🚀 go-pugleaf

     "So we're getting another guest lecturer?" Dreamweaver asked
Frigid Girl.
     "Mm-hm" Fridge said.  "We're probably going to get a lot of them
in the next few months."
     "Well, duh," Kid Electron said with a smirk.  "The A.L.U.
actually pays them.  Of course we're going to get more lecturers."
     "What's the topic?" Dreamweaver asked.
     "Etiquette and Diplomacy," Memorex said.  He sounded excited.
"Finally, a subject I know something about."
     "What?" Kid Electron asked.   "How to stutter to important people
properly?"
     "Kid-E," Transit said.  "Be *nice.*"
     "Who's the lecturer," Dreamweaver asked.  "The syllabus just says
`T.B.A.'"
     "Well," Mental replied to his wife, "let's think about it
logically.  They can afford to get experts in the different fields, so
it'll have to be someone *extremely* diplomatic."
     "Right.  Always says the right thing.  Always knows what to do."
Dreamweaver smiled.  "So who is that?"
     "In this business?  Um... no idea.  Nouveaux Skunk, maybe?"
     "Do you really think they'd hire him?  After the trial a couple
of years back?"
     "We had him for a lecture not three weeks after," Transit pointed
out.  "And he's scheduled to teach "Evolution of the Superguy in
Society" next quarter.  I'd say they're willing to hire him."
     "Hm.  Well, he is an expert," Memorex said.  "Right.  So he's
possibility one--"
     "It matters little," Portentous Piranha rasped.  "Whoever it is
shall cling to their pathetic rules and orders as though it shall
shield them from the ultimate degradation and horror that shall be
theirs and indeed all the world's!"  She cackled blasphemously.
     "Right," Kid Electron asked.  "So who else could it be?"
     "Andy Awesome?"
     "I heard he's in Tibet."
     "Maybe--"
     The door opened, and Healer walked in, sipping her morning coffee
in the metal thermos mug.  "Morning," she said.  "Settle down.  We've
got a guest today -- one of the more... um... experienced heroes I've
had the... um... experience to work with."
     "Cool," Memorex said.
     "Will this be on the test," Kid Electron asked.  "Should I
listen?"
     "Kid-E!" Fridge snapped.
     Healer smiled slowly.  "Oh," she said, "I'd listen.  I really
would.  Well, say hello, everyone."
     The door opened, and a man hobbled in.  His trenchcoat wasn't
particularly clean.  His hair was slicked back somewhat carelessly, as
though he really couldn't be bothered to go all-out for this crowd.
He walked with a limp, and further walked like he was walking with a
baseball bat under his coat, which was aggravating the limp and
generally making him even surlier, which would have seemed impossible.
     On his scarred face there was a sneer.  His eyes were hidden by
his gold wraparound sunglasses.
     Transit gasped.  It was echoed by the rest of the room.
     The guest lecturer looked over the room somewhat disdainfully,
then turned to Healer.  "I want a bonus," he snapped.
     "You'll get it," she said smoothly.
     "Right.  Get out.  I don't perform for Commandants."
     Healer nodded.  "I'll be back in an hour or two.  Heather and I
are going to go out for coffee."
     "Oh.  Joy.  Thanks for sharing."
     The students watched Healer leave.  Even Mighty Dog sort of
wished she wouldn't.
     "Right," the anti-hero snapped, leaning against the podium.  "I'm
Ramrod.  I'm not happy about being here, but I need the money, so here
I am.  You're going to shut up and listen.  If you talk, if you stop
listening, or if you so much as roll your damn eyes, I'm going to walk
out of the room, go to a pet store, and shoot a puppy.  Got me?"
     "Yessir," the students said in frightened unison.
     "Good.  Now.  Etiquette and Diplomacy.  These are important.
Without them, you'll look stupid.  Say you meet the Queen, and she
cuts you off in traffic.  You can't just tell her to Piss Off.  She's
the Queen.  So you have to say, `Your Majesty, Piss Off....'"



