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The T-4200 (Part 1 of 2)

By J. R. Johnson

Carleton T. Lowengren, low-level civil servant, single twenty-something and refugee from the war-torn Outer Rim, woke to the remnants of a gaming binge and a killer headache courtesy of his interface. The implant had been trying to wake him for some time.

He rolled off the couch. Another day, another commute from his nondescript apartment to the center of the Galaxy, trying to do the one thing his mother said he never would: make a difference.

The walk-in wardrobe straightened his collar as he registered the time. Carl sprinted past the pre-programmed bowl of cereal to the garage door.

“Leo? Where are you, boy?”

Carl’s ride was usually parked in the garage on a mat of sweet-grass and clover. It was nowhere to be seen. And it’s not like he could overlook a car-sized dimension-hopping tortoise.

“No, not today. I have to get to work!” His voice rose to a yell but he was too upset to notice the demerit.

Carl peered between the identical buildings on his cul-de-sac. No sign of the tortoise anywhere, as if it had vanished, lock, stock, and saddlebags. Possible, sure, but according to the user manual, not at all likely.

Trained from birth to translate only on cue, Ts were characterized by sluggish and ungainly movements in real space. Leo had a century of exemplary service and, in Carl’s experience, was lazy to boot.

“Morning, Carl!”

Miss Buttercup, a delicate thirty-something with an affinity for cats, waved from her garage next door. She held a steaming cup of Kaffeen-Me and looked perky enough to make Carl feel old.

“Have you seen Leonardo? If I don’t show up for work today there’s going to be trouble.”

Miss Buttercup’s feathered eyebrows rose, pink barbs trembling in the breeze.

“It’s a matter of life and death,” he said. Also, Carl thought, my job.

Miss Buttercup’s oversized eyes trembled with sympathy. She’d had the anime package done and Carl had to admit it made her look sweet, in a creepy doll-faced way.

“Sorry, Carl, no. Can’t you track him? Since I got Jack-My-Ride I haven’t had a problem.” She gestured to the JMR logo on her ride’s ear. It winked to acknowledge the plug, no doubt adding chits to Miss Buttercup’s peer promo account. Carl shook his head, scanning the horizon for some trace of his tortoise.

“We aren’t allowed to mod Fleet vehicles,” he said. “I have a T-4200 because I work in the Administrative Core.”

Her eyes widened even more. “So far?“

“On my salary?” He snorted. “I’m lucky I’m not living in the Outs. I’m priced out of anything closer than a couple thousand light years.”

She frowned. “Who would take a T? It’s not like they’re good for joy riding.”

Carl grimaced. “And yet they’re worth a fortune.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Miss Buttercup said, eyelids fluttering as her interface updated.

“Why not take the day off,” she asked. “It’s not like government workers do anything important.”

Normally he might have agreed with her, but not today. Not with so much at stake.

“Does no one respect what we do?”

“End the war, maybe then you can get a date.”

Carl stopped scanning the road and re-focused on her. She wasn’t very nice at all, he decided.

“That’s what I’m trying to do, actually.”

Her laugh tinkled like smug silver bells. She must have gone for the voice box upgrade too. It didn’t make up for the smirk on her face.

Carl opened an interface window and queued for 911.

“I’ve got to report this, maybe the cops can help me find Leo in time to get to work,” he said.

Miss Buttercup tossed a desultory wave over her shoulder as she left, the sound of her ride’s purr replaced by the grinding of Carl’s teeth.

 

---

 

He reported the missing vehicle while pacing the streets. The voice on the other end of the phone didn’t sound optimistic.

“Mister Lonegreen, is it? I’m sorry, but you have to understand. We get thousands of nuisance calls a day.” Carl’s temple throbbed.

“Nuisance? Are you kidding me? Not only is the T-4200 state of the art, but I have to get to work. It’s a matter of war and peace!”

The voice sounded less than impressed. “Uh-huh. Tell you what, come down to the Petaluma 9 station and file a complete report. We’ll be sure to keep an eye out.”

“Petaluma 9? With the Hole Worms on strike that would take two days on public transit. If I could get there I wouldn’t need my vehicle, you idiot…”

Click.

Ok, Carl thought, maybe that wasn’t the wisest approach. If the cops weren’t going to help he only had one option left. Time to call Gary.

“Hello?” Gary paid extra to take caller ID off his plan. Said he liked the surprise.

