Floozman in Space
by Bertrand Cayzac
In a space station in Earth orbit, Janatone Waldenpond, a refugee from Europa, is trying to return to Earth. She meets a long-lost cousin, Fred Looseman. Meanwhile, Jenny Appleseed, the president of the Cosmitix Corporation, holds a conference to plan interstellar expeditions.
Chapter 20: The Great Zombie
While events unfold on the beach, a symposium is being held at the hotel bar. Hang on: the police are the first in a series of toppling dominoes.
“Aaand, here they aaare... That’s all we needed.” With a lift of her chin, the boss lady at the bar motions to the police cars heading for the beach. The immediate web displays the mission orders and the officer’s main indicators.
The map finishes her ‘C’ in a rush. At the same moment, the old consultant and his troop are entering the saloon’s immediate web. Outside the saloon are Walt Whitman, the S-Quick door, and Vita the she-donkey. The virtual Floozman is outside, busy forming the giant shadow of his double, the real and supernatural Floozman who is calling everything to return.
The antiviral agents of the local network try to block interruptions by advertisements. The old consultant presents the team, its references and its mission statement. In spite of all these explanations, Vita the she-donkey and the door are not admitted inside. They have to stay outside, attached to a virtual leash.
While Walt is having a look at the juke box, the old consultant’s avatar asks the boss lady for a meeting room; he has work to do. Once settled, he’ll contact Ms. Marinella. He’ll ask her to dispatch the Floozboys immediately. In the meantime, he’ll take a long coffee break.
The bar continues to fill up. Basil and Quitteria want information on the boats, but the boats no longer exist. Captain’s Diana’s Deputy Chief of Protocol is on reconnaissance. A good-looking tenant enters discreetly and drops his satchel on a table, a little aside from the crowd. The car recognizes Joe Dasein by his indicators. She pays the bill in haste then jumps into her own handbag to proceed stealthily toward the virtual exit.
At the bar counter, the discussion never ends. It seems ready to carry on beyond the end of the world.
“But who’s interested in liquidating everything, hey?” Gérard is asking.
The old consultant, comfortably seated at a corner of the bar, answers. “I’ll tell ya: it’s the opposite of liquidation. It’s about RESORBING liquidity. When you’re offered the super certificate, which shouldn’t be long now, you may not accept it because, as a complex living being, free and healthy, you are a strong will. Your value in super-money corresponds to...”
“But I ain’t got no money, sir! I am a proletarian!”
“So you think! But EVERYTHING is money. Your own being is made up of money. Of money!”
“Nooo! Certainly not! That’s what you believe, you guys in finance!”
“Listen to me. I’m no financier. I’m just a consultant in management, and I participate in the transformation of the cosmos. Being is simply the monetization of the One. We’ve proven that scientifically.”
“Scientific, to boot!” Gérard protests, outraged. “Of course! You’re gonna explain to me scientifically how I’m getting screwed!”
“On the contrary! Let me give you a word of advice. Without any knowledge of your personal value, I know that it corresponds necessarily to a coefficient of one over x (1/x) such that x is less than one (x<1). You are more complex than a pebble or a virus, you see. As for the number one, it’s easy to discern that you are not unified.”
“Compl... gargle...” Gérard chokes on his beer.
The old consultant takes advantage of the time while Gérard is trying to catch his breath. “Yes, it takes a strong will to federate the whole system that constitutes you. In other words, you are more than ONE, my dear friend, a compound of high-value monads.
“The swap with the super-certificate will probably not be attractive for you, on purely super-financial grounds, I mean. Irrational factors such as the sheer weariness of the self might motivate the transaction, for sure, but that’s beside the point.
“On the flip side, if this is not a good deal for you, what is it to the poor cells of the dead leather of your shoes or to the polymers that make up the threads of your socks? The coefficient’s denominator of each of these small, insolvent monades is greater than one (x>1) so that they are far less than ONE.
“Naked and fragmentary, they have no capital, nor any means of unification. Won’t it be a good deal for them? But this is nothing as long as one doesn’t apply the same reasoning to the monads that constitute your organs, nor to those who constitute them in turn: think of the pulp of your teeth, of the fibers of your bones, of your flesh tissues. Think of the juices, the fluids and all the miserable molecules assigned to subaltern vegetative functions, condemned to be recycled without cease for eons...
“And all that for what ? Or rather for WHOM? They belong to these innumerable aggregates that have no name and for the poorest, that have no mass.
“And do you believe that middle-class monads, the ones whose value is situated around unity in a bourgeois sort of way and who may want to persist in Being in hopes of becoming rich someday by working hard and by borrowing or even hoping gradually to attain to the ONE GOOD by applying themselves to the holy mediocrity developed by the St. Francis de Sales Consulting Group — do you believe, I say, that these wills can make a difference?
“Think again! Their decision has no weight whatsoever from the moment the small monads quit their jobs without notice! In short, if you can’t convince all these wills to adhere to the superior and reasonable unity you incarnate, then, whoosh! Everything falls apart!”
“Reuuuh!” Gérard has caught his breath. “So what?! Long live freedom! I’m not forcing anyone!”
“That’s what I’m telling you! What will the world come to if management is not convinced? Everything will dissolve. You better believe there’s gonna be a whole lot of falling-apart going on. That’s why Old Consulting proposes a method for an accelerated integration of the self by which one can secure in a few simple steps the loyalty of the many...”
“No, not at all,” cries Gérard. “It’s all because of the stakeholders! And look, they’re sending in the cops!” Gérard has noticed two officers walking towards him.
“Your papers!” an officer commands.
The boss tries to intervene. “Leave Gerard alone,” she says.
“You, stay out of this!”
“Don’t touch the boss.” Several customers have stood up. Joe Dasein makes a move toward the exit. A policeman catches him by the arm, but Joe Dasein manages to free himself.
A big beefy guy shouts, “And why aren’t you arresting the Cyborgs loaded with ‘C’ and all the smuggled widgets yonder on the beach? Hey?”
“Yeah,” the crowd echoes, “go and arrest the Cyborgs! There are two or three of them on the beach. This is all because of them Cyborgs!”
“Let’s go, boys!” They all hasten toward the beach, chased by the police. Joe Dasein cuts through the jungle to arrive first. The iguanas scuttle away as he comes.
A riot ensues. The situation is very confused. The dancers, disoriented, have joined the battle. The Michel Simon section has set up an ambush and attempts to kidnap Janatone, but they are intercepted by a troop of Floozboys. A bus crashes at the top of the parking lot. Bacchant Martian robots emerge from the smoking wreck, singing all the while bandits from the Bayou are busy ransacking the luggage.
A form materializes above the trampoline. It’s a little thin man in a sweatsuit. He does a few gymnastic stunts and then starts yelling at everyone. He says he is the envoy of the demiurge.
Everyone starts laughing at him. The map says he’s an inadequate manifestation of some incompetent flunky. The demiurge handed in its resignation long ago, anyway.
The mortals inflict mortal strikes on each other. Then a robot voice says, “It’s all the fault of the she-Cyborg!”
They all move toward the wharf where the CosmiGirl is standing. Sacrifice is in the air.
Copyright © 2015 by Bertrand Cayzac