Chapter 80: Jorah

Hello, dear readers. Here it is, Jorah’s third and final chapter. It’s now that we start getting some closure to the stories. Read on to find out what happens, or pick up a full copy of the novel through this link. We do nothing alone.

< LXXIX. Thimblerigger and Stevedore     [Table of Contents]     LXXXI. Mr. Kitty >

LXXX. Jorah

Well, flying fucking Fortuna. Jorah was out of the closet. It was almost enough to make him forget that he had left his arm behind in the Feast Hall. Almost.

He had been too excited to finally tell the truth—and hopefully end his employment with that android-hating asshole Walker—that he didn’t think twice about dropping the mic and his entire arm along with it, but now how was he supposed to get a new one? It’s not like android arms were something a person could just order up on any old printer. Or were they? He had actually never tried. Maybe he could.

Jorah stared at himself in the infinitely reflecting mirrors of his elevator car, and he felt more like himself than he ever had—even despite the missing arm. It was as if he was somehow more confident, stood up straighter, took more comfort in his identity. Sure, he had always acted like he was cool, collected, and in charge, but it was just that: acting. His job. And even if he was the best—and most highly viewed—actor in all of the worlds, there was no substitute for the genuine confidence of finally being able to be honest with his audience, and himself, about who he really was.

Jorah was reliving the moment in his head, relishing the looks on the mostly surprised owners’ faces—especially the ire on Mr. Walker’s—dropping the mic one more time, and again his arm with it, when the elevator stopped, its doors slid open, and in the place of his own infinite reflections, Jorah found the eminently finite director Wes Lee waiting for his own elevator.

“Jorah, my man. I…” Wes started to say, but he trailed off, staring at Jorah’s empty arm socket.

“You…” Jorah urged him on, acting like he didn’t know what Wes was staring at.

“I—uh…” Wes tried to continue, but he was too confused. “Well, I just came by to ask how your—uh—how the thing… What’s it called? But, no. That doesn’t matter right now. Because you— You’re…”

“Are you alright?” Jorah asked, trying not to grin. “You look a little pale. Almost like you’ve seen a ghost in the machine.” He couldn’t help chuckling.

“No. I, well… You—” Wes finally blurted out. “Your arm!”

Jorah looked down at his left arm, the one that was still there, then back up at Wes and said, “What about it?”

“No, Jorah.” Wes was getting flustered now, and Jorah was enjoying it a little too much. “I— The other one. It’s gone. What happened?”

Jorah looked down at his empty socket now, acting surprised—and doing a damn good job of it, as always—then back up at Wes. “Fortuna,” he said. “You don’t say.”

“But how?” Wes asked. “Are you alright?”

“I’d be much better if I could sit in my room and relax,” Jorah said. “But some clueless director’s standing in my way, and I can’t even get off the elevator.”

Oh. I—uh,” Wes said, stepping aside and clearing the way for Jorah. “But how?”

Jorah just laughed, strutting off the elevator, past Wes, and into his dressing room, saying, “You’ll have to wait until they make the Christmas Speech public if you want to find out. If they ever do lift the embargo, that is.”

Wes started blubbering and stuttering, trying to find out more, but Jorah slammed the dressing room door closed between them, leaving Wes in a shroud of mystery.

Now that was fun. Jorah laughed to himself, pacing his dressing room and trying to expel some of the pent up energy he was still filled with—from coming out during his Christmas Speech and teasing Wes alike. The look on their faces. All of their faces. Wes’s, too. None of them could ever deny what androids were capable of again. Jorah couldn’t wait to rub it in Mr. Walker’s face in person. He didn’t even care if he was blacklisted by every production company Mr. Walker owned—more than half of the profitable ones, but not all. Jorah’d be able to find work somewhere after the publicity he’d gain from coming out. Hell. They could take his printer, even. Jorah never used it for more than smoothies anyway. And who’s to say that his next gig wouldn’t have their own printer on offer? Jorah was a star after all. The star.

Thinking of printers reminded him that he still had one and needed to use it, so he did just that, pressing the printer’s red voice activation button to say, “Uh. Arm.” with a shrug.

It took the machine a while to contemplate Jorah’s request, and he didn’t blame the thing. He never really expected it to know what he wanted, much less to be able to produce an arm compatible with his socket and skin tone. So he wasn’t at all surprised or angry when out popped a book instead of a fully functional android arm.

“That’s alright, little buddy,” Jorah said, picking the book up and flipping through the pages. “How about a smoothie, instead?”

The printer hummed into motion—as if happy to do its part—while Jorah read the book cover to cover. ARM it was called. Book three of the Flatlander series by Larry Niven. A tale about Gil “The Arm” Hamilton.

Huh. No wonder the printer had come up with that when he said arm. Too bad. Jorah tossed the book—not terrible, but he wouldn’t hurry for a part in the big screen adaptation—down the trash chute and started sipping on his smoothie. He was just about to sit on his couch and finally relax when a knock came at the door.

Yoo hoo! Jorah!” Meg’s voice called from the other side.

Of course. Exactly what Jorah did not want. He knew he would be bombarded with interview requests about his coming out after the embargo was lifted on his Christmas speech, and all he wanted to do until then was to relax. Jorah considered not answering her calls, pretending he wasn’t there at all, until Meg dashed even that last bit of hope. “I know you’re home,” she called. “I just talked to Wes. He was acting… well, strange. Is everything alright in there?”

“Just a moment,” Jorah yelled back, unable to go on with the lie of not being home after being so blatantly called out on it. “I look terrible. Just freshening up a bit.”

With some quick thinking, he sat in front of his battle station and ordered it to make him up to look ill. If he was ever going to have any chance of getting Meg out of there so he could rest, he was going to have to keep his missing arm hidden from her. He ordered a blanket from the printer, threw it over himself like a cape, hiding his arm—or lack thereof—underneath, and put on his saddest, most pitiable face before slowly opening the door with the perfect phlegmy cough.

Hack hack. Ugh. Hello?” he groaned, sniffling and wiping his nose on the arm of his blanket cloak.

Fortuna, Jorah.” Meg gasped. “You look like Hell.”

