.

Her head snapped back in a disbelieving shake.

“I had to. You saw the crowd call.”

That’s when a picture of Carl’s face popped up on several dozen billboards around the shopping center. Carl winced as he recognized his government ID photo; the only good thing about the image was the Old West wanted poster template. A number with too many zeroes flowed across his favorite pocket protector.

“They must have tracked my bank transaction. We have to go, right now.”

Mango scrambled into the saddle before reaching down to help Carl. She frowned at the number on the poster, then back at him.

“I’m going to need danger pay. This is not cool.”

He threw up his hands. “If the fate of the Galaxy means less to you than another lollipop, fine. But later. Right now we have to go.”

She waited another beat to prove she could.

“Hand me a kohlrabi.”

Carl flipped open the Shoppe Smart box to find a bag of fruit and vegetables, ideal for Ts. He passed a green-stemmed globe to Mango, who waved it near the T’s nose. It let out a squawk.

“Hang on,” Mango said, eyes distant as she loaded up the T’s controller. “His gait isn’t the smoothest.”

 

---

 

Carl grabbed Mango’s waist just before the T jerked to the right. For one disorienting second reality swirled sideways, his only concrete point of reference the worn leather and textured cross-stitch of Mango’s belt. When the maelstrom receded, he’d never been so grateful to arrive at the Core Administrative landing pad.

“Holy crap,” he said. “Maybe he needs a tune-up or something.”

Mango laughed and pried his fingers loose. Carl’s legs wobbled as he slid onto the platform.

“He’s always been rough, which is why Shoppe Smart could afford him. Still gets me where I’m going.” She smiled down at the behemoth and fed it the kohlrabi.

“I can wait if you like.”

The spike of optimism that warmed Carl’s chest quickly gave way to skepticism. “I doubt I can afford it.”

“Make it three thousand,” she said with a mercenary grin, “and I’ll drop you back at your door.”

Without Leo his only option was to stay in the gym bunkhouse until he could find another way home, and that place smelled like damp socks.

“Three thousand it is.”

He followed the blue path toward the employee entrance. The landing pad perched atop the tallest building in the continent’s densest city, and the view over the sea of scrapers always left Carl a little dazed. He took half a second to absorb the fact that he, a nobody from nowhere, had made it to the top of the world.

His shoe snagged on a crack and pitched him the last three steps to the intake queue. Very smooth.

The tall guard at the gate also hailed from the Outer Rim.

“Hi, Rami, how’s the family?”

Rami did a double take. “Mr. Lowengren, I didn’t expect you today.”

“Why not?” Carl stepped to the barrier, embedded plasdrive ID vibrating in his palm. It took him a moment to process the fact that Rami’s hand rested on the grip of his stunner.

“I’m going to have to ask you to step over here, sir.”

The stunner cleared its holster as if in slow motion.

“Help, officer, help!”

The shout came from the landing pad and sounded suspiciously like Mango. Rami shifted his gaze but didn’t lower the gun.

“We need a soother bath. My T’s going to blow!”

Rami broke into a sprint, leaving Carl at the gate. If there was anything messier and more destructive than a giant dimension-hopping tortoise spontaneously losing molecular cohesion, Carl didn’t want to see it.

He swiped through the gate and took off running. Another officer shouted but he barreled through the crowd at the elevator and made tracks for the drop chute.

Hardly anyone used the chutes because they were hell on paper. If you didn’t hold on tight you could lose a day’s work, and the inventor had apparently forgotten about skirts. Still, chutes were fast and Carl was desperate.

He keyed in his office floor as his pursuers rounded the corner. Rami’s expression could have defined pissed off.

Carl grinned. That’s what you get for standing between a Second Assistant Director and his job. He tried to forget how close he’d come to taking Erika’s offer.

The chute flashed green and Carl dropped the three hundred and seventy-six levels to his floor. In the day’s first stroke of good luck he had skipped breakfast. The vomit containment field had been on the fritz since June.

A jet of air ejected him from the chute. He staggered to a stop in front of the gym. Oversized Happy Happy bottles framed the entryway.

The doors flew open to reveal the Happy Happy team in full commando uniforms.