                  Adjusted League Unimpeachable
                             Academy

                           Episode #7
                       "Mathematica Noir"
                         Part the First
                               by
                        Eric Alfred Burns
                    The Ubiquitous Lord Sabre



     It was a typical day, which is to say I didn't expect a damn bit
of it.
     It's not my fault.  I never was much for preplanning.  If I had
been, well, maybe I'd have had a better choice in dinners way back
when.  Maybe I'd have decided against old books and magazines soaked
in Medical Waste.
     Or maybe not.  I didn't think about the past much.  It got in the
way of drinking.
     "There's someone here to see you," the Dame said from the hall,
leaning forward into my door just enough to remind me why I'd hired
her, and keeping her legs straight enough while she leaned to justify
my rates to most clients.  She hadn't always been my secretary.  Truth
be told, she didn't know how to type, answer the phone, orspell her
name, near as I could tell.  And she occasionally forgot to come in
for four weeks at a time.  Aside from that, she'd done a bang-up job.
Especially for what I paid her, which was nothing.  She was loaded
anyhow.  Why she wanted to work for me neither I nor I'm sure she
knew.
     "Send him in, sugar, and get us all some coffee," I rasped from
around the cheap leaves of a Cigar that claimed to be Cuban but was
more likely Icelandic from the taste.  Smoking caused cancer, but so
did unrestricted medical waste passing through your digestive tract,
so I figured I was ahead of the game as it was.
     "Sure thing," she said, grinning.  She liked being called sugar.
She liked being patronized.  To Bunny, the Women's Liberation Movement
was something that happened to other people.  It was kind of
embarrassing -- I couldn't take her many places.  I paid for her to go
to consciousness raising seminars one winter.  She was sent back with
a note from the teacher that read "I don't think we got past
unconsciousness, much less raised her consciousness," and a refund.
The handwriting was sloppy.  I think the teacher retired afterward.
     In any case, she'd mastered -- with practice -- the fine art of
letting in guests.  I hadn't had much hope for the coffee.  She let
him in.
     Money.  He reeked of it.  Grey suit, grey eyes, blond hair.  He
looked at everything in the office in the first quarter second he was
in there.  He didn't glance back at Bunny, which meant he was strong
willed, overly professional, gay or dead.  I suspected it was two out
of four, though I wasn't sure which two.
     "Sit down," I rasped.  "Take a load off, tell me your troubles."
     "Yes, well, I appreciate you seeing me," he said in a voice that
was supposed to be bored and boring.  It would have worked, too, if
Human wasn't a second language for me.
     "Cut the B.S. already, Trashy," I rasped, putting out my cigar
and putting the massive trunks I called legs onto my desk.  "I ain't
got time for verbal banter, for secret identities, for Mask Principles
or for Billionaires who won't get to the point."
     Rogers raised an eyebrow.  "How long have you known," he asked,
in that heart-stopping ice voice he seemed to get such a kick out of.
Most of the First Semester Crowd of Superguys enjoyed their work, but
he was the only one who seemed to get off on having a crook lose
bladder control from a simple "Hello."
     "Long enough.  They say you're the world's greatest trashcan
detective, and I bet that's true, since I don't specialize.  The
question I've got is what you need *me* for."
     Rogers leaned back slightly, folding his arms.  "It's something
of a delicate matter," he said.  "Concerning one of the students the
Adjusted League's responsible for."
     "I'm listening."  Of course I was listening -- bourbon wasn't
cheap, even if my secretary was.  Saying work had been light would
have been like saying Bob City had decent drainage.
     Rogers popped his briefcase, and set a folder on my desk.  He
opened it up, and I caught myself looking into the bluest eyes I'd
ever seen, framed by a halo of Brunette hair that was dark enough to
make you change your coffee preference, and a face that, had it shown
up next to Helen, would have caused those thousand ships to turn
around, come back and try to get the new girl's telephone number.  I
whistled, which was all that kept me from howling at the moon.  I
wondered what her feelings on Bestiality were.
     "Mm, yes," Rogers said.  "She's quite attractive.  Her name's
Transit.  She's a paranormal -- a member of the Adjusted League
Unimpeachable Academy's Charter Class.  Physically, she is sixteen
years old.  She has the ability to open `wormholes' in space, allowing
instantaneous travel from point A to point B, with an effect range
between twenty and sixty miles depending on the vectors she has to
deal with.  Her precision with these `Gates' is unbelievable.  She has
an extremely quick mind, particularly in the fields of mathematics and
physics.  She is a lightning calculator, and can conduct thought
experiments at a speed that made Andy Awesome shake his head."
     "So," I said, "the broad's good.  Gotcha.  So far I don't hear a
reason for you to be in my office."
     "As I said.  Physically, she is sixteen years old.  In real
terms, however, she is not quite a year and a half old."
     I blinked, which made a little clicking sound.  We all have our
quirks.  One of mine was armored eyelids.
     Rogers half-smiled.  "Andy Awesome and Qwintor refer to her as an
`Artificial Person.'  This is different from a Clone, as she seems to
have literally been assembled genetically, almost from scratch.  She
underwent a forced-growth procedure which included an transference of