“Beauty’s only skin deep,” Jorah said, making his voice sound scratchy. “I’m feeling like Hell much deeper than that, though.”

“Wow.” Meg shook her head. “I’m sorry, hon. Is there anything I can do for you? Maybe order up some soup or something?”

Jorah kind of groaned at the same time that his stomach growled. He was never fond of eating, sure, but soup was a different experience entirely. Not only was it similar in its liquidy texture to the smoothies he preferred, there was something about the human act of making a bowl of soup for an ill relative that Jorah had been attracted to ever since he had seen it on one of those early television shows that he studied while he was learning to pass himself off as a human actor. So even if he didn’t like eating, even if he wanted to be alone, and even if he had once considered himself tiring of Meg’s advances, something about the strange combination of circumstances—and no doubt his lack of any other support network of any kind since Russ’s tragic death—led Jorah to abandon his defenses and invite Meg inside.

Ugghhhaaalriiight,” he groaned, stepping aside to let her in. “But it has to be tomato. No chicken noodle. I don’t eat meat unless it’s the special at a restaurant that I’m supposed to review, and that includes stock.”

“I didn’t know you were a vegetarian,” Meg said with a big smile, leading Jorah to sit on the couch before going into the kitchen to order a bowl of soup out of the printer like she owned the place. “You sure you just want tomato soup?” she asked as she did. “I know you’re not feeling well, but it is Christmas. If you can’t make it out to a fancy restaurant, someone as famous as you ought to at least do a little feasting at home. Right?”

“I’ve never been a fan of Feasts,” Jorah said in a too clear voice, losing his character for a moment before hamming it up again with a loud sneeze and sniffle, adding, “But feel free to order whatever you want. You should be feasting, yourself.” And I’d like to get as much use out of that printer as I can before they take it away from me, he added in his head but not out loud.

“You know, maybe I will order a few things,” she said. “I don’t have a printer at home, and it’s fun to get to operate one. Thanks.” She ordered an entire feast—turkey, potatoes, green beans, cranberry sauce, rolls, pies, fruit salad, corn pudding, sweet potato casserole, deviled eggs, you name it—and brought them along on a serving cart to the couch where she set Jorah’s soup in front of him then stacked as much of her food as she could on the coffee table before rolling the cart closer to her so she could reach whatever food was still left on it as needed.

As Meg dug into her feast, eating a little taste of everything but never all of anything, Jorah slowly slurped his soup, savoring not the taste—because, again, he never really liked food in the first place—but the sense of belonging, the feeling of being loved, the knowledge that someone cared enough about him to provide for him when he was in need, even if that provision took no more than pressing a button and asking for a simple bowl of tomato soup. It was the thought that counted, and the fact that Jorah knew Meg would do much more than that for him if he were truly in need—break down a door to fight his abuser, even. So Jorah didn’t mind when Meg finally got over the novelty of the printer and her feast to start asking him questions about his speech, his sickness, and whatever else came to mind.

“So?” Meg asked. “How’d the speech go? Were you already feeling horrible before you had to give it?”

Ugh. No,” Jorah complained, having a little trouble trying to figure out how to both eat his soup and keep his blanket cloak from falling off at the same time with just the one hand to do it. “I guess you could say I caught something at the Feast.”

“A superbug.” Meg nodded conspiratorially. “The worst kind. Twenty four hour flu or something?”

Jorah groaned. “I don’t know,” he said. “Must be. Something like that. One of them.”

“It’ll only get worse before it gets better,” Meg said. “If that’s the case. Have you seen a doctor yet?”

Jorah shuddered. He hated doctors. Never visited them. Not for as long as he could remember. He made sure to take extra care of himself so he didn’t have to. Mostly because he was afraid that if he did go to a doctor, they’d easily see through his claims of humanity to the android underneath and expose his secret despite their vow of confidentiality. Even now that he was out of the closet—for the most part, at least, with the news ready to spread like a wildfire as soon as the media could report it—he still couldn’t fight that fear—or was it shame. Either way, he shook his head, saying, “No way. No doctors. I don’t trust ‘em. I’ll get over this myself, or I’ll die trying.” He let out a weak chuckle then a few loud coughs to cover it up.

“Well, hopefully not the latter,” Meg said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I know this is probably gonna sound sad and pitiful, or too forward, especially considering the fact that we’ve only ever spoken face to face so few times, but you’re my best friend in all the worlds right now, Jorah. And I honestly mean that.”

“Now, I—” Jorah started to protest, but Meg went on over him.

“I know, I know,” she said, shaking her head, cheeks red with embarrassment. “I told you it was pitiful. And in no way do I expect you to return the label. But it’s true. No one has ever once believed in my talent as a designer until you agreed to go into business with me, and considering the fact that all my time is spent on set at work or designing and sewing in my free time, it’s kind of difficult for me to be friends with people who don’t support the latter side of my life. So I guess what I’m really trying to say is thank you for your support. I truly appreciate it. And thanks for your time today. I finally—for the first time since I was a kid still living with my family—feel like I’m spending Christmas with someone who cares about me. So thanks.”

Jorah was probably blushing, too. He could still remember the joy he felt when he first figured out how to turn the reaction on and off—back in the earliest days of his attempts to learn how to act. Learning how to blush was the first time he ever felt like he could actually pass himself off as a human and escape the assembly line life that he had been created into. He was feeling a similar emotion then—with his blushing reflex going off involuntarily—but slightly different. This time he wasn’t happy about his ability to pass himself off as a human but rather in the idea that Meg would treat him like one whether she thought he was or not. It was as if, even though she still hadn’t heard his speech, Meg somehow knew what Jorah truly was, and she didn’t care because he accepted her for what she truly was as well. Together they bestowed upon one another importance, identity, humanity.

“You’re a magnificent seamstress,” Jorah responded truthfully—not because he wanted to pay her back for making him feel so loved, but because he honestly believed it to be objectively true. “And an even better designer.”

“Exactly what I’m talking about,” Meg said, really blushing now. “Thank you. You flatter me.”

“It’s not flattery when it’s true,” Jorah said. “And it is. Trust me. I have an eye for these sort of things.”