Hang on, this isn’t an alternate Tuesday.

 

 

Carl froze. It didn’t help that the Happy Happies towered over him in their tactical heels. Or that they carried oversized electra-whips.

“Can’t stay, sorry!”

Carl scrambled backward and came face-to-face with a pack of security guards. They circled like wolves. He cleared his throat and tried persuasion.

“Look, if I don’t sign this Treaty everyone will suffer. A lot of people will die.”

None of the stone-faced group spoke. Carl focused on Rami. “You’re from the Outs, you know what it will be like.”

Rami snorted and raised a stunner. “What I know is that no one will take care of me but me.”

Carl’s vision tunneled as bile burned the back of his throat. He thought he had become something better than the scared kid who spent nights cowering at stray missiles and days trying to escape the Outs.

Life isn’t a game. If it were, I’d… What the hell am I doing?

He raced for the gym door. Apparently, his subconscious had decided that the Happy Happies were less dangerous than guards with guns. The adrenaline flooding his system was his only defense against the whip that snaked across his raised arms. A line of fire burned through his favorite work shirt and seared his skin.

Electra-whips were billed as one part heat, one part shock, one part S&M wet dream. The pain brought tears to his eyes but at least he could still run. He barreled past the Happy Happies and into the gym.

Where to hide? The room was set up like an outdoor course with faux foliage and separate stations defining a path through the room.

There. Most days he avoided the MuscleManMuscle™ area but it looked like nirvana now. The benches and weight rack sat on the far side of a climbing wall. He sprinted toward the shadowed space, throwing loose equipment behind him to slow pursuit.

Sliding behind the rack made more noise than he wanted but the numbness in his arms made him clumsy. He tried to quiet his panicked breathing and peered out past the weights.

It worked. Carl had scattered a pile of stability chute helmets and the Happy Happies were tripping over them like so many ball bearings. Maybe next time they’ll rethink the six-inch heels, he thought.

The smugness didn’t last. Rami scanned the room and started toward the weights.

Carl’s throat spasmed. Erika was right, I’m not cut out for this. She was always the strong one, the one willing to cross lines and do whatever it took.

His chest tightened until it pressed against his heart like a playground bully’s fist. A wave of helplessness drove him to the floor. After everything, not just the crappy day but the mediocre jobs, the loneliness and always the fear, of bombs, of not escaping the Outs, of failing to make any of it matter.

And the bastards took Leo. His T.

Pets had been an unaffordable luxury growing up, and Leo was the closest thing to one Carl ever had. All the love and care his younger self wanted to lavish on a pocket sabertooth or a grande Chihuahua had languished unused. Until Leo. The big tortoise was Carl’s first chance to care for something other than himself.

He watched Rami pick his way around fallen Happy Happies and swallowed, hard. Was he going to be the type of guy who quit when it got tough? Who abandoned those who counted on him?

No. Hell no.

Time to suck it up and be a hero.

He forced himself out from behind the concealing racks and sprinted toward the heart of the gym. The hard slap of Rami’s boots rang out behind him.

Carl passed the heavy ropes and dragged one across the mat behind him. The ropes only pushed back with the energy you put in, but he would count himself lucky if it tripped even one person.

The gecko wall at the next station inspired a flash of inspiration. He flipped its catch-you net upright and into the path. Designed to provide safety with the illusion of adventure, only the net’s frame was visible. He managed a smile as he made his way to the next hiding spot.

Thirty seconds later he heard a deep grunt followed by thrashing noises, then a dramatic crash. Good, but at this rate he’d run out of gym before they ran out of people. He needed something bigger. All they had to do was keep him trapped until after the deadline. Then he’d lose his job and be deported back to the Outs with the other indigents. Just in time for the bombs to start falling.

He smacked himself on the forehead. Rami already knew where he was. Carl recited his barely-remembered interface trigger phrase the way the installer taught him and a welcome flood of information returned. Or maybe not all welcome. The clock reappeared and his nausea with it. Almost 5:00 CST.

Ok, he thought, that’s it. They want to play, we’ll play.

