9

Ken Eversauff was a broken man in a broken life and as was emblematic, he found himself sitting in a broken chair at the Full Halo Pub.

“Barkeep!” he hollered. “This chair rocks. I need a replacement.”

“Well, then, I sure hope you get one,” was the pub manager’s comeback. Eversauff glowered at him. He felt himself a man who commanded respect, but one quick appraisal would tell the whole story: this man had the curse. It was the curse of the cosmic decree that legislated his highest achievable status—also-ran, squib, shū- shū, forever someone’s tolerated assistant. Eversauff knew better, always, with the accompanied envies and indignations. Standing five-foot four, wearing 54 kg, his stature embodied the cosmic decree; he propped it up as a persona. He wore his three-piece suit, angularly tailored, to portray past his fecklessness. He only fooled himself. His hair was thin but present in a gelled, straight style of shiny, dark porcupine needles combed tightly straight back. The whole package was as a self-appointed β-male peacock.

With mange.

Forever demoted into career-corners, he was an angry little man constantly on the look-out for an underling to suffer his angry little authority. Cu

He had liked Mars. He had liked his position, secondary or tertiary as it was, with the Bureau of Prisns—the BOP. But the accursed chronoton had changed all of that. To think that something so small hurt him so badly! When the prisn split to create the chronoton, the BOP split to create the Temporal Reconciliation Oversight Committee, and the disintegration of the prisn made the metaphor complete as the BOP wasted away in administrative starvation. The final insult was when his worthier colleagues had been transferred (promoted?) to the Chronarchy, leaving him alone as the sole surviving high-ranker in the BOP to run such mundane tasks as cafeteria inspections and vacations schedules at the ṺberCollider. Remaining a VIP with the BOP, such as it was, became a Pyrrhic victory for his self-esteem until such time that even he couldn’t take it any longer.

He resigned, awaiting reassignment, with pay. In the meantime, he was consigned in limbo to Mars Lagrange 1, but if nothing were to come through soon, he would find himself on the EarthBound. At Lagrange 1 he was usually in Marvin’s in the Full Halo, since he was an alcoholic. The bartender knew him well.

He rocked angrily on his chair, sipping his John Carter, his favorite Martian drink. Who would change his chair for him? Certainly not he. It was the newest power struggle of an endless series of power struggles that daily defined his sense of self-worth.

He looked up and saw CO Walsh come in. He waved him over. Walsh took a seat opposite him which sat squarely, successfully, on its four legs. “I was over at Axle Rod’s, waiting,” Walsh complained.

“Sorry, it’s hard to leave 1 G.”

“It was inconsiderate. You could have told me.”

“You should have assumed. Here, let me order you a drink”: apology in Y-chromosome code accepted, although the beverage was declined.

“No, thanks,” I’m in uniform. The drink came anyway, and Eversauff merely queued it up as his next. “You want back on Mars?” Walsh asked him, with one raised eyebrow that lifted above one side of his sun glasses.

“Yes,” Eversauff answered.

“I can make that happen.”

“This is the meeting that’ll make that happen?” he prompted Walsh.

“Yes it is, Kyle.” He smiled at him. “Prestige Guard,” Walsh offered, “needs a fourth-in-command.”

“Fourth?”

“General Llorente’s second. Leeper’s third. You know that.”

“What would fourth in command do?”

“All the things Llorente and Leeper can’t.”

“Or won’t,” Eversauff sneered, feeling the set up for another fall.

Walsh, unbelievably, had his sunglasses on, so hid his scornful glare. “Look,” Walsh told him with the tone of destiny, “you’d be lucky to be in Prestige at all. You know why it’s called the Prestige Guard?” His tone in their conversation suddenly became hostile, like in any good bipolar participant. “Because it’s fucking prestigious, that’s why!” He settled back down. “It’s an honor to wear the silver P, and you’d be number four for God’s sake! You’re not gonna get higher than that. You’ll be back on Mars. You’ll be a big shot. Finally, a success.” Eversauff simmered.

“Look, Walsh—”

“CO Walsh,” Walsh corrected him.

“O.K., CO Walsh. Look, I did some pretty impressive work for the Bureau of Prisns, and—”

“The BOP? C’mon, Eversauff! If you’re not Chronarchy or Prestige, you’re nothing. Do you understand? Nothing!” Walsh was right and Eversauff knew it. He fantasized about a Silver P on his own lapel—people would notice that.

“When would I get my Silver P?” Eversauff asked. Walsh reached into his pocket and jingled a good many of something, then he fished one out. As if he handed them out all day, he tossed it at Eversauff. Eversauff missed the catch and it fell to the table. Eversauff regarded it for a moment, then reached to retrieve it. Walsh put his hand on Eversauff’s sleeve and squeezed.

“You accept?”

Eversauff freed his hand politely from Walsh’s grip, grasped the Silver P, and applied it to his lapel. It looked good, even upside down from his vantage. “What now?” he asked Walsh.

“Now you go to Lagrange Control, exchange your EarthBound ticket for the Mars Shuttle, ride the ride. When you arrive, Leeper will meet you with all of your stuff. After that, I have a surprise for you, No. 4. Don’t bug me about it; just wait for it when it comes.”

A surprise? And Leeper will meet me, Eversauff beamed. Leeper—Number three—playing a chauffer; he fingered his P salaciously. This probably called for another John Carter.

And definitely a new chair.