How to Become a Henchman, A Novel: The Henchman's Survival Guide Page 10

  “The difference between good and evil is that evil people hurt others intentionally and good people hurt them unintentionally.” I laugh again and then stare at the cams. The timer continues to count down.

  Say something else, my brain urges. “Uh, you see, it’s funny, because a few days ago I was in a bank robbery, and here comes Shine smashing through the front window. He was trying to make a glam entrance, but he ended up raining glass all over me.” I show one arm to the camera where the cuts have scabbed over. Lysee begged me to cover them up with makeup, but I didn’t.

  I drop my arm, realizing that what I just said would make it easy for anyone to review the most recent ep of Beacon and Shine and quickly identify me. What a sloppy mistake. The producers will see that too.

  It’s over, I realize. I’ve bombed it. Maybe it’s time to reconsider creating my own stripper channel. I just need to find a sufficiently weird angle that no one else has thought of yet. Maybe I can dance erotically while slapping myself with dead fish.

  I turn to go, but the door doesn’t swish open. I’ve still got a minute of time left.

  “Good and evil. Good and evil,” I mutter. I stare at the door. Fish. “It’s a red herring. No one is entirely good, and no one is entirely evil,” I say. “Most of us are right in the middle. And you know what? Everyone can be evil if they need to be. Good and evil are just contexts.”

  I stare at the door, and I just don’t care anymore. “You know what’s really evil? Apathy. It rots away the soul. It’s breaking down our country. We’re all just glued to our Bands, sucked into Streams of lives that aren’t even real while the Middle East burns and China builds. How many people even know that we’ve got a fourth transporter heading to Mars right now after the last two failed? Do they even care that 200 pioneers are risking their lives to try and colonize another planet, to give humans a better shot at survival?”

  I laugh. “How long until they start shipping Pods and Bands to Mars? Until they turn it into a show and only the wackiest, most volatile, most scheming personalities get packed on the next ships? Good and evil. What’s more evil than shoving Mellows down a person’s throat and giving them a thousand home renovation shows to…”

  The timer dings, and the door opens. I laugh again, turn around, and give a short curtsy to the cams. “Thank you for your time.”

  Gold waits just outside the door. He smirks as I leave the room. “How’d it go?”

  I want to punch him in the face, but the truth is I should have assumed he’d play me. I just didn’t think it’d be so early on in the process.

  “Couldn’t have gone better,” I say, and glide past him, head held high.

  As soon as I step outside the warehouse, I slump against the wall and pon where I can get my hands on some dead fish.

  Chapter 8

  Wait until you see what I've left under your tree.

  Evil Santa, S2, E4

  Platypuses.

  That’s my shot to stand out; to grab eyes and maybe hustle some currency.

  I’ve been checking the Streams since I got back from the disastrous henchman tryout. There’s hardly any commercialization around these weird little creatures that went extinct in the wild about 12 years ago.

  “Find me any platypus songs,” I tell Bob. My grumpy Totem flits his wings once and sends me a list. There’s only a couple hundred. That’s promising. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I scroll through the top -rated songs, playing a few seconds of each. Most of them are kid songs, and a few others use the word in the obvi sexual way.

  “Want me to make ya a playlist?” Bob asks.

  “No, but save this list.”

  “Platypus folder?”

  “Yep.” I take a bite from the nutra-pack I grabbed at random from the kitchen. Pineapple flavor. I can actually taste a little citrus. The gov has improved these over the years. That cardboard taste isn’t nearly as strong as it used to be. Of course, the best thing about nutra-packs is and always has been the price. I swallow the bite.

  “Now find me platypus costumes.”

  Bob laughs. I briefly consider wiping him back to factory settings. I could use a polite, bland Totem right now.

  “Just do it,” I tell him.

  The image board he pulls up is entirely disappointing. It includes a few 3D print schematics. Most are crude. Some don’t look anything like a platypus.

  “Don’t need the dragon-platypus hybrid,” I say. “And what’s this one?”