Framing the situation as a game changed everything. Would he be running like a scared puppy online?

No.

He rounded the running track and limped over to the Happy Happy bar. The well-stocked sales center occupied prime retail space between the track, the aerogel pool and the event stage. He slid to a halt, refusing to imagine what would happen if this plan didn’t work. Or if it worked too well.

Rami arrived first in a shredded cloud of sticky filaments.

“Give it up, Carl!”

Rami punctuated the order with a wave of his gun. It was easy to look scared.

The rest of the security team arrived, Happy Happies close behind. The pursuers pushed past the stage toward Carl’s position, trapping him in a tight cluster around the bar.

Carl reached for the first thing at hand, a bowl of nuts, and sent the little plastic bowl arcing toward the tallest Happy Happy. Surprise flashed across her face but she knocked the projectile aside with a flick of her whip. The bowl melted in a flash of electricity and acrid smoke, and Carl tried to ignore the woman’s contemptuous look. If she considered him pathetic, so much the better.

He hoped it wasn’t true.

Next up, sample products: Triple H, a new energy drink in six-ounce bottles shaped like hand grenades, a plastic box shaped like a Happy Happy dispenser, a stack of H2OMG gum, HH transdermal patches, single-serving cereal packs of caffeinated H2OYeahs and a pile of brightly-colored deflatable drink containers. The whips caught everything he threw, leaving a smoldering pile of detritus in front of the bar. Finally, paper products. Napkins, disposable bar towels, anything that would burn.

Now, he thought, before someone figured out his plan.

“You know,” Carl said, “you guys are really pissing me off.”

They had a split second to glare before Carl pitched an open can of oxygen at the lead Happy Happy commando. She automatically flicked at it with her whip. Carl ducked behind the protective barrier of the bar and crossed his fingers. A sharp crack rang out, followed by a whooshing sound from above the burning pile. Carl peered around the corner of the bar.

The little fire reacted to the accelerant with a hungry flash that quickly built into a wall of flame. And no matter who you are that sort of thing is going to make you step back.

In this case “back” meant into the pool. Carl heard the dispenser’s safety lock kick in over the noise of the splashing and hoped it had been enough. Just one more thing to do.

“You won’t drown,” he called out, “HQ is very focused on employee safety.” He grabbed a drink dispenser wand.

“They are, however, deeply concerned about interpersonal respect and hygiene.” Carl turned the hose on full and sent a thick arc of electrolyte-enhanced lemon Happy Happy into the aerogel. Rami sputtered as the bright yellow stream splashed him in the face.

“Dammit, Carl!”

“If you’ve read the Rule Book you know that aerogel solidifies temporarily when it senses liquid. It’s both effective and embarrassing.”

The guards and commandos struggling to reach the pool’s edge froze mid-flail, suspended in the hardening gel.

Carl didn’t have time to enjoy the victory. His interface flashed as a timer began counting down.

Less than fifteen minutes left to save the galaxy. And his job.

 

---

 

His office door played a peppy tune as he entered. Carl ignored the less charming demerit notice at the corner of his desk and hurried to his Inbox.

The office door opened behind him. Hopes of his assistant with a hot cup of Happy Happy were dashed by the sight of a 20,000 chit suit gliding across the threshold.

Erika Krow’s public i-card listed her as Associate VP of Actionable Research and Development at AlarmaTech Enterprises (fully-owned subsidiary of Interface Consumables Incorporated). She had always been pretty but now looked stunning, in a predatory way. The suit was matched by perfectly tinted and trimmed hair, conductive nails and context-aware makeup. She looked less like the girl he grew up with and more like a robot. Carl straightened his shoulders.

“Erika. You better not have hurt my T.”

Erika cocked her head like a vulture pondering its next meal.

“We should have brought you on board from the beginning. But,” she said, “Ops calculated that our best approach was to fly under the radar. Tracking and disrupting you,” she said, “gave the highest probability for success. When I told them we shared a past they gave me the job.” She smirked.

The hurried slap of racing feet echoed in the corridor. Rami slid to a halt outside the office.