“Gary, it’s Carl. I’ve got a serious problem.” Gary listened as he explained, then tut-tutted.

“I can’t believe you let him get away.”

“I didn’t let Leo do anything. I put him to bed and locked the door, same as always. Today was supposed to be easy. Hit the office, do the one thing that needs to be done, and poof, it’s time for the track.” And the Happy Happies, he didn’t add, even as an image of the ICI corporation’s government relations team flashed through his mind. Their company-mandated skimpsuits left little to the imagination.

“Someone stole him or something. I don’t know, but I need him back. If I don’t sign that paperwork by five o’clock Core Time we’re doomed.”

“Five Core Time? It’s already past one o’clock there. Man, you’re not going to make it unless we come up with something really good.” Gary paused, but Carl took comfort in the fact that it was a thoughtful pause. One pregnant with possibility. Awash with potential. Ideas bubbling to the…

“Sorry, man, I got nothing. Want to play some Rock ‘em, Sock ‘em?”

Carl bit back an angry retort. This wasn’t Gary’s fault.

“That’s why I’m in this mess in the first place. If I hadn’t used all my sick days when the game came out, I could call in a temp. But no, I couldn’t resist the siren song of kinetic bombardment. Stupid game.” He rubbed his face and tried to think.

“Who else has a T on this planet?”

Gary’s keyboard click-clacked in the background.

“There’s one at the Shoppe Smart down on 375^th.”

Carl stopped walking.

“Why would a Shoppe Smart need a T?”

“Are you kidding? That’s how they get the latest gear from the Core, man.” Gary snorted. “I’d take you but my car wouldn’t start this morning. Weird. Anyway, try the Shoppes.”

Carl was already pulling up the number of a cab company. “Thanks, Gary!”

He pinged for a taxi. To his surprise a human answered.

“We’re sorry sir, but there are no taxis available.”

Carl frowned. “You mean right now? Should I wait a few minutes?”

“You misunderstand, every last taxi in the city has been hired for the day. The order came in first thing this morning. Between you and me, the expense must have been incredible.”

That, Carl thought as he hung up, is awfully peculiar.

That left his own two feet. It wouldn’t be the same as the v-track at work. No Happy Happy team handing out bottles of the latest hyper-oxygenated supplement. And when was the last time he actually worked out instead of dressing up in spandycra and hanging around the drinks bar? Not that it did him any good. Strangely, women seemed unimpressed that he was Second Assistant Director for Core Planning and Development.

Carl started running.

 

---

 

The morning sun warmed the neighborhood’s pyramidal trees, bioengineered grass, and Carl’s already overheating skin. He dashed a bead of sweat from his eyes, ran to the path, then angled under the payway and connected to the ‘burb’s powered pedestrian walkways. Even with the PedTrans assist, running was awful, tiring work.

“I swear,” Carl said, puffing for air, “to work out,” puff puff, “every day from now on.” Well, maybe twice a week. And alternate Tuesdays. That’s when the Happy Happies put on a special show.

He downshifted to a fast walk and checked the time, trying to ignore his burning lungs.

“Crap.” He was officially late.

His interface buzzed with an incoming text, the sort of unsigned vacation-promoting spam the Office of Public Sanity had been trying to outlaw for decades. Usually Carl would let it go straight to memory or, if he was feeling feisty, patch in and tell the sender to go screw themselves, messing with a man’s text limit that way. Not today, though. Today even spam was more than meets the eye.

Isn’t the weather lovely? Come on, C Low, why don’t you take the day off?

He slowed, barely registering that he’d made it to the rolling greens of Prosperity Park. No one had called him “C Low” since before he escaped the Outs. He’d worked hard to get away from that childish nickname, along with everything else he left behind.

Want to know what’s going on? Grab a coffee.

Carl stopped, peering around in confusion. Except for an appallingly fit jogger approaching from the distance, the park was deserted. Several empty benches surrounded the parking lot, but no coffee shop.

Or there wasn’t. Carl stumbled as the pavement shook under his feet. The elm he grabbed for balance politely messaged him to desist or it would call the police. Carl struggled to stay upright as the ground rippled. It was…

Assembling.

In two minutes a fully constructed, probably illegal coffee shack gleamed in the sun. The smell of fresh brew wafted from the stand and overrode Carl’s misgivings. A man stuck his head around the counter and waggled an empty cup. It was the jogger, glowing with health and an overbearing sense of masculinity.