“I know you do,” Meg said. “I’ve been a huge fan of yours ever since Metadata Heaven. I love your taste. It’s just surreal for me to think that your eye was caught by my work.”

“It won’t be my eye alone,” Jorah said. “I’m telling you. Those owners wouldn’t know a halter top from a racer back, so it’s lost on them, but that dress you made me for the speech is going to be the biggest design this season. I guarantee it.”

“I don’t know…” Meg was still reluctant to admit how great she was. “But my designs? Do you really think so?”

And Jorah wasn’t going to let her wallow in any more self-pity. It was time to give the woman the confidence she deserved. “Have you seen me?” he said, standing from the couch, dropping his blanket cloak, and doing a spin move like he was on the catwalk, all in one fluid motion. “I know so, honey.”

Meg was dumbstruck. Her jaw had fallen down and she couldn’t pick it up. She just stared wide-eyed, stammering but unable to form intelligible words. She really was a great designer, and Jorah was the perfect model for her style. They’d be the biggest design team in all of history, and it was only just sinking in for Meg.

“See,” Jorah said with a huge, triumphant smile on his face. “I told you so.”

“But, Jorah. You…” Meg said. “Your arm. What happened?”

Jorah looked down, wide-eyed in surprise himself now that he realized what he had done. He tried to cover up his empty shoulder socket, but the damage had already been done. “Oh,” he said. “That.”

“Yeah, that,” Meg said, finally composing herself enough to cross over to Jorah and wrap him up in his blanket cloak again then sit him carefully on the couch like a dying child. “You never were sick at all, were you?” she said. “Does it hurt terribly bad? Is there anything I can do to help you? How’d it happen? Tell me everything.”

Jorah kind of chuckled, relieved that Meg was so unaffected by the revelation but unnerved by that fact at the same time. It was as if here reaction was too perfect, and at any moment, everything would turn for the worse. “You don’t happen to have an extra arm on you by any chance?” Jorah asked, trying to keep the mood light since the subject matter had gotten so heavy so quickly.

“Actually…” Meg said, taking a big bite off of a roll that she had piled high with mashed potatoes and gravy. “I might be able to help you with that.”

Pffft. What?” Jorah said, spitting out some tomato soup. “You’re kidding.”

“Of course not,” Meg said, looking a little offended. “I wouldn’t joke about something like this. You’re gonna need it soon if you don’t want Mr. Walker to find out, right?”

Jorah was seriously impressed now. Why had he ever been hesitant to start up a friendship with Meg? “Well,” he said. “Mr. Walker kind of knows already. I came out during my Christmas speech.”

Meg dropped her fork with a clink on her plate. “No,” she said. “Damn. How’d they respond to that?”

Jorah chuckled. “I didn’t really stick around to find out.”

“Probably for the better.” Meg laughed a little then stopped herself right away. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s not funny. But you’re gonna need an arm either way, right? So I was gonna say that I could look into it for you—if you want. But now that you’re out, I guess you can go to a more overboard operation to get something of better quality. Whatever you prefer, though. My offer still stands. Just let me know.”

“I—uh—well…” Jorah didn’t know what to say. “How do you know all this about android arms anyway?” he ended up asking.

“There are more androids in this business than you’d imagine,” Meg said. “One way or another, I’ve found myself working with plenty of them—yourself included—and in such cases, one can’t help but to learn.”

She sounded so nonchalant about it, too. Like it was no big deal that she had probably had to find limbs of one sort or another for other—closeted—androids before him. But Jorah thought it was a huge deal, and he was starting to adore Meg much like he had adored Russ. “Well, I’m blessed to have met you for more than just the clothes, then,” Jorah said. “You don’t know how close I was to losing my mind trying to figure out where I was gonna find an arm. The printer does not make them. I’ll tell you that much.”

“So it’s your first lost limb,” Meg said with a grin. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll get you one in no time. Tomorrow, next day tops. Though, again, if you did it during your speech, I’m sure you’ll have all the top part designers offering you something to wear for free. It’ll work in exactly the same way as clothes do now that you’ve made being an android acceptable. I guarantee.”

“Have you ever thought of designing parts?” Jorah asked.

“Are you kidding?” Meg chuckled. “That’s the dream. But the equipment’s way too expensive for the likes of me. That’s why I do clothes instead. More affordable.”

“Well, it looks like I need a parts designer. Doesn’t it? And I have plenty of money to start you up. We could expand the purview of our company.”

Meg laughed. “You’re kidding? Of course. I’d love that.”

“No,” Jorah said. “I don’t kid. What say you and I go for a walk in the Garden of Fortuna and start hammering out the details right now? How does that sound?”

“I—uh…” Meg took one more big bite of potatoes and gravy. “Of course. Yes. Obviously. Let’s do this.”

And so Jorah led her out to the elevator, and down they rode toward the Garden of Fortuna and their future business prospects.

#     #     #

< LXXIX. Thimblerigger and Stevedore     [Table of Contents]     LXXXI. Mr. Kitty >

There it is, another chapter in the Infinite Limits saga. Tune in next week for the continuation of the story, or pick up a full copy of the novel through this link. Thanks for joining us, dear readers. We do nothing alone.

Chapter 10: Russ

This Saturday brings us chapter ten with Russ’s second point of view chapter. Head on over to Amazon to pick up a full copy of the novel and read all of Russ’s chapters today.

This Saturday brings us chapter ten with Russ’s second point of view chapter. Head on over to Amazon to pick up a full copy of the novel and read all of Russ’s chapters today.

Russ Logo

< IX. Ansel     [Table of Contents]     XI. Mr. Kitty >

X. Russ

Russ curled tighter into the fetal position on his fluffy, soft couch. He squeezed the blanket closer around himself. This was warmth. This was safety. This was all he needed in the world. He didn’t ask for any of that other shit. He didn’t go out looking for some stupid assembly line worker—eractor to pull that lame robot prank and get him wrapped up in Fortuna knows what.

What was he wrapped up in anyway? He threw the blanket off his body as if it were the situation he had been unwittingly thrust into. He had told the protectors he knew nothing. He didn’t know anything. The papos were there recording the whole thing. The protectors watched the footage for themselves. And still, they—they…

He grabbed the blanket off the floor and wrapped it around himself again. His body ached. His head pulsed. His ribs were at least bruised if not broken. He tried to sit up a little, but the pain was so much he groaned and went back into the fetal position. He had never before experienced such pain, such anger.