  “Platy-Hiss, a platypus snake beast from a VR game called the Gene Matrix,” Bob answers.

  “I need a sexy platypus costume,” I tell my Totem. “Something I can dance in.” I lean back against the wall and sigh. “Let me see the song I wrote.”

  Bob looks dubious. “You know there’s software that can make a song for you.”

  “Just bring it up again,” I snap. The lyrics I’ve dictated appear on the holo-screen along my forearm.

  I’m swimming, swimming, shi- shi- shimmering away.

  Trying to fight the current, trying to light the fervent disarray.

  ‘Cause I’m gone, gone, gone away, not here to stay,

  Just another victim of the system, of the world decay.

  “Is that as bad as I think it is?” I ask glumly.

  “So much worse,” Bob confirms. “But maybe you can be so terrbs you’ll go meme.”

  Hmm. That might actually be workable. If I can’t get tips by being good at something, then why not try for ironically bad? People will pay for a good laugh, too.

  I’m actually considering the idea when my Band vibrates with an incoming message.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Bob says. “It’s from The Professor’s team—”

  A distant shrieking drowns outs his words. The sound grows louder, and then my bedroom door slides open. Lysee bounces in like a ping-pong ball, her green hair whipping around her face.

  She grabs my hands, and then we’re jumping together on top of my bed.

  “I got the call baaaaack!” she screams.

  I manage to glance down at my Band, where Bob has helpfully highlighted the first sentence of the message.

  “Me, too,” I say in utter bewilderment. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but…

  I’m crushed in a hug.

  “We’re going to be henchmen. We’re going to be henchmen,” Lysee sings. “We have the feminine power!”

  I can’t help giggling along with her.

  No platypus song and dance, at least for now.

  As soon as I wake up the next morning, I check the message again just to make sure it wasn’t some delusion from my despo brain.

  Nope. Against all odds, the callback is still in my Stream’s message center, announcing that I need to show up at the outskirts of town tomorrow morning, bright and early. I still don’t get it. How did I make it to the next round after I flubbed the last interview question so badly? The only possible explanation is that Gerald gave me a pass. I’ve always been on cordial terms with my landlord.

  Maybe he gave me the benefit of the doubt based on my superior track record of on-time rent payments. My cynical side says that perhaps my good fortune could be another one of Gerald’s efforts to get on his son’s good side. If so, Gerald miscalculated badly. When I step out of my room, Matthew is already lounging on our couch. He turns to look at me, his blue eyes filled with disappointment.

  This is the way it’s been with him all week, ever since I begged my bestie to get me into his father’s tryouts.

  “Morning,” I say pleasantly.

  “I suppose congratulations are in order.” His tone suggests I just announced the contraction of a major STD.

  “Yes, congratulations!” Betty adds brightly. I can see the service robo’s profile in our kitchen, her unicorn horn bobbing gently as her head bends over her task. My guess is she’s making snacks.

  “It’s only the first round of the tryouts,” I admit, and throw in a shrug for modesty.

  Matthew shak
es his head. He wears a sharp, chocolate-colored corduroy jacket with glowing hem lines. Normally, a number like this would have to be printed in a 3D-print specialty shop, but Matthew’s 3200 Anders is just that good. Ironically, the fancy toys he hearts are paid for by the money from his dad’s old show; the show Matthew believes ruined his life.

  “You, Alice Hannover, are trying out for a semi-reality show,” Matthew states, just in case I wasn’t aware of the situation.

  “So is Lysee,” I point out.

  That retort earns me a wounded look. “This is what Lysee wants, what she thinks she wants,” Matthew says quietly. “She doesn’t know better yet. You do.”

  “I know I need a paycheck.” I crane my neck trying to see what Betty’s cooking up in the kitchen. She’s definitely not a food preparation specialist robo, but she can whip up some canny grilled cheese sandwiches. When you’ve been subsisting on gov nutra-packs, almost anything is a welcome alternative.

  “Halnora Button once said, ‘There is no reality anymore.’” Matthew sighs. He’s in a philosophical mood.

