bout de papier, Vol. 26, No. 3 (2012) — Spring 2012 // Printemps 2012, pp. 41–43
Sultan of SuWaNi (and former Centre Librarian) Dryan Tweedie put down his coffee-mug. “The first thing to realize is that Earth is really a reality show.” Felix Africa looked up and said, “Like, all the world’s a stage?” Chief MacBannock interjected, “Hmph. Next you’ll tell me we’re just lines of type on page 41 of some magazine.”
Bugbyte looked thoughtful. “A reality show? That could explain Lady Gaga, French politics and Newt Gingrich getting bitten by a penguin.” Felix’s eyes popped. “Right! And Twitter! And the Greek economy! And chocolate-covered ants! And the Stephen Fry nude scene in the latest Holmes flick!” The table went silent. “Nothing explains the Stephen Fry nude scene in the latest Holmes flick,” said Bugbyte firmly. Liebnitz tapped the table. “People, Dryan’s come a long way to brief us. Let’s let him finish before we go intellectually walkabout.”
“Thanks, Ludwig,” said the sultan. “Anyway, Mabel and I travelled into our Borneo backcountry recently to visit GEODE. You remember, the crystal cave that’s developed artificial intelligence and speaks through resonations in his stalactites. Boy, did he have news. Seems he got his, uh, hands on a copy of the latest Interstellar TV Guide. The cover story is about the live finale of Lose It in Space, coming up tomorrow. This contest has been running for seven thousand years, best ratings in the galaxy. And it’s held on Earth.”
“Fascinating,” said Bugbyte, “but if this show has been on for eons and none of us has noticed, why the problem now?” Dryan adjusted his bow tie. “Well, the last two players of the original million are up. The game judges have set a task and the players have drawn lots for achieving it or stopping it. And the task is…” He gulped. “The end of the world. Armageddon. Ragnarok.”
Hamish nodded, “Tomorrow, you say? Good. I’ll have time to finish the business plan.”
Liebnitz coughed. “Could you be more specific, Dryan?” “Of course. Both contestants have humanoid avatars here, heading credible organizations. The aggressor runs the National Institute of Pancakes.” “Did someone say ‘credible’?” Felix murmured. The Sultan continued, “His plan is to reduce the world to a 2-D projection, using a device he calls a Flatterer, then fold it up and mail it to the judges.” Liebnitz nodded. “Yes, since the world would only have only two dimensions, there would be no problem folding it as many times as necessary. Although the mass would be unchanged, so postage could be a killer. But go on.”
“The defending contestant runs a group called Alpine Altimeter Associates. As the defender has to follow the aggressor’s lead, he has invented a device termed the Wafflator, designed to inflate a 2-D plane by forcing cubic projections into the matrix, like a waffle iron does to batter.
The two devices are set up near each other in the Flatiron mountains of Colorado.”
Bugbyte spoke up. “Do these people have names?” “According to GEODE, as aliens from other planets, their names would tear our throats out to pronounce. Fortunately, the avatars have plainer ones. The defender is a Mr Scruggs.” Liebnitz winced and put his hand over his eyes. “So I’m guessing the other’s name is Flatt.” The Sultan looked surprised. “Have you met Dr Flatt?” “Let’s say the names strike a familiar chord.”
Chief MacBannock said, “I’m a bit lost here. We have two powerful alien forces cavalierly engaged in some odd culinary sport that could end the world for the rest of us. As if we didn’t get enough of that sort of thing from the politicians. What can we do?”
Dryan replied. “Normally, nothing. The show does not permit the involvement of what are seen as the great galactic unwashed. In any event, the two devices have security controls. The Wafflator, for example, scans the brain for patterns related to its function, to make sure the activator is authorized. Another control is a 26-letter code lock. The activation code changes every five minutes. Scruggs’ smart-phone displays the codes as they change — at least it did until Flatt sent Scruggs a Trojan horse.”
MacBannock asked, “And the horse stepped on the phone?” “In a manner of speaking, Chief,” replied Bugbyte. “But how do we help the defender?” sultan said, “The rule about local allies is set aside for the finals, so GEODE contacted Scruggs to offer help. Our AI friend worked out the code for a specific five-minute interval, right at the end of the program when, to maximize audience numbers, Flatt will surely activate the Flatterer. But GEODE has been unable to contact Scruggs again to give him the code. So we must get to the Flatirons before the deadline and find him.”
“Fine,” said Liebnitz. “So what is the code?” “No idea,” replied the sultan. “GEODE knew I’d just forget a verbal, and if I wrote it down, Flatt’s team would steal it. In fact, while I was checking into the Knights Arms down the street, they stole my car, my suitcases and my clothes. Including the ones I was wearing.”
Felix grinned. “I was wondering about the full medieval armour.” “Be that as it may, all is not lost.” The sultan flourished a magazine. “As a librarian, I am used to protecting the written word from barbarians! This special issue of Better Thrones and Dungeons, which GEODE mocked up, hides the code. Now give me some help.” The team gathered around Dryan, who opened the journal to its puzzle page.
“First, look at this half-finished Sudoku. It makes no sense. Many of the numbers filled in are greater than 9, which is not permitted. But an alien like Flatt wouldn’t know that and his henchmen (sorry, Bugbyte, henchpersons) are not really the Sudoku type. So we write down the numbers and get the four-block ciphertext 17-24-14-21-5-10-26-16-2 17-24-22 18-17-12-4-16 2-1-25-7-12.”
“Then we go to this table labelled ‘Quips’. It has two main columns of 26 entries each, one with the letters À to Z to its left and the other with the numbers I to 26. Each entry in the left-hand main column matches up with an entry in the right-hand one to produce a humorous quip. Linking up the entries into quips associates one letter with each number, allowing us to decipher the activation code.”