Carl ran a hand through disheveled hair and straightened his damp work shirt before stepping inside. The awning’s shade came as a welcome relief.

“Sure, why not?”

The man had the sort of superhero physique Carl saw at the gym and could only envy. The Happy Happies seemed to like that sort of thing too, he couldn’t help but notice.

“How did you do that? Usually you need a threshold of at least a dozen active consumer searches to spawn a coffee shop.”

The stranger smiled, probably trying for enigmatic but only managing annoying.

“We have our ways.”

Great, Carl thought, mysterious and pompous to boot. Then he realized that the guy had glazed over in the second before answering. He was a mouthpiece, voicing lines fed via interface.

“What the hell’s going on? Tell me who you’re working for.”

This time the man answered immediately.

“Or what, chipmunk, you’ll tickle me to death?”

The guy was right; very much a gangly lightweight, Carl was no threat.

“Cut me a break. Just tell me what they want so I can get to work.”

“That’s the thing, all you have to do is not go in today. You’ve got a great excuse, right? Your T’s missing.”

So someone really did have it in for him. And poor Leo.

“You even reported the theft to the cops.” The man looked smug, and Carl saw the transaction signal blink in the corner of his interface. “Here’s five thousand credits to go home and enjoy your day.”

Carl’s suddenly nerveless fingers bobbled the coffee cup, sloshing scalding liquid onto his hand. He yelped and fumbled the half-empty cup onto the countertop.

“Did you say five thousand?”

The man smiled down at him, disguising another faint pause with a stylish pose. “Not enough? She said it might not be. We’ll make it ten thousand.”

Numbers that high made it hard to concentrate. At close to two months’ salary, that was enough to think about his own runabout, maybe enough to move his mother closer to the Core, to… Carl’s imagination skidded to a stop.

No way this deal was clean.

“Just to stay home? No drugs, no assassinations, no highway robbery? Hang on, who is ‘she’?”

The man just shook his head. Carl leaned in closer.

“Tell me straight. You’re an actor, right?”

The man scowled, evidently not happy about being called out.

“I’m a reality simulator, thank you, and a good one. This is a temporary gig until my big break.” He seemed to realize he’d said too much and sighed. “I got the call this morning, bonus pay for short notice, you know?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Tell them I did a good job, okay? I was mysterious, right?”

“Tell who? Someone is after me and I want to know what’s going on. Who hired you?”

“I got the job through my agent, man. The instructions are coming from an opaqued avatar so I don’t know, but she smells like jasmine and lemon drops.”

Carl bit his lip, and the pain mingled with his last memory of that scent. Jasmine and lemon and blood. C Low. He was definitely in trouble. She was everything he had worked so hard to leave behind.

“So, look, she wants to know if you’ll take the deal.” The actor raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I say go for it. That kind of money for doing nothing?”

“Why?”

The man frowned. “What do you mean? It’s good money.”

“Is it?” Carl blew out a breath as his brain kicked back on. “I’m nobody. Who would give me that kind of money to do nothing for a day? Ask her why.”

Shaking his head at Carl’s evident insanity, the actor accessed his interface.

The coffee was cool enough to drink and Carl gulped down a mouthful. If this was going the way he thought, he’d need the extra energy.

The actor blinked back into real space. “Sorry, she signed off. The last message said ‘offer rescinded.’”

He looked apologetic, even extended a hand to shake, and Carl reached out. None of this was the actor’s fault. The man’s fingers gripped his as the floor crumbled beneath their feet.

 

---

 

“Jump!”

Carl grabbed the man’s arm and leapt toward daylight. Scrambling free of the rapidly collapsing coffee stand, he gasped as a chunk of nanofab sliced into his palm.

“How did she do that?” It was illegal for a transitory commercial site to disassemble with living beings inside. He shuddered at the narrow escape.

The last of the stand retracted into the fab pad with a loud bang and a cloud of dust. Carl crawled to the grass verge and threw himself down next to the actor.

“You ok?” Carl felt a stab of real concern; battered and dazed, the stranger looked anything but super.

“I’ll be all right,” the man said, wiping dust from his eyes. “But you, my friend, are well and truly borked.” He looked down as if seeing the handful of napkins he clutched for the first time, then held them out to Carl. “For your hand,” he said.