  “And Sage Anders won the presidential election against her in a landslide,” I point out.

  “Halnora tried to run a clean campaign,” Matthew says. “She didn’t have the relationships with the Captains of Industry or the Loons they poured into Anders’s campaign. Instead, she tried to actually speak to people rather than sending them messages automatically formulated based on their Stream behavior. There was something noble about that, about her belief in the human race.”

  “And she lost,” I snap. Matthew knows that Halnora Button is one of my heroes.

  “But she never sold out,” he continues. “She keeps fighting, even today.”

  “No one listens to Halnora Button,” I say softly.

  Matthew stares at me. As usual, he wears too much makeup, and his hair is too carefully swirled on both sides. He seems fragile, a boy in a sharp outfit. “You used to listen to Halnora.”

  I groan. “You want me to say it. Fine. I’m betraying everything I ever stood for. I’m joining the masses in the Fame Game. Striving for the lens. There. Happy?”

  “Are you?” he asks.

  Buddha’s scapula. Sensitive friends suck. Especially sensitive friends who don’t have to worry about money and can suck down expensive protein poppers while standing on their soap boxes.

  Fortunately, my philosophical beat down is interrupted when Lysee bursts through the door of her room clutching at least five different outfits. With her hair twisted into a simple bun and without a speck of makeup on her face, she looks gorg.

  “What do you think?” she chirps, juggling the outfits in front of her body. “Just look at the style, not the colors. Colors will come later. Alice!” She grins and turns toward me. “I want your opinion, too. Don’t think about it. Just let your heart pick one.”

  I give her a look. “You know I’m no good at this.”

  “Let your heart choose,” she sings again as one of the outfits — a trench coat-like dress with huge bows on each shoulder — tumbles to the floor.

  “Uh, I guess my heart picks the outfit with pants, since the message recommended active wear,” I say.

  Lysee huffs. “Of course they’re all active wear. I only picked outfits I’ve gone dancing in. I mean, I’ll reprint them in different colors and fabrics in case the producers were at the clubs. Obviously.” As she bends to pick up the dress, another outfit tumbles out of her grip.

  I start edging toward the door. Lysee can turn the task of choosing a single outfit into a full-day cerebral marathon that would put the highest level think tanks to shame.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Lysee drops all the outfits and begins arranging them on the floor. “We’ve got to put together your look for tomorrow, too.”

  “Gym,” I admit. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring or how I can possibly train for it in a single day, but at least hitting a punching bag will help me burn through this nervous energy since I don’t have any college classes today.

  Now Lysee looks at me suspiciously. “You aren’t going to pick your outfit at the last minute again, are you?” Her Totem, a muscular blue genie named Ferdinand, shakes his head at me from the holo-screen on the wall. “You know what?” Lysee says, smiling to herself, “I’ll pull out a few options for you.”

  “That’s, uh… thanks,” I say, already knowing I won’t be wearing anything Lysee chooses for me.

  “Need a moped?” Lysee asks.

  “I’ll walk,” I say. “Looks like a nice day.” Everyone is polite enough to pretend this is a personal preference, not a sad financial calculation.

  “Ta,” Matthew says and gives me a little wave. He knows I hate that insipid word. He and I need to have a heart-to-heart and burn all these bad feelings away, but that will have to wait.

  “Have a very pleasant and righteous sesh at the gym,” Betty adds as I walk out the door. Well, at least someone has my back, even if she’s programmed to be unwaveringly pleasant.

  Just as I reach the stairs, I glance back over my shoulder at the gray door across the hallway. I haven’t seen Leo since the day he moved in. Haven’t heard a peep either. He’s quieter than a robo pet on mute. Some renegade part of me had hoped I’d run into him every so often. A little, “Oops, no, you first,” on the stairs or shy glances as we pass in the hallway.

  Nothing. Maybe he’s drooling on Dead Heads all day or melding into his couch as he lives in some virtual reality world.

  None of my business. No reason to feel a little jab of disappointment.