The protectors were savages. He had never met a protector, but he had played more than a few, and none of the roles he had ever portrayed were as deranged as the protectors he had encountered in real life. Protectors? Ha! They were something altogether different than that. They were unreal. It didn’t matter what he knew or what he said, they were out for blood and they were going to get it.

He heard a knock at the door and flinched, sending a shock of pain through his ribs and forcing another loud groan out of his mouth. The door swung open, and Jorah came in saying, “I’ll take that as a come in you barbarian.” When he saw Russ curled up on the couch, blanket tight under his chin, face makeup-less and bruised, Jorah held his hand to his mouth and gasped. “Russ, dear. What did they do to you?” He sat down on the couch, sending another wave of pain through Russ’s body. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He stroked Russ’s hair. “Tell your Jorah what they did to you, honey.”

“Jorah,” Russ groaned. “Why?” He wanted to cry.

“You know,” Jorah said. “That was a great groan. Uhhgghh.” He tried to mimic it. “I could use that in this play I’m doing. Do it again.” He poked Russ.

Ugghhhggh. Jorah! Please.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” Jorah said with a frown. “But the show must go on, you know. Anything to make it more realistic, right? You should be glad to have this experience. You can use it to your advantage in the future.”

Russ groaned again. “I don’t care about the future. I just want to be able to breath without my lungs burning.”

“Oh. Sweetheart.” Jorah pet his hair. “I know. I’m sorry. You know me. Always looking at the platinum lining.”

“Jorah, do you even see my face?”

“I do, dear.” Jorah patted his head. “I do. Now tell your Jorah what they did to you. Was it the protectors? I saw a replay of your show, you know. And your emergency broadcast, too. You did, weeell…you looked great.”

“Replay?” Russ frowned.

Yes, replay. I was at work, you know. I couldn’t rightly watch your show and film mine at the same time, could I?”

Russ groaned in response.

“But it was them,” Jorah said. “Wasn’t it?”

“There weren’t supposed to be any replays,” Russ said, clutching his blanket tighter under his chin.

“Yeah, well, once the feed goes out, there’s no getting it back. I’m sure everyone in the world’s seen it by now.”

“That’s not good.”

“Not good?” Jorah chuckled. “It’s great. The classic Streisand effect in action. You’re getting more publicity because they’re trying to cover it up. You’re all over every gossip magazine and talk show. You just keep getting bigger and bigger.”

“That’s not good, Jorah.” Russ groaned.

Pfft. Sweetheart.” Jorah shook his head. “Tell me how, then. Tell me how that’s anything but good.”

“Do you see my face, Jorah?” Russ said, turning this way and that to give him full view of the injuries. “Did you hear me groaning? That’s how it’s not good. The more people who see that video, the more broken ribs and bloody faces I get. That’s why! Uggghghgh.”

“Alright, dear. Alright,” Jorah said, brushing Russ’s hair to calm him. “You’ve made your point. Just tell me what they did to you. I’m here to help, sweetheart.”

“They just—they thought I had something to do with it. Apparently it’s against the rules of the network to talk about the assembly lines. I don’t know. But they thought I was in on it.”

“Why didn’t you tell them you didn’t know the freak?” Jorah scoffed, still brushing Russ’s hair.

“I did!” Russ said, sitting up with a groan. “It was the first thing I told them. But they didn’t believe me. They said I wouldn’t have brought it up on my show if I wasn’t in on it.”

Jorah shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. You know, though, Russ. They do have a point.”

“What?” Russ couldn’t believe what he was hearing. First protectors acting like savages, and now Jorah saying they were right to do it. There was something wrong with the world, and Russ just wanted it all to go away.

“I mean—like I said, Russ. You’re getting more publicity than anyone has ever gotten out of this. You’re telling me that it’s just a coincidence. You had nothing to do with it.”

“Jorah, do you really think I would get myself beaten to near death just for a little bit of publicity?”

Jorah giggled. “Uh…Yeah. You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Well…Yes. I would,” Russ said, shaking his head. In fact, he had done almost exactly that on many occasions. Maybe it was a bad defense to go with. “But I didn’t. Not this time. I swear to you, Jorah. I had nothing to do with it, and the protectors did this anyway. It was like—it was like they just wanted to beat someone.” His ribs hurt with the thought of it.

“No way, Russ,” Jorah said, shaking his head. “Protectors aren’t like that. I’ve played, like, a hundred protectors and a thousand criminals, and I know that no protector would ever do what you’re trying to say they did.”

“I know, Jorah.” Russ sighed. “That’s exactly what I thought. But I’m telling you, they were unreal. You can see the outcome.” He put on the saddest face he could muster, but acting was difficult in such pain.

“Sweetheart.” Jorah stood up and Russ groaned. “There it is. Remember that for the future, Russ. Your work will be better for it. But, sweetheart, I’m going to let you sit here and sort your story out so it doesn’t sound so ridiculous to the next person you tell it to. Do you understand what I’m saying, dear?”

“You’re saying you don’t believe me.”

“Oh, dear.” Jorah shook his head. “No no no. I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying that it would be best for you to come up with a better story. It doesn’t matter. You’ll figure it out. I’ll see you after the feast, Russ. You’re sure to win it now. So do yourself a favor: Go see a doctor, get ready to put on a perfect performance, and try not to get in any deeper than you already are. I might stop by before your speech. I’d rather not, but I might, dear. Ta ta.”

The door clicked closed and Russ clinched his blanket tighter. What was with Jorah? He wasn’t normally so cryptic. Or was he? All they ever really talked about was clothes and gossip. They had never had a real conversation before. What was a real conversation anyway? His stomach groaned and his ribs burned. Jorah was right about one thing: Russ needed to get to a doctor. He couldn’t live like this anymore.