Carl’s cut oozed blood onto the grass and, he noted with a sigh, his new khakis. Fantastic.

The actor glanced at the park entrance. “I think you should have taken that offer.”

Carl pulled himself upright. “Why?”

“They’ve crowd-sourced a detention call on you. Jesus. At least fatality is optional, not required.”

Face angled to catch the most flattering light, the actor now gave the impression he escaped dematerialization every day.

“You seem like a nice guy so I’m not going to rep it. They, however,” he said, pointing to a crowd forming at the park’s access gate, “don’t know you like I do.”

Carl’s heart skipped and his hands went cold.

“And hey,” the actor said, “they just upped the bounty. If I were you I’d run.”

 

---

 

The park fence gave Carl a head start but he could hear the mob behind him, like wind before an oncoming maglev. He sprinted to the back gate and out onto a quiet neighborhood street.

He needed a way out of this mess that didn’t end with losing either his job or his life. They’d tried theft, sabotage, bribery, and now detention, all to keep him away from work. Carl side-stepped a street sign knocked askew by auto-cleaners and asked the only question that mattered: who benefits?

Framed that way the answer was obvious, if not exactly clear. Peace between the Union and the Independents would mean more commerce, more access, a better life for the average person. So who wasn’t average?

He knew what it was to live in a war zone; the Outer Rim had been disputed territory since before he was born. Life in the Outs was hard, uncertain, and dangerous. There was a reason his mother had worked so hard to help him get closer to the Core, pushed him to take a government job. “Something secure,” she said, “something safe.”

In his most recent inauguration speech, President Calavera had promoted peace as the key to prosperity, and Carl believed it. The impact of war was visible even here in the suburbs. He ran past a billboard hacked to play old pop songs and covered with fading anti-ICI graffiti. Even a year ago that sort of vandalism wouldn’t have lasted a day.

He cut left toward town center as another text popped up. The return was the same as the earlier vacation spam:

Why can’t you slack like other government workers? You don’t have the stomach for this, Carl. Go home and we’ll cancel the bounty. Keep going and see what happens…

He stumbled to a halt. Leaving the Outs also meant turning his back on his smart, ambitious, more-than-marginally-amoral ex-girlfriend Erika. Now it seemed she had found a way out too. One involving shadowy plots and threatening texts.

But she didn’t know him that well, not anymore. Her employer didn’t want peace, and that was one thing Carl was willing to fight for.

He forced his exhausted legs to move, trying to feel the way a hero should.

“God,” he said, gasping for air, “I wish I had some Happy Happy.”

 

---

 

He reached a dedicated slidewalk and the assist doubled his pace. At least he’d lost the mob. Probably.

“I need a drink,” he mumbled. Carl grabbed the railing and stumbled as the surface grabbed back, a disturbing safety measure Public Safety should have rejected years ago.

That’s when he heard the approaching jingle of…

“Ice cream!”

A colorful cart rolled down the slidewalk. It was early for a vending machine to be out trawling but at least it could sell him some Happy Happy. Carl blinked over to his credit account instead of watching the approaching mech.

That was a mistake.

The cart wasn’t slowing down. “Hey,” he said, voice rising, “stop!” It was, in fact, speeding up. And heading right at him.

Carl wobbled between fear and disbelief. There were safety protocols to prevent such malfunctions.

Just like the coffee shop.

The cart kept coming, its perky little pompoms and flashing cone sign adding an element of the ridiculous to its murderous charge. As the cart came within arm’s length Carl’s body reacted for him. He leapt for the rail. When it grabbed him he used the leverage to spin to the far side of the walkway, then squeezed flat against the glass barrier. Bubblegum-scented air whooshed past as the cart barely missed his legs.

The cart skidded to a halt. Flower-shaped backup lights flashed on as a cheery clown voice announced a warning.

Carl snatched his hand away from the railing and sprinted up the enclosed slidewalk. The only way a cart could attack a living thing was if someone hacked its system, erased the backups, and disabled its updates.

The cart picked up speed, its carnival music now more demented than cheerful. Carl panicked, scouring the path ahead for a way out.

For safety, slidewalks were isolated but at certain points they crossed over normal walkways, only a few feet above the ground. As long as the cart couldn’t anthro and grow legs, he had a chance.