  I try to push the thought of him out of my mind as I approach the front door of the mansion. It slides open for me, revealing a bright, warm spring morning. When I step outside, I see a figure standing on a tall ladder perched against the front of the house. For a millisecond, my mind flails, recognizing both The Professor and Gerald, my landlord, at the same time. Then I adjust.

  This is Gerald, my breezy landlord, not a feared villain who could soon be my boss. His gray hair is combed neatly backwards, and the singed lab coat has been swapped for a simple checkered shirt and gray slacks. He stands near the top of a ladder, sprayer in hand, dousing the solar panels on the roof with a powerful stream of water.

  I hold in a chuckle. Most landlords, even those without a huge re-launch in the works, would hire a service to clean the solar panels. Betty could even handle something like this, but Gerald has always enjoyed doing chores around the mansion. He’s of that fading generation that once feared “robo-reliance” when the first home companions hit the market.

  “Hi, Gerald,” I greet him, walking close to the ladder.

  He squints down at me with watery blue eyes, and a smile breaks across his face. “Is that Alice? Ta, Alice! That’s what the kids are saying, right? Ta this, Ta that.” He laughs and points with the hose. “Just cleaning the solar panels. Received a service request for it. Well, about two dozen, actually.”

  I nod. “That was Matthew.”

  One of the many ways Matthew passively aggressively communicates with his father is by constantly filing service requests for every little issue around the mansion. For the most part, Gerald good-naturedly fulfills them, but always in his own time, which is to say about a month after something legitimately needs doing.

  “Ah, Matthew. He does prefer things in working order,” Gerald says. His thin lips press together for just a milli-sec. Then he smiles down at me again, banishing away all the hurt and pain that comprises his relationship with his only child.

  This is Gerald in a nutshell, or at least the landlord I’ve come to know and appreciate over the past few years. He’s always been unrelentingly genial, if a little long-winded. It’s such an odd contrast with his villain Persona. I wonder at how he can so easily slip between personalities, twisting his mind from hum-drum landlord into cackling villain.

  Matthew once told me that his father always loved playing different characters. It’s what made Gerald such a beloved chem teacher, back wh
en most schools still employed breathers instead of robos. In fact, Gerald first invented and honed his kooky Professor persona as a way to keep his students awake and interested in his lectures.

  “Where are you headed?” Gerald asks, pulling my thoughts into the present.

  “The gym.”

  I don’t know what we can and can’t discuss about the tryouts. I skimmed most of the fine print in the massive contract I signed. I’m pretty sure trying to influence the boss was listed as a big no no, so I’ve been careful to try and avoid Gerald this past week.

  The older man nods as the water continues to splash against the solar panels. “Good idea. Stay limber. I have a feeling that’ll be important tomorrow.” He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “I know I shouldn’t reveal this, but I was pleased you were chosen for the next round.”

  “Weren’t you the one who picked me?” I blurt out, before realizing this question is almost certainly off limits.

  Gerald claps a hand over his chest. “In my heart, of course I did. Your answers were superb and that last one was eloquently raw. But an old man’s voice does not have the power it once did.”

  He shakes his head sadly. This is the way Gerald always talks. Poetry and puffery. He turns off the sprayer and hangs it on the ladder. “In the beginning, when this whole town was a grand experiment, PAGS handed you a few cam drones, a budget, and some story tips, and you were allowed to hatch your plots in peace. It was glorious.” He smiles, remembering.

  I remember, too: the single-angle cams, the clunky action, the too-long scenes of The Professor explaining chemistry to his mini-sidekick, Energy. Those slow-paced, meandering eps would never grab eyeballs today.

  “It’s a different circus now,” Gerald continues. “The network head expects ten times the results with one-twentieth of the budget. They chain you to a producer who makes all the decisions. Everything is planned, choreographed. Every expense must be justified. It is the death of art.”

  In this moment, I see the parts of Gerald that he gave to Matthew: the China-blue eyes, the pointed nose, the thin, flat body. But Gerald has never seemed as fragile as his son, or as burdened. His passion burns outward instead of gutting his soul.