“This is where I come in,” said Liebnitz. Soon he had it solved.
Early the next day, the group made its way to the Flatirons on the Centre’s stealth jet rickshaw and located two large transparent domes, facing each other across a meadow in a mist-shrouded forest. One, with flamboyant signs on the camera side reading “National Institute of Pancakes” and “Flatt’s Flatterer”, was bustling, workers in lab coats making adjustments to what looked like a cross between a huge Tesla coil and a Tiffany perfume atomizer. The other dome, marked with a discreet “AAA”, held what looked like Carmen Miranda’s hat with a keyboard. But this dome was utterly deserted.
A figure emerged from the busy dome. It wasn’t just fat, it was spherical. But the face was jovial. “Ah, welcome. I am Dr Flatt. You must be Mr Scruggs’ human allies. But I’m afraid he’s gone. A dreadful accident, yesterday. His avatar was crippled and he had to get a new one. So sad. But I hope he’11 make it back for the showdown. I’d hate to win by default.”
Flatt spun away. Liebnitz and Bugbyte rushed to the dome, to puzzle over what must be the Wafflator. Felix and the Sultan patrolled the perimeter. Hamish resolutely checked his BlackBerry.
The air shimmered and a tall stick-like bearded figure appeared. “Scruggs,” he said to the Chief. “Am I too late?” Before MacBannock could reply, Liebnitz hurried over. “Thank God you’ve made it. We have the code and there’s time left to activate your device.”
“Indeed?” said a voice. “Then let’s see if we can’t delay things a bit.” Dr Flatt and a dozen soldiers had established a defensive line in front of the Waffiator dome. Scruggs looked worried. “They won’t attack us — wouldn’t look good on camera — but if we attack, they are free to retaliate. And I don’t think we can take them.”
Felix, who had been huddled with Bugbyte, suddenly stepped out, pointed something at the line and shouted, “All right, minions of evil. Eat hot death!” Everyone cringed, only partially because Felix appeared to be holding a flamingo pink celery stalk emitting pulses of lime green light. Bugbyte whispered to Liebnitz, “He found it in the dome. Alien-made, maybe a weapon, he figured there was nothing to lose.”
The line of riflemen began to shrink and change. Soon there were only six-inch mannikins with hawk noses and bald heads, wearing trench coats and carrying lollypops. Dr Flatt scowled, “Hah! The Hooluv-Z’yabay B. OK, Scruggs, touché. But what you’ve failed to notice is that the Flatterer is already running. This mountain is all that’s left of Earth in 3-D. Too late now.”
Scruggs flipped back his shirt-cuff and stared at what was probably not a living opal tarantula. “Flat wrong, Flatt. We’re just in time. The Wafflator is only effective if fired while the Flatterer is engaged. Who has the activation code?” Everyone looked at Hamish, who started slapping his pockets. Sighing, Bugbyte removed the Chief’s new Stetson and plucked a piece of paper from the sweat-band. Snatching it, Scruggs ran for the defender’s dome. At the machine, he tapped the activation keyboard frantically, gripped the firing handles and… nothing happened.
Flatt leaned into the doorway. “Of course, when you get a new avatar, the brain substrate isn’t primed. Now your security scanner doesn’t recognize you. Pity. You’ve only got three minutes left and it needs an hour to re-program. Maybe if there was someone around with a similarly inherent affinity for the basic purpose of your Wafflator — but what are the odds?” He chuckled.
His corpulent form was wrenched from the doorway as Liebnitz, Bugbyte, Dryan and Felix rushed in. Each tried to fire the device. All failed. They turned to scan the forest. Trees and rocks twisted in ways that hurt the eyes, eerily unfolding like origami in reverse, and soon existed only as an iridescent slick floating on nothing.
“Maybe I can try. I mean, if no-one else wants another go.” It was Hamish. Liebnitz looked at him somberly and said simply, “Please do.” The Chief stood hesitantly before the machine, tapped the code into the keypad, grasped the handles, closed his eyes and pulled the triggers. Nothing happened. The slick crept closer. His shoulders slumped.
Then a silent bell rang and a twisted loop appeared in the air above the Wafflator. Bugbyte breathed in sharply.
do benefits for all religions somewhere on this globe every 10 seconds, there is a woman giving birth to a child feel wonderful about getting older war doesn’t define who’s right whatever women do, they must do twice as well as a man to be thought half as good very funny Scotty all ask is the chance to prove that some day we’ll look back at this moment and put a dollar into a change machine before you criticize your fellow man, walk a mile in his shoes moral indignation is don’t want to achieve immortality by writing the Great American Novel you can tell what God thinks of money a couturier who set up shop at the Indy 500 went to a restaurant that offers “breakfast at any time” if you haven’t anything nice to say about anyone then there was the 30s gangster who told his moll she couldn’t have a second belly-button some editors are indeed failed writers don’t deserve this award went to a play with actors in Judaic temple robes and whiteface behind every successful man did you sleep well?
If your parents have no children reality is a crutch for I’m always relieved when someone is delivering a eulogy and folks ’round here call me Slade McKeester it was called “King Solomon’s Mimes.” people who can’t cope with drugs. no, made a couple of mistakes. she must be found and stopped. come sit by me.
chances are that you won’t either. considering the alternative.
then he’ll be a long way off, and barefoot. fortunately, this is not difficult.
I’d hate to blow the hereafter on a technicality. just look at the people He gives it to.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 26, No. 3 (2012) — Spring 2012 // Printemps 2012, pp. 41–43. Read the rest of this issue →