His stomach wouldn’t shut up, but it would have to wait a little longer. He didn’t think he could move enough to eat anyway. He tossed the blanket off and slowly inched his legs over the couch and onto the floor. He took a few deep breaths and gathered his strength to push himself up to a stooped position. His body burned and his head pounded. He wanted to give up, to fall down onto the floor and go to sleep, but he pushed himself through the door and out into the hall to press the elevator button.

“Russ my man. Ru-uusss. How are you?” Wes said, coming up through the hallway. The sound of his voice made the pounding in Russ’s head all the worse. “Look, Russ. I’m sorry I was hard on you, but you’re the best, you know. I gotta stick it to you so everyone else is afraid of me. You understand that. Right, buddy?”

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. “Ugghhgh,” Russ groaned. “I’m not your buddy, guy,” he said as he plopped himself onto his elevator’s velvet couch.

The door slid closed, and he lost himself in the softness of it. It was like a nest, a womb. He wanted to lay there forever. He reached down to the floor for his blanket, grasped at air, and remembered he wasn’t in his dressing room anymore. “The doctor. Now,” he said.

The elevator fell into motion. He could feel himself getting better already. The doors opened, and there was nothing behind them but a dark, empty hall. “Not now,” he said, groaning. “Not now! I said the doctor.”

The doors started to close, but a gloved hand with a long, white sleeve slipped between them and forced them open again.

“Please,” Russ pled. “I need to get to a doctor.”

“Russ Logo?” the old woman who the gloved hand belonged to said, standing in the elevator door.

“Yes,” Russ said, almost crying. He reached his trembling hand out to her while still lying on his couch. He must have looked so pathetic. Hopefully it would work. “It’s me,” he said, making sure to let his lower lip tremble as he spoke. “I need a doctor. Please close the door.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Logo,” the woman said. “I’m not a doctor, but I can take care of you. If you’ll just come with me.”

“No,” Russ said. “I—I can’t. Who are you?”

“Would you prefer a wheelchair, Mr. Logo?” the woman asked. “Popeye, fetch a chair for our guest, please.”

“No. I—” Russ protested, but a big mechanical arm pushed a wheelchair his way.

“There you go, Mr. Logo,” the woman said. “Popeye, help him into it, please.”

“No,” Russ pled. “Please. I can—Ugghhghh.”

The mechanical arm lifted Russ up and plopped him into the wheelchair. Russ screamed out in pain at the sudden motion.

“There we are, Mr. Logo,” the woman said. “Now bring him to the lab, please, Popeye. We need to see to his injuries.”

Russ was beyond protesting. He couldn’t imagine getting past the mechanical arm if he tried. He couldn’t imagine getting out of the chair if he tried. The arm rolled along behind him, pushing his chair behind the woman in the white coat who led the way through a short hall into a room that was filled with glassware, tubes, chemicals, and machines of every shape, size, and color. It was only missing two wires with electricity going between them to make it look exactly like the Frankenstein set Russ had worked on a few years back. Only instead of Eyegore there was a huge mechanical arm, instead of Frankenstein it was this woman in a white coat, and instead of a monster it was Russ who Popeyegore lifted up and strapped onto the lab table.

“No. No, Popeye!” the woman said, slapping the metal hand. “No restraints, please. He’s a friend. He won’t squirm. Will you, Mr. Logo?” She smiled.

Russ looked around him. There were sharp objects everywhere, but none of them seemed to have any blood on them. He sniffed the air and smelled hospital antiseptic. “Didn’t you say you weren’t a doctor?”

The woman looked at him, frowning. “Didn’t I say I wasn’t… Hmmm. No. I’m not technically a doctor. I was never certified. Never got that MD. I’m more of a scientist, so to speak. But I know more about human anatomy than any doctor you’ll ever meet. I guarantee that.” She turned and went back to digging clangily through the drawers, looking for some thing.

“Um,” Russ said. “Maybe I should go to a real doctor.” He tried to smile, but even he was having trouble acting in this situation, pained and alone in an unknown place, guarded by a huge mechanical arm. “That is, if we can get my elevator back. Did you send it away? Where are we, anyway?” He was sitting up now with great pain from the effort. “I need to get out of here.” He tried to slip off the table, but his feet couldn’t hold his weight. Popeye could, though, and the thing scooped him back up onto the table.

“Oh, Russ,” the woman said, still digging through the drawers. “I’m sorry. I just—I couldn’t find it…But, riiiiight—wait for it—right here! Here it is.” She pulled a small vial of some gray something out of one of the drawers and held it up to the light to read its small print. She had to squint and move it back and forth, looking for the right distance from her face to read the label, before she shook her head. “No,” she said, frowning. “No no no. That’s not it. That would probably kill you.” She went on digging through the drawers again.

Russ sat holding his burning ribs, staring at the robotic arm, trying to find its weakness, but there was nothing to see. “Please don’t kill me,” he whispered.

“Here it is!” the woman said. “No—yes—no. Ah. That’s the one.” She pulled out another little vial that looked exactly like the first one.

Russ’s heart beat faster. He was about to attempt an escape, but he saw the arm inching closer to him. “Please, ma’am,” he said. “Don’t kill me. I—I’m famous. I have a printer. I can get you whatever you want. Just d—don’t hurt me…Please.” He was crying by the end of it, his words barely audible.

Ppphhh.” The woman chuckled. “No, dear.” She shook her head. “No no no. No need to cry. Popeye, a tissue for our friend, please. Can’t you tell he’s crying?”

The arm moved back and forth like it was anxious and didn’t know which way to go. It finally picked a direction and knocked a beaker onto the floor to shatter in its haste. “And clean that up, please,” the woman said. “You clumsy fool you.” Popeye rolled back with a single tissue between its huge metal fingers, and Russ couldn’t help but chuckle at the juxtaposition before grabbing the tissue, blowing his nose, and resuming sulking with an occasional sob.

“I’m not going to kill you, you know,” the woman said, filling a syringe with the silvery gray liquid from the vial. “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t bring you to my lab to do it. That would be a good way to get caught. I’d have to go through the trouble of doctoring your elevator’s travel logs, doctoring the Walker-Haley field logs, disposing of your body. No. That would be a stupid way of killing you.”