“Carleton Lowengren,” Rami said, somewhat breathless, “you are hereby remanded into custody on the authority of…”

“Yes, yes, whatever-your-name-is,” Erika said, interrupting the standard Private Security Rights warning with a dismissive flick of her hand. “We won’t be needing your services any longer.”

Rami blinked.

“Close up behind you, please.” The door shut on Rami’s astonished expression as she continued.

“So, C Low, you know the kind of resources I control. We can do a lot for you.” She looked him over, taking in the sweaty clothing, his dimensionally-styled hair, the tiny office. “Quite a lot.”

“Hang on,” Carl said, “after Leo and the coffee shop and the ice cream cart and the freaking mob, you want me to trust you?”

“This job is my chance to prove myself.” She gave him a sheepish look that didn’t quite manage to be an apology. “When you got resourceful, I improvised.”

Erika never had cared much for other people’s well being. He still had nightmares about the time she had him close his eyes as a “trust exercise,” then walked him into an open manhole.

“I understand you have some misplaced sense of duty,” Erika said, “but this isn’t your world and these people don’t care about you. Make the smart choice, Carl. Name your price.”

He bit back a retort. She wasn’t wrong about him not fitting in.

Erika sensed weakness.

“You want to negotiate? Fine, I’m glad you finally grew a pair. How about a penthouse right here in Administration Tower? Your commute would be a dream. New wardrobe? Done.”

Her eyes glazed over, perhaps accessing her memories of him.

“How about a date with one of the Happy Happy girls?” Her lips slid into a sultry smile. “Or all of the Happy Happy girls?”

“They used electra-whips on me!”

She shrugged. “Still hot, though, right?”

Carl had to give her that.

“Investments in off-world accounts where External Revenue has no jurisdiction? No problem.” She realized Carl wasn’t reacting.

“What, you’re worried about your ride?” She gestured with a flicked finger. “There, the T is on its way back to your place. See? We’re not the bad guys.”

“Right. What exactly would I have to do?”

“Forget to sign the Treaty form.” She glanced at a sapphire-encrusted watch, which looked a great deal like a House of Van Snipple model Carl once saw on “Life in the Stratosphere.”

“Do that and we give you whatever you want. The Treaty will put an end to a lot of lucrative arms contracts. You understand.”

She tapped the scarred surface of his decades-old desk. “War is humanity’s natural state. How could we forget, right?”

He couldn’t, but unlike her he didn’t see it as an opportunity.

“It’s the only real path to success for Outsiders like us. I’m here to make sure that the wheels of the Galactic economy continue to turn, Carl. Help us and we all win.”

The gems on her wrist overlaid a rainbow onto the drab office walls. He was tempted, no doubt.

“You make a persuasive case, Erika.”

She smiled and turned to leave.

“I’m glad you’ve seen reason,” she said, then pulled up short as her nose almost hit the door.

“Actually, I have,” Carl said. “It is my duty to report any attempted bribery of a government official, and to detain anyone charged with making such attempts until they may be remanded into the custody of a legal representative.” He quoted the sub-section from memory.

“I’m also sorry to inform you that your trial is likely to be quite short, as I recorded our conversation.”

Erika’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t.”

“Sound and vid, of course, time and code stamped using authenticated government protocols.”

Her eyes narrowed. Carl edged sideways to keep his desk between them.

“I’ve also notified CoreSec. I doubt you’ve been able to bribe them, seeing as they are a caste of warrior priests who reject material goods and swear only to uphold the Rules.”

That did it. Erika’s face went white. A knock on the door saved Carl from seeing her beg.

“That,” he said, “should be CoreSec now.” But it wasn’t only them.

“Greetings, Mr. Lowengren. Ms. Krow.” The deep voice was even more jovial in person, and vids didn’t do the man’s presence justice.

“I’m President Calavera,” he said, as if they wouldn’t know. The luxurious Twainian mustache was quite distinctive.

President since before Carl was born, the man’s face was more familiar than his own. Carl gulped.

“Sir.” He wasn’t sure what else to say, except… “Um, why are you here?”

The President laughed.

“Why, to make sure that nothing goes wrong with the final processing of the Treaty, of course. I heard a call come in to CoreSec and thought I’d better investigate.”