If he could make it another few feet… He risked a glance behind him and gasped as liquefied ice cream boiled from normally frigid dispensers. The metal glowed a dull red, and Carl realized the cart meant to pin him against the slidewalk’s barrier and burn him. Carl’s vision narrowed to a terror-fueled tunnel.

The cart was three steps behind him. Two. Too close.

Carl hurdled over the barrier a split-second before the cart crashed into it. The air filled with the sound of a dump truck plowing through a marching band, and then his head hit the ground.

 

---

 

Sunlight woke him and for one blissful second he thought he was back in his apartment. The galaxy-class ache in Carl’s head brought him back to reality.

He groaned and rolled off the concrete curb that broke his fall, envying people who could afford the med-implant interface option. “Now,” the ads chirped over a screen full of fine print, “with onboard pain killers!”

A line of pink slime dripped down onto the pavement at his feet, melted ice cream pooling in the sun. The broken cart screeched as it beat itself against the slidewalk’s barrier, still trying to fulfill its mission.

His hand brushed the rough bark of a tree branch broken by his fall. Pulling himself carefully up the access stairs to the edge of the slidewalk, Carl beat the cart to death with the branch. The controller module smashed to pieces before the music finally ground to a squealing halt.

An orange chip lay wedged in the wreckage of the cart’s brain. Stock cart components were green. He slipped bloody fingers into the bowels of the mangled machine and extracted the chip. Scorch marks couldn’t quite hide the familiar symbol.

ICI: Interface Consumables Incorporated.

Ice worthy of a Happy Happy bar formed in Carl’s stomach.

 

---

 

Carl ran north up a residential street as shouts echoed around the corner behind him. He triggered a call.

“Gary, I need you, man!”

The Rock ‘em, Sock ‘em soundtrack blared over the line.

“Hey, Carl, what’s up?”

“A coffee shop tried to deconstruct me, I was attacked by a killer ice cream cart, and there’s a screaming mob on my tail, Gary, that’s what’s up.”

Carl had to shout over Gary’s giggles.

“I’m trying to get to Shoppe Smart but they’re gaining on me.”

He ducked left behind a row of older detacheds with oversized backyards and no fences.

“I need a distraction, Gary. Ow!”

Venus mosquito grass stabbed through his sock. He yanked his leg away from the probing blades and hurried out of the yard. A simulated blast roared through the connection.

“Pew, pew, pew, take that you buggers!”

“Gary, focus! ICI is behind this.”

“Ouch, dude. Hang on, I’ll pause.” The thunder of explosions changed to elevator music.

“Remember the e-bomb you made last year?”

Kiddie toys littered the next yard.

“Sure, promo for that amazing party. You need it?”

Carl’s foot caught on the sparkle-tufted handle of a uni and he tumbled off balance, coming this close to assaulting the trunk of a live oak with his face. He windmilled past the tree and yelped as his shin banged against a mycowood picnic bench.

“Use it, right now.”

Carl’s legs hurt, his lungs burned and his deodorant had quit miles ago. He staggered upright and pushed on.

“Post a sighting of me somewhere far away.”

“No problem. Target sites are set, just have to change the text and flash the usual boards. Hang on while I check your location.”

Carl stumbled to a halt against the dented wall of an aluminum storage shed.

“What did you say?”

“I got you. Give me a sec and I’ll point them the other direction.”

Carl smacked his fist against his forehead.

“I’m such an idiot,” he said. “Gary, how do you know where I am?”

“Your interface, of course. Pinpoint broadcast. Since the Mutual Assurance Law passed we all do. The only way around it is to turn off your system.” Gary’s laugh summed up what he thought about that.

“Plant that bomb for me, Gary. Gotta go.”

Carl blew out a breath and swallowed hard.

“First time for everything, right?”

He killed his interface.

 

---

 

The overlay winked off for the first time since he traded in his handheld at puberty. He was blind. Not literally, of course, but without the constant flow of information, headlines, and nav screen he might as well have been. At least the sacrifice seemed to be working.

The mob’s roar fell apart in confusion, then shifted south. Gary must have come through but Carl had no way to confirm without a connection. He shuddered, feeling more naked than he did in the shower.

He had to get to work. Before someone made sure he couldn’t, ever again.

 

The red Shoppe Smart sign flashed a warm welcome across the block-sized parking lot. Carl dodged an enthusiastic sidewalk display for a pocket barbecue gun (“Just point and eat!”) and pushed through the building’s glass doors. He grabbed the bored-looking greeter and demanded to see the manager. The red-smocked kid flinched.