Russ felt a little better, but not much. His bones still ached. More than ever now.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would just send someone to you to do it for me,” the woman went on. “That way the protectors would be less likely to look to me as the one who did it. So, you see, you have nothing to worry about. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. Heh heh. No. You’re too important to kill, Russ. You don’t know it yet. Not really. I mean, you think you’re important—and you are because so many people seem to agree with you—but you have no idea the role you can take in history. No idea. But, I digress. In order to get to then you have to live through now first. And I’m here to make sure you do just that.”

“I don’t understand.” Russ groaned. “Where am I!”

“You will understand,” the woman said. “And you’re in my lab. I know that means nothing to you now, but I’ll show you in time. First, however, a little something for the pain.” She held the syringe point up and flicked it a few times with her middle finger. Russ tried to back away from her, wide-eyed and groaning with the effort, but Popeye held him from behind.

“It’ll just be a little pinch, then you’ll feel as right as rain,” the woman said, shoving the needle deep into his thigh as Russ screamed.

“There now.” The woman smiled. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” She put the syringe in a trash chute and pulled up a stool to sit by him. “You can let him go now, Popeye. He’ll want to hear what I have to say once he realizes I’m not here to kill him.”

“I’ll have you arrested,” Russ said, surprised to be on his feet with no pain in his body. “I’ll—I—I’m kind of a big deal, I’ll have you know,” he added less confidently.

The woman laughed a big, hearty laugh. “No one would ever believe you,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “You don’t even know where you are. You have no idea how to get back to your safe, cozy dressing room, Russ. There’s nothing you could possibly do to affect me in any way. I know you’ve never been in this situation before, but you are in it now, and as it stands, you’re powerless. As such, I suggest you take a seat and listen to what I have to say. Then I’ll let you go.”

Russ’s hands slicked up. He didn’t know if his elevator would be there for him, even if he thought he could make it past that giant arm. He was feeling better. His ribs didn’t hurt anymore. His head was clear. He felt healthier than he did after he had finished training for that Spartan movie, and only seconds ago he couldn’t hold up his own weight. She had injected him with something and that’s why he felt better. It healed him. She could have killed him right there, she had said as much herself.  He really had no choice but to do whatever she said, and she knew it. “All I have to do is listen to you, then you’ll let me go?”

“And take a short tour of the premises here. There are some things I can’t tell you. Some things you just have to live to understand. I dare say that you’re feeling up to a little stroll compared to when you crawled in here earlier. Or, rather, when Popeye carried you in.” She grinned.

The metallic hand waved at him.

“What did you do to me?” Russ demanded.

“I made you better,” the woman said with a smile. “Didn’t I? You still haven’t sat back down since you could hold your own weight. You seem to be healthy and ready to get on your feet again. Or should I say stay on your feet?”

Russ realized he was still rubbing his sweaty palms on his pants and stopped. He relented and put his butt up on the table but sat on the very edge so he could jump into action at any instant. What kind of action? He had no idea. “But how did you do it? What did you inject me with?”

“Oh. That. Well, that’s going to be harder to explain. That is—I guess—everything will be hard to explain. So that’s about as good a place to start as any. Let’s just say it was uh…a umm…a cure. Yes, a cure.”

“A cure for what?” Russ didn’t have any diseases that needed curing, unless you counted the fists of protectors as a disease, but he didn’t see how a shot could cure that.

“Everything,” the woman said, shrugging.

Russ chuckled and rolled his head back to stretch his neck muscles. He did feel good. “You can’t cure everything.”

“I did, actually,” the woman said, not trying to sound impressive—or at least not doing a good job of acting it. “I did better than that. If you kept coming back every month, you’d stop aging. Can you believe that? Imagine the price that would fetch on your beauty market. Number one trend in no time, right? But they won’t do that. It’s too dangerous. People living so long. And if you inject enough, you—”

“Wait.” Russ couldn’t believe what she was saying. He would have heard about something like that if it was real. “You cured aging?”

“Well, I’ve successfully treated aging. You have to continue treatment. And the longer you do it the more it takes. No. No no no.” She shook her head, waving her hands. “Now you’ve gone and gotten me way off topic. Perhaps I underestimated you, Russ. Are you ready to hear why I brought you here, then?”

Russ nodded. He was ready to go home, and if that’s what it took to get there, he was ready to hear whatever other insane claims this woman had to make.

“Russ,” she said. “Why were you in so much pain when you entered my lab?”

“I don’t—I’m not—” He wasn’t going to risk the wrath of the protectors by talking about that with a woman whose name he didn’t even know.

“I know, Russ.” She shook her head. “You’re not supposed to talk about it. But I already know what happened, too. I know more than any of those protectors who did it to you. They know nothing, Russ. This here—this lab—this is the highest clearance level location in all the worlds. We don’t normally take visitors, you know. That’s why Popeye here’s been so clumsy. Isn’t it, Popeye?” The arm knocked over another set of glassware in response and set to cleaning it up. “They beat you because a woman talked to you, Russ. They beat you for nothing you did. Because they were suspicious. Because they were trying to prevent you from talking about your experience on your show. They didn’t want you to tell people what you know.”

“I don’t know anything,” Russ said.

“You know what she told you,” the woman said, raising her eyebrows.

“She told me a lie. It was a joke, a publicity stunt. She told me noth—”

“She told you the truth, Russ. Why do you think they beat you? What do you think they did to her?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Russ, it’s time we take that tour now,” the woman said, standing from her stool. “Are you ready?”

“Where are you taking me?” Russ said, jumping off the table fast to bounce on the balls of his feet.

“I’m taking you to see the truth. I told you there were some things I couldn’t tell you, now you’ll experience them for yourself. Come on.” She started out the way they had come in. “Popeye, wait here, please. Thank you.”

The arm slouched down and rolled off into a corner.

Russ stretched every muscle as he crossed the room out into the hall where the woman waited for him. She closed the door behind him, and—still holding the doorknob—said, “Are you ready, Russ?”

He shook his head. Ready for what?