Carl blinked. The President monitored CoreSec calls?

“Not to worry, sir. As I was explaining to Erika, I mean Ms. Krow here, I take my job quite seriously.”

Erika winced as CoreSec bound both hands behind her back.

“I have the Treaty right here.”

Carl pulled a red folder from his Inbox. He unlocked the cover with his Ring of Office, scrolled past the hundreds of signatures already on the document, then signed the page with a flourish. As he keyed the folder closed it turned a brilliant emerald green.

“There it is, sir, ready for your signature.”

The President extended a hand but Carl shook his head.

“Sorry, sir, but the Rule Book states that I have to send this through official channels. If you’d like to come with me while I hand it off to Maryann, she can give it to you.”

To Carl’s surprise and deep relief, the President chuckled.

“That’s a good boy,” he said, top-of-the-line voice box vibrant with precisely calculated warmth. “A true soldier of the Core, through and through.”

“I did it because it was right, sir,” Carl said. “And because no one messes with my ride.”

 

At 4:58 Core Time the folder passed from Carl to Maryann to the President. Calavera looked out over the crowd gathered around Maryann’s desk. True, some were cuffed and awaiting deportation to Justicar for trial, but it remained a landmark occasion. Mango had even come down from the landing pad.

“Thank you, Carleton Thaddeus Lowengren, for your extraordinary efforts on behalf of this Treaty and for the good of our people everywhere.” The sparkle in the President’s eye was a feature of his late model charisma-tech glasses, but Carl couldn’t help but smile back.

“For your efforts, you shall be rewarded.”

Carl’s eyes widened.

“Yes,” the President said, nodding to the assembled group. “I believe you are in line for a promotion. How does First Assistant Director for Core Planning and Development sound to you, Mr. Lowengren?” He winked, probably buying time to access Carl’s file. “We’ll put an announcement in the Galactic Times Movers & Shakers section tomorrow. I imagine that will make your mother proud.”

“Thank you, sir.” Carl’s smile couldn’t have been any bigger.

Mango sought him out after the speech. “Way to go, mover and shaker.” She grinned. “How about the rest of my thirty-five hundred chits?”

“Tell you what,” Carl said, flicking a game invite to her interface in an unaccustomed surge of daring, “I’ll play you for them.”

 

---

 

A soft breeze tickled the apartment complex’s contractually-required wind chimes and twinkling stars lent the evening mystery. Mango’s T gave a satisfied huff before settling onto Carl’s still-warm driveway.

Leo sat snug in his nook. At least Erika had done that much right. The old tortoise cracked one massive eyelid and snorted, as if asking where he’d been. Carl slipped him a carrot.

“Early day tomorrow, big guy. We’ve got a Galaxy to run.” He patted Leo on the snout and ushered Mango inside. Gary called out from the living room.

“You want to play on Heroic or Monstrous?”

Mango snorted, and Carl’s interface lit up with a tight-area open game challenge. Monstrous, of course. He grinned, ready to rock ‘em and sock ‘em.

---

Host Commentary

By Valerie Valdes

Once again, that was part two of The T-4200, by J.R. Johnson.

Bureaucracy in all its terrible glory has long been a source of comedy and horror in science fiction and beyond. While it may seem to strain credulity to have such galaxy-spanning consequences riding on the absence or presence of a single person, consider that not too long ago, one man’s refusal to obey orders was essentially all that saved us from worldwide nuclear war. Life is often stranger than fiction, in fact–though in this case, I think stopping a squad of whip-wielding commandos with an electrolyte-enhanced beverage might be a little stranger than most of what reality has to offer us on the daily. Still, as the Bard says, all’s well that ends well, especially if it means getting a stolen tortoise back.

Escape Pod is part of the Escape Artists Foundation, a 501(c)(3) non-profit, and this episode is distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International license. Don’t change it. Don’t sell it. Please do share it.

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Our opening and closing music is by daikaiju at daikaiju.org.

And our closing quotation this week is from Terry Gilliam, who said, “Necessity might be the mother of invention, but restriction is the mother of efficiency.”