general knowledge of a variety of subjects.
     "She was born when she woke up in the wreckage of a destroyed
laboratory -- apparently the one she was created and grown in, as she
was still covered in amniotic fluid.  She made her way from it, having
no knowledge of who created her or why.  She understood the basics of
her abilities, she could interact with the world normally enough, and
she knew a name -- Transit."
     "Sounds like she was a pre-me," I said.  "Didn't get the whole
treatment."
     "That was my working hypothesis as well, as she's got no
knowledge of *why* she was created.  She arrived at the
A.L.U.C.H.Q.M.O.U.S.E. some weeks after she left the destroyed lab,
and applied for membership.  Until then, she'd been surviving by
stealing food and keeping out of sight.  We took her in, naturally,
and after testing her powers and having Healer work up a full profile
on her, accepted her as a student."
     "Oh, of course.  Naturally."  I snort "Meaning you had no idea
who she was or what she was really designed for, so you wanted to keep
her where you could see her."
     "Please, Armadillo--"
     "Dillo-Man.  My friends call me Dillo-Man."
     Rogers blinked.  "Good heavens," he said.  "Why?"
     "I have no idea."
     "Anyhow... please give Healer more credit than that.  She truly
wanted to see Transit have a chance at a good life."
     "And you?"
     "Wanted to keep an eye on her, just as you said.  I didn't ask
you to give *me* credit."
     "Honesty's good in a client," I said.  "So, let me make a working
assumption, here.  You want someone to look into her past.  Figure out
who spliced her DNA together.  Find out who holds the copyright."
     "Yes.  More importantly, find out *why* she was made and why such
a powerful potential weapon hasn't had an attempted recovery."
     "Mmm... you rule out cloning?  She has a more than minor
resemblance to Susan Stymer."
     "We have.  Andy Awesome checked.  His assumption is the genes
they engineered to give her teleportation abilities also had something
to do with appearance.  Besides, she has no natural talent for
shopping."
     "Gotcha.  So why haven't you chased this down yet?  Mmm?  Mister
Dumpster Detective?"
     "I've tried.  She told us her story over a month after her birth.
When I investigated the site, it had been paved over for a parking
lot.  Ergo, no garbage.  We've had something of a busy time of it, so
I haven't had the opportunity to investigate alternate methods.  Nor
will I for some time.  So--"
     "You sought out yer ol' orange pal.  Gotcha.  Let me guess -- the
girl's freakin', not having a past."
     "No, actually."  Rogers smiled slightly.  That eternally amused
look the rich got when they knew something you didn't.  It was the
kind of smile I liked to see on humans -- particularly humans who
didn't realize my fists were armor plated and my temper was a little
on the midget size.  However, he was hiring me so I didn't smack him.
Since then, I've kind of regretted the opportunity.
     "Whaddya mean?"
     "She's perfectly content.  She doesn't seem to care *why* she was
born.  She just knows she was, and she's happy enough with that.
She's got friends who care a great deal for her, and she's learning
things she enjoys -- and further she's learning English Literature,
which she does *not* enjoy."
     "'Course she doesn't.  Be stunning if she did.  But she likes
music and most art, even Modern Art, right?  And if they only did
Edmund Spenser, she'd like Poetry too -- but they keep doing them damn
Beat Poets and reading essays and crap, so she hates it and argues
against it all the time."
     Rogers blinked.  "You're certain you haven't met her?"
     "Girl who looks like that I'd remember.  Yer forgetting, she's
designed.  To be a teleporter.  She's got a math thing, you said,
which means she probably has to do a lot of skull sweat to make her
gates work right.  Now, say you're a gene-guy.  Do you whip up a
zygote in the blender that naturally likes doin' the stuff that she's
designed for, or do you load her with a lot of hobbies that don't do
her abilities a damn bit o' good?  Here comes mister Brain
Programmer... does he follow the same plan?  Mm?"
     Rogers nodded slightly.  "Of course.  And therefore she's
actually resistant to distractions."
     "Yup.  She likes art because she can see spatial or math
principles behind it.  She likes metrical poetry.  She likes music.
She likes math tons.  She hates pure non-logical imagination stuff and
interpretation.  Makes sense ta me, at least."  I puffed my cigar.
The guy in the room was one of the better detectives on the planet --
for a human -- but he and I thought different.  Which meant my simpler
insights seemed pretty damn impressive to him.
     "You'll take the case?"
     "Do you see my in-box looking full?  Besides the bills and the
paper, a'course.  It's $25 a day plus expenses, an' that's not
negotiable."
     Rogers narrowed his eyes.  "Armadillo--"
     "Dillo-Man."
     "--you really have to get your rates into the 90's.  No wonder
you're strapped for cash."
     "Hey -- you ain't seen my expenses yet, have you?"
     Rogers nodded.  "Point."
     "A'course it's a point.  So -- one question."
     "Yes?"
     "Been a year and a half, you said.  Why're you in my office now?
What's changed."
     Roger frowned slightly.  "Do you remember the... rather intense
night of dreams the world felt a few weeks ago?"
     Did I?  Damn right, I did.  My night was filled with happy Semi's
bearing down on me while I was chained to the pavement.  "I seem to
recall it," I said.
     "Well... let's say finding out something about Transit's past has
become more of a priority."
     "Aha.  Right.  Gotcha.  Well then, let's get a cuppa joe and
talk."

