THE PHALEREON FABLE

Phalereon Co, established in the year 3270, harnessed the power of suns for the Inner Temporal Zone. Corptenant Kelis Sloan had worked for them for seventy-eight years, but he didn’t know the first thing about solar fusion. His job required knowledge, also forbidden to most, but of a different nature. Today, he would use that information to handle an altercation.

Corptenant Sloan placed a bottle of x1292 Forttendian Buble onto his desk with a measured thud. Earlier that morning, a serious error had been made during a customer service call between a Phalereon Agent and her customer. Corptenant Sloan needed to review the interaction and determine who had messed up: Either Agent Parlee Zentao, or Spacewagoneer Denian Berd.

In preparation for this judgment, Corptenant Sloan had reviewed three hundred of Denian’s previous calls with Phalereon Co, speed loaded into his mind. He had also viewed some of the more personal moments between these calls, as these were also under the jurisdiction of a megalith such as Phalereon Co. Denian’s mercurial temper and seasoned professionalism were now a fixture in Corptenant Sloan’s mind - he knew him as one might know their own mother, or husband.

Corptenant Sloan lowered himself into a straight-backed chair and caressed the cool neck of the bottle of buble. He had also speed-reviewed all two hundred and seven of Phalereon Agent Parlee Zentao’s working hours. She was a relatively new employee, but had already proved herself to be a valuable addition to Phalereon despite her relative youth. She was ambitious, but also kind, as only people from rural areas can be.

Corptenant Sloan pressed down on the lid of the bottle of buble, perforating the coral cork and releasing the effervescent air with a three-note harmonious whine. Now came the time to watch the final feed, the conversation in question, and pass judgment.

“40 thousand Redits to send me a million light years. He has to be joking,” Denian Berd mumbled under his breath as he pulled at the graying tip of his thick beard. “Only last month I sent five wagon loads for half that cost. Have the suns suddenly stopped shining?”

He looked out of the triangular window at the helm of his ship’s command center. He saw countless suns shining out there, pushing white hot energy into black nothingness. Was it so hard for Phalereon to harness that energy, he wondered. Was it so hard that he had to pay half a year’s income to move even a single spacewagon?

“I’m not even going to another Galaxia,” he complained to himself, “it’s less than a million light years to get to Bost!”

Denian took a few slow, heavy steps, then threw a punch at his punching post, striking it with a closed, meaty fist. This wasn’t just another shipment for him. His client was more desperate to get his goods to another galaxy than Denian typically tolerated. It was too big a load in too short a timeframe; a contract Denian scoffed at, until he saw how much the client was willing to pay for a successful delivery. Enough money for Denian to float his old bones and never have to consider taking a contract like this one ever again. His deep brown eyes glossed over; he was probably dreaming about what sort of shiny coating he’d paint on his aging spacewagon once this was done.

Most travelers relied on their Alcubierre Drives to requisition the power jabs for FTL travel; the Drive would calculate the amount of power needed to jump to the specified destination, Phalereon Co would calculate how much it would cost, and the entire transaction would complete without human intervention. Once the Drive was primed, he’d be on his way — snapped to the Andromeda Galaxy along with his loads of merch.

Denian had been in the transportation game long enough to overcome such conveniences. Veterans like him knew that certain Phalereon operators were licensed to sell this excess energy at a discounted price. This trick of the trade was the only reason Denian was able to operate as a free agent. He put up his own money — nearly all of it — every time he funded a shipment, and this shipment was the biggest he’d ever taken on.

“If I can get this load out by tomorrow, I’ll rack up so many digits that I’ll never have to worry about funding again,” he whispered to his punching post, ending his prayer with a ritualistic tap against the firm pole.

His usual contacts at Phalereon had let him down today. But he’d sooner sleep in an Ataxi bed than pay full price for a power jab. If his usual contacts couldn't deliver, Denian would have to make a new friend. It wasn’t one of his keener skills, but even old Denian could put on the charm if needs must. And for this job, needs most certainly must.

He waved his hand, queuing up a call with Phalereon customer service. He frowned at his avatar, which frowned back at him like a mirror hanging in the air. Were his eyebrows really that long, or was the AI misrepresenting him? He tried, unsuccessfully, to smooth the wiry hairs out with his fingers, eventually opting to select a filter that made them look a little more manageable. Keep your eyes open, he reminded himself, as he began the call.

Parlee Zentao answered on the first ring. She raised a cup of steaming black tea to her thick, purple stained lips so that she could take a satisfying sip once she’d introduced herself.

“Parlee here, Senior Phalereon Power Associate Agent, how may I assist you Denian?”

As the hot liquid slid down her throat, she looked over the caller’s public profile, which was projected in the air in front of her face. She saw him as rugged looking, with warm bronze skin, perhaps handsome on some planets, if he bothered to groom his graying beard and eyebrows properly. Under those wily eyebrows were eyes so squinty it felt like his avatar was judging her back.

“Erm yes, hello Parlee, how are you doing today?” Denian greeted her in a pleasant enough voice.

This was only her second call of the day, so Parlee was happy to engage in some chit chat. “It’s a fine morning here on Promethia, how are yourself?”

“I’m doin’ alright. I recognize that accent, are you from South Garlen by any chance?”

Parlee’s shockingly light green eyes widened. “Tickle Basar’s right toe, I’m from Wallaston, only a couple states north!”

Denian chuckled. “It’s been a dozen decades, but I lived on Promethia once upon a time. I’m surprised they routed my call there, to be honest, since I’m out in a Satellite Galaxy.”

“Well I’m sure it had at least a little to do with the fact that we’re from the same planet, partner. Phalereon is all about making connections, any way they can.”

Denian grumbled out a cough. “Yes, well, I’m hoping you can help me with a power situation.”

“That is all I am here for, Denian my chap,” Parlee said. She’d had this job for six months, and in another six months she intended to be promoted. After five years, she’d be managing an entire sector. Ten years and she will have moved out of customer service and into Resourcing, or even development. She’d be out of South Garlen, off of Promethia — the first Sent in her family to live a glamorous, multi-planetary lifestyle.

“I’m trying to get a jab that will take my wagon to Bost. The Drive says I’ll need around 30 thousand exajoules,” Denian said.

“You’re headed to Bost, eh?” Parlee was unable to stop herself from imagining a dream vacation on the decadent planet. “You should stop by the Thereal Park in Baoton. They’re in peak second spring right now, and the waterfalls are so strong they shoot from the aqueducts for two kilometers in some places.”

“Yes, yes, the aqueducts. I’ve seen them before, but never with spouts so long. It must be impossible to stay dry in Baoton, eh?”

“Well, I haven’t been there yet, but I imagine you pressed the right pad,” she said, twirling the end of her tight purple ponytail. Her attention drifted lazily over Denian’s profile again. He’d had a business account with Phalaeron for over 98 years; that was a long time even for a man his age. “I’ll wager you’ve seen all sorts of wonders in your many years of wagoneering.”

Denian blew air through his nose while he tried to think of something impressive. “Indeed I have, miss. I delivered a million cubotonnes of dragonbeek to New Korea as it was being terraformed,” he said, as impressively as he could manage.

“They let you see the planet as it was being terraformed?” she nearly shouted at him. “What did it look like?”

“Er, like a big orangish ball of gas, pretty much.” He scratched the back of his neck, trying unsuccessfully ….. [CONTINUE READING]