“Mango’s busy. Maybe if you come back later?”

“Mango has the T-4200, right?”

The kid nodded but didn’t lose the hair-trigger stance of a scared rabbit. He stared at the blood still leaking from Carl’s hand. Carl caught a glimpse of his own disheveled reflection in the window and made a conscious effort to use his non-crazy voice.

“I just need a ride.”

The kid relaxed enough to put one finger in an ear, then wipe it on his smock. Now it was Carl’s turn to back away.

The kid shouted over his shoulder. “Mango! Mangs! Some khaki looking for you!”

An employee sporting a gaming kilt and glazed eyes answered from the check-out kiosk. “She’s out back.”

The kid nodded toward a side entrance and shot a pointed look at Carl’s hand.

“Bandages are in aisle three. Do me a solid and don’t make me break out the mop bot.”

 

Mango had piercing green eyes, a programmable belt with 8-bit characters chasing each other around her waist, and hair with ends that flipped up exactly the way Carl liked. She didn’t look at all pleased to see him.

“Wait,” she said.

She stood facing a mellow-looking thweenager, whose color-shifting hair and ironically out of date T-shirt belied his age. He glared at Carl and continued their interrupted conversation.

“So, do you have it?”

“Of course,” she said. The bag she pulled out of her canvas satchel might as well have had “contraband” stamped on its aggressively generic brown paper. The thweener half-turned away before checking the contents, but Carl caught a glimpse of a very limited edition Rock ‘em, Sock ‘em model starship in gleaming silver, available only at select Core stores. The lucky bastard thanked Mango and walked away.

She turned to him with a frown. “Now, what do you want?”

“I need a ride. The dimensional kind.” He tried not to look too desperate. She didn’t seem fooled.

“I’m only supposed to use the T for company business. You understand.”

Carl very carefully did not glance at the non-work-related man walking away, or the bulging carry-all at her side.

“I’m willing to pay.”

Her smile could have jumpstarted the sun. “Twenty-five hundred.”

Carl sighed. It was a complete ripoff, even an out-of-the-loop bureaucrat knew that. She had him over a barrel. No one needed a T-4200 for nothing. He ground his teeth and fished out his backup card.

“Cash, of course,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Untraceable.”

“Are you kidding? No one carries that kind of money around. What about an IOU?”

She shook her head.

“Look, I don’t like bullies and I don’t trust anonymous crowd-sources, but you may not be around to pay me later.”

Ah. She knew about the price on his head. “I suppose we could go to a bank.”

She grinned and he couldn’t help but grin back. He would do a lot to see a smile like that again.

“Perfect,” she said. “Our ride’s this way.”

 

(Continued in Part 2…)

---

Host Commentary

By Valerie Valdes

Once again, that was part one of The T-4200, by J.R. Johnson. The story will conclude next week.

The author had this to say about the story: The seed for this story came out of nowhere one morning. My partner asked what I was planning to write about and I, in my caffeine-deprived state, answered “A dimension-hopping tortoise.” That seed grew into one of my favorite fun stories, featuring an under-appreciated bureaucrat just trying to do the right thing, no matter what the universe throws at him.

Starting a story with a missing car-sized dimension-hopping tortoise is a clear sign of impending shenanigans, and sure enough, the series of unfortunate events that follows fulfills that promise. I love stories like this, with the kind of zany that feels rooted in and sprouted from the worldbuilding in ways that also slyly sideeye our world as it is now. When the fate of the galaxy rests on the shoulders of a gamer with a hangover, you know things are seriously ridiculous in the best way possible. Tune in next week to find out what other exciting adventures await.

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.

If you’d like to support Escape Pod, please rate or review us on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or your favorite app. We are 100% audience supported, and we count on your donations to keep the lights on and the servers humming. You can now donate via four different platforms. On Patreon and Ko-Fi, search for Escape Artists. On Twitch and YouTube, we’re at EAPodcasts. You can also use Paypal through our website, escapepod.org. Patreon subscribers have access to exclusive merchandise and can be automatically added to our Discord, where they can chat with other fans as well as our staff members.

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

And our closing quotation this week is from Jasper Fforde, who said, “Anything devised by man has bureaucracy, corruption and error hardwired at inception.”