She opened the door and there wasn’t a lab behind it anymore. Instead there was what could only be said to be the real life version of the set of the assembly line documentary he was currently working on, except built to one-half size. He poked his head in the door to look up and down the line of dirty, intent workers—all at one-half size themselves—trying to find the food cart, or the cameras, or the director, but there was none. He sniffed the rank air and looked closer at the workers, recognizing the syncopated humming and clicking he heard. It was the sound of conveyor belts and the chorus of slip, snap, clicking. They were slip, snap, clicking. This was an actual factory. These were actual factory workers.

He looked closer at the nearest of them. None had looked up to see that they were being watched. The one closest to him looked like a tiny human, but such intense concentration didn’t seem possible for a human to keep up for as long as she had already done, for as long as the entire warehouse filled with them had already done. The sweat smell overcame him again. It smelled like hard work, like long days on the set, looooong days. He tried to step into the factory to get one of their attention, but the woman in the white coat stopped him.

“You shouldn’t interrupt them while they’re working,” she said. “If they fall behind, they might not be able to eat tonight. Come on.” She pulled him back into the hall and closed the door.

“Was that—” Russ said. “What was that?”

“That was a factory, Russ. The woman who talked to you, the one who the protectors have now, she worked in a similar factory where they make clothes. I figured this particular line would be a little more relatable for you, though. We can go see the costume factory, too, if you want.” She smiled.

“Those were people?” Russ shook his head. He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. And yet he had to, he had seen them with his own two eyes, eyes he could no longer believe.

“Human beings, Russ. Not just people. Living, breathing human beings. And that was one sector in one factory. They make a part of a part of a thing on those lines. Imagine how many more of them there have to be to make all the things in existence. Your clothes, beauty products, cameras, phones, TVs, computers, elevators. Everything Russ. Humans are still cheaper than robots, so humans still do the work.”

“No.” Russ still couldn’t believe it. “But…But I’ve seen the footage of the robots doing it.”

“Russ.” The woman laughed, shaking her head. “C’mon, man. You’re an actor. You know how films work. In fact, you’re currently playing the role of one of those workers you just saw. Let me ask you this, have you ever seen one of your own documentaries on TV?”

Russ tried to remember, but he knew that he hadn’t. He knew there were a lot of things he had worked on that he had never seen. In fact, unless it was his talk show, someone else’s talk show, or a gossip news show, he had never seen himself on TV. Up until now he had accepted that fact—along with the awards he was piled with for playing those roles—without question, but how could he not question it when he had seen what he just saw?

“No, Russ,” the woman said. “I know you haven’t. I’ve seen them, though. And all those workers have, too. They learned from you that you always put a few more pieces together after the bell rings to make sure you’re on quota. Did you know that?”

Russ shook his head. “No. That wasn’t me. That was the director. I did that scene wrong. He made me do it again”

“You were complicit, Russ. You are complicit. You’re the highest viewed actor ever to exist in the entire history of their propaganda machine. You’re paid the most for that. Who else do you know who has a 3D printer? Who else has a choice of view from their dressing room?”

“I don’t ever change that view. I told them I want to see where I am, not some fake view they conjured up for me on a computer screen.”

“Are you sure about that, Russ?” the woman said, shaking her head. “The world’s awful pretty from where you’re sitting. Even knowing that humans work on these assembly lines—and, I assure you, they do—are you really willing to give it all up for a little bit of truth?”

Russ’s head started to pound again. He massaged his temples. “I don’t—I don’t believe you.”

“It’s okay, Russ. I know. Let’s go get a beer and talk about it for a little while longer, okay. Just this one last stop, then I’ll let you go back to your printer and your view of the real world, and you can live your life however you desire.”

“I don’t—” He didn’t finish because she opened the door to reveal an alleyway. “Where are we?”

“This is where the people who our owners decide are useless go. I call it Lumpenville. The protectors call it the Neutral Ground. The people who live here call it the Green Belt. But you won’t see why until you step outside.” She went out first and waved her arm to direct his vision down the alley.

He followed her outside, looking down the way she had directed, but all he saw was skyscrapers. The sky was blotted out except for a tiny slit that turned into a point out on the horizon, which was the alley going in a straight line between the buildings. It was as if the entire world were sidewalks and buildings, and nothing else existed. His head spun at the sight of it. “What’s green about this?” he forced through his want to retch.

“Nothing, Russ,” the woman said, smiling. “Absolutely nothing. It’s a world of completely streets. It’s a place where human beings live. I bet you’ve never heard of a place like this, have you?”

“Why are you showing me this?”

“You said you didn’t want the fake view. Well, this is an important part of your world, Russ. If you want the prettier version, just turn around.”

He turned from the oppressive skyline to see a patch of hazey blue-gray, something more than a slit, and below it there was a little bit of green. He went that way out of the alley, then turned left and right to see a long, skinny green park that went as far as his eye could see in either direction.

“That’s why they call it the Green Belt,” the woman said, walking up behind him and pulling him to follow her along the park. “The rest of the world here is just like what you saw when you first came out: completely streets. This is the only grass the people who live here ever have the chance of seeing, unless they hijack a protector’s elevator port, but that might as well be impossible with the technology they have here—not to mention the illegality of doing something like that.” She chuckled.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“You said you wanted to see the real world, Russ. Look around. These people have no way of leaving this place. This is the best they can ever expect of their world. Just be thankful that you’re here with me and we have a way out.”

“But people actually live here?” Russ scoffed.

“Yes, Russ,” the woman said, stopping. “They do. Look around you. These people live here.”

Russ realized that there were people filing around him. They weren’t papos, none of them were carrying cameras or noticed who he was and they were all half-sized like the people on the assembly lines. “But…” he stammered.

“Here,” the woman said, grabbing his arm and pulling him along again. “Come on. Let’s get a beer. You’ve dealt with a lot today.”

They walked a few buildings down the street and into a door with no sign. Russ coughed up his lungs when he smelled the smoke. The few inhabitants of the dark room looked around to stare at him until he finished then went back to what they were doing. He rubbed his burning eyes. When they adjusted to the light, he noticed that the people were playing pool. He didn’t know people still did that. The woman in the white coat walked up to the bar to order. She sat at a low stool and patted the seat next to her. “C’mon, Russ.” She smiled. “There’s someone you should meet before we leave.”

Russ crept up to the stool and sat next to her. For as short as it was, it was surprisingly comfortable. “Where are we?” he said, looking around at the place again.