                           * * * * * *

     ...they were all talking all at once and Transit couldn't block
it out couldn't stop them couldn't shut them up droning and droning in
a cacophony of voices that her too bright mind could see the pattern
to make the key and they thrust that key into her and *unlocked*--
     "Don't make me hear!" Transit shouted, throwing herself upright.
Her blankets were wrapped around her, like arms holding her and
keeping her from run--
     Arms?
     Transit shivered.  Biting her lip, she opened an octagonal gate
in her bed, falling through it easily and landing in a hallway two
floors down and sixteen meters south southeast.  Right in front of the
door.  She shivered again -- she kept waking him up and maybe this
time he'd be mad and...
     She knocked on the door.  Three fast, frightened knocks.
     "Jus' sec," she heard.  He'd been asleep.  Of course he'd been
asleep, it was 02:16.338 in the morning.  What did she expect?
     Memorex pulled open his door, bleary eyed.  He wore a pair of
sweatpants, and his normally unruly hair managed to defy logical
geometry.  "Trans?" he asked.
     Transit nodded, biting her lip, and shivering.
     "C'mere," he said, opening his arms and she fairly jumped into
them and shook, terrified.  He held her in the hall for a long long
time.
     "The dream again?" he whispered.
     "Mm-hm."
     "Still don't remember it?"
     "Mm-mm."
     "Want some warm milk?"
     "Mm-hm."
     "C'mon... shh... 'sokay, Trans.  'Sokay.  C'mon in."  He walked
the girl into his room, and pulled the door shut.  Helping her sit on
his bed, he picked his way through the mess to his mini-fridge and
pulled it open, grabbing a quart of milk and pouring it into the
chipped brown mug he always gave her when she showed up scared out of
her gourd.
     She liked that mug.  It felt lived in.  It felt loved.  It made
her feel loved.
     Mem stuck the mug of milk into his microwave and twisted the
dial.  He then sat on the bed next to her.  "Have you talked to
Healer?" he asked.
     "Yeah.  Yesterday.  After three in a row--"
     "Right.  What did she say?"
     "She had me lie down and she did a check.  She says I'm sane, but
she knows how scared I am."
     "Could she find the dream?  Tell you what it was?"  The microwave
binged, and Mem got up and popped it open, lifting the mug out.  She
could have gated her hand into the microwave and lifted it out without
moving from the bed, but he liked to get it for her, she knew.  And
she liked him getting it.  When she was scared, being pampered was
nice.
     "No... I think that made her worried.  She tries so hard not to
look worried around us, but her muscles contract and her skin
temperature goes up a little and she gets these tiny little tremors in
her back."
     "'I'll take your word for it.  Here.  Drink up."  He smiled
slightly.
     "Did you have a dream that night?"
     "Huh?  No, thank Christ.  I was up half the night trying to bang
the Spanish American War into my brain."
     "Kid-E did.  But he won't talk about it.  He's been uncomfortable
around me--"
     "Since the breakup.  Yeah.  Give him time.  He'll get over it."
     Transit nodded.  "Mem?"
     "Yeah?"
     "Why're you so good to me?"
     Memorex thought for a moment.  "Because you're you," he said
finally, shrugging.
     Transit smiled, and realized she could probably get to sleep now.



[[Concluded in Part Two]]


--
Beta-Cit Eric Alfred Burns    | "You're Persky the Great?" Kugelmass said.
<sabre@awenet.com>            | "The Great Persky. You want a tea?"
(sabre@eyrie.org>             | "No, I want romance, I want music,
Writer Type, Poet Boy         |  I want love and beauty."
Maine Expatriate              | "But not tea, eh? Amazing. O.K., sit down."
Gadfly-for-Hire               |    --Woody Allen, "The Kugelmass Episode"