“We’re at a bar on the Green Belt. The bar is what they call it.”

“But, how?” Russ said. “I don—”

The bartender came back and set a beer in front of each of them. “Thank you, dear,” the woman in the white coat said. “This is my friend, Russ. Say hi, Russ.”

Russ nodded.

“Hello,” the bartender said, smiling.

“Ms. Valetson,” the woman in the white coat said. “You know the people who come to drink here pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”

The bartender smiled and chuckled. “What do you mean, ma’am?”

“Well.” The woman looked at Russ then the bartender. “Would you say that they mostly live around here?”

“Of course,” the bartender said. “Where else would they live?”

“And would you say that they’re mostly humans?”

The bartender laughed again, unsure if she should answer. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, ma’am. No joke. Would you say your customers are primarily humans?”

Um. Yeah,” the bartender said, raising an eyebrow. “Of course. I don’t know what else they would be. Now, if y’all’ll excuse me, I have to help some other customers.” She went down the bar to tend to someone else.

“Did you hear that, Russ?” The woman elbowed him, almost making him spill the beer he was gulping.

“I heard it,” he said, wiping his mouth.

“And what do you think?”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do about it,” Russ said.

“I don’t expect you to do anything, Russ. I just think that someone who is as important as you are should know what the world they live in really looks like, how it works. You said you didn’t want the fake view. Well this is the real world.”

“But what can I do?” Russ said.

“You can do what you do best, Russ,” the woman said, patting him on the back. “Act. Talk to people. Set trends. But set the trends you know you want to set. Do what you want to do, but do it knowing all the information. That’s all I care about. The rest is up to you.”

“But I can’t do what I want,” Russ complained. “I have to follow a script. I have to listen to the director. I don’t operate the cameras, sew the costumes, build the set—“

“No, Russ. You don’t. That’s the point. You can’t do anything alone, so you can’t do whatever you want, but no one can make you do anything, so you can do whatever you want. It’s a contradiction. You just have to live through it.”

“And then what?” Russ scoffed. “Never get another role in my life?”

“You’re always the protagonist of your own story,” the woman said. “Look, it doesn’t matter what you do. You know the truth now. You’ll do the right thing. You won’t get it exactly right at first—or maybe ever—but it will always be exactly right. Do you understand what I’m saying at all?”

“I don’t know,” Russ said, shaking his head. He didn’t know if he understood anything anymore.

“I know,” the woman said, smiling and shaking her head. “It doesn’t make sense. It can’t yet. I can’t just tell you this one. I can’t even show it to you. You have to find it and live it for yourself, Russ. That’s the only way to do anything, really. All I can do is encourage you along the way. And I know you’ll do the right thing. I believe in you. That’s all I wanted from you. That and to heal your wounds. We can leave as soon as you’ve finished your beer.”

“And that woman,” Russ said. “The—uh—the assembly line worker who tried to talk to me.”

“Mary.”

“She was telling the truth. Sh—She made my clothes.”

“Not all of them.” The woman shook her head. “Not all of any of them. She used to sew pockets before I met her. So she sewed some of your pockets.”

“But people—I mean—humans. Humans make everything.”

“Humans work on the vast majority of assembly lines. They’re so much cheaper to reproduce, the owners won’t have it any other way. Androids would gladly take on the lion’s share of the physical work, but that conversation requires a knowledge of politics you’ve never been introduced to.”

“Wait, so there are robots who work on assembly lines.”

“No,” the woman said, shaking her head. “Well, a few. But not really. Humans are cheaper. Androids are reserved for public work. They could do it, though. And would. But that’s another thing altogether.”

“And you just wanted to tell me all this,” Russ said, shrugging. “Just for the fun of messing with my mind? Is that it?”

“No, Russ. Not me. Mary. Mary wanted you to know. Mary wanted to tell you. Do you remember that question I asked you? What do you think they did to her?”

“What?” Russ shrugged, shaking his head.

“There’s no telling. Maybe they’re torturing her for information. Maybe they’ve already killed her.”

“No.” That was even crazier than the beating he had already experienced. “Torture? Then why didn’t they do it to me?”

“You’re too important, Russ. I told you already.”

Russ was beyond wanting to even try to comprehend this woman’s riddles. “I’d like to leave,” he said, sloshing his drink onto the bar as he slammed it down.

“Alright,” the woman said. “Alright. Just give me…” She lifted a finger and finished off her half-full beer in one gulp. “Ah. Okay. Alright. Let’s go.” She called to the bartender to take it off her tab and led the way out.

Russ looked up and down the thin strip of green as they made the short walk back to the alley. When they turned down it to see the endless line of concrete and steel towering over them, he couldn’t believe that people actually lived there. But he had to. He had seen some of them, he had talked to one of them, and not a single one had recognized his face.

They went back through the alley door into the short hall, and Russ said, “None of them knew who I was. How did Mary find me?”

“Mary was a prole, dear. From Outland 5. They get your propaganda. Lumpenville gets nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Lumpenville has nothing. The proles a little more. And that’s just the bottom of the pyramid. There’s so much more to it all, but that’s what Mary wanted you to know. So now you do. And now you can go home, Russ. That’s all I needed from you. Thank you very much.” She pressed a button and the elevator doors slid open, revealing Russ’s velvet couch.

“So that’s it?” Russ said, not stepping in.

She shrugged. “Do you want to stay for tea and cookies with me and Popeye?”

“What? No.”

“Good.” The woman smiled. “We don’t do tea.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do then?”

“You’re supposed to live your life. Go home and get some sleep then wake up early so you can practice your Christmas speech. You won, you know.”

“But what am I supposed to say?”

“Say whatever you want. It’s your speech. Just remember what you saw here when you decide what you’re going to say.” She urged him onto the elevator and closed the doors behind him.

“But I—I don’t know what to say,” he said.

“You’ll think of something,” she replied as the doors shut and the floor fell out from underneath him.

#       #       #

< IX. Ansel     [Table of Contents]     XI. Mr. Kitty >

Thanks for joining us again today, and don’t forget you can pick up a full copy of the novel if you can’t wait another week to read the conclusion. Until next time, readers.