In the Rouge

Prologue - Stanley

PROLOGUE

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In most universes, Stanley Beams is a simple accountant. However, in one particular universe, a less looked-after and possibly unfinished universe, Stanley is an interstellar despot. He is the supreme ruler of an empire spanning hundreds of solar systems and thousands of worlds. And though there are many such despots throughout the Multiverse, Stanley may be unique in that he is completely normal—or at least as normal as someone can be who spends the vast majority of his time in the sole company of numbers.

     Stanley, unlike so many others, dislikes mysticism and completely avoids any magical cosmic forces that bind the universe together. He would never use alien technology, incredibly ancient or otherwise, that had not been thoroughly investigated by qualified personnel. He does not mutter or mumble to himself and has never uttered so much as a single titter. He despises mind altering chemicals to the point where he only drinks decaf, and a replacement kneecap is the only part of his body he was not born with.

     In short, Stanley Beams is not a typical interstellar despot. And, though Stanley is currently alone in his office, if anyone else was present, he or she would quickly notice a distinct lack of villainy. There are no blood spatters on the walls, no heads on pikes, not even a horribly uncomfortable looking throne. There is nothing to indicate that Stanley is responsible for precisely 2,152.0379 deaths every minute.

     But though there is no apparent villainy, there is at least some small hint of personality. Hanging on the wall behind the desk is a framed accounting degree from the Imperial Galactic Business School, and sitting on the desk is a dull white coffee mug emblazoned with a child’s hand-print in green paint and inscribed with a generic ‘Universe’s Best Dad!’ message. There are pencils in the mug, perhaps the only visible sign of evil[1] in the room.

     The rest of the large office is filled with subtlety. The dark red carpet has a number of deep indentations from what must have been unusually heavy furniture. The walls are a uniformly bright white, and a faint scent of fresh paint hangs in the air. The desk is simple: a sturdy wooden box just big enough to contain a few drawers and support a computer console, a lamp, a stack of papers, and the mug with pencils in. The pencils are new, arranged point up, and well sharpened.

     And then there is Stanley himself, sitting at the desk: a smallish man in a well-tailored suit. It is obvious from his diminutive stature and the slight hint of stress on the buttons of his shirt that he has never been, and will never be, a prime example of pure masculinity, but the hard line of his jaw and the way the muscles of his limbs fill out the suit belie any thought of softness. His dark hair, thinning and flecked with gray, and the lines of his face reflect the demands of time and duty while his blue eyes reflect only the cold calculation of a subtle mind.

     This subtlety is further reflected in the way Stanley manages his empire. His tool of choice is common sense, which he wields like a scalpel, making small precise incisions to remove small bits of stupidity here and add bits of sense there. At this moment, he is applying that scalpel and a pencil to one of the reports on his desk. It is not a happy report; it sings a sad little song of: ‘Two million people need to eat, but our stores only hold enough for one million.’

     This, in turn, makes Stanley unhappy. So unhappy that the present tense decided to run off for a lie down while the intercom tried to lighten the atmosphere by chiming a cheery tune which in some universes might be called a ‘jingle’.

     Stanley pushed a button on his desk. “Yes, Susan?”

     “Admiral Garza is on the hyper, sir. He says they’ve found two million people on some lost colony in the Argos cluster, and there’s something wrong with some kind of echo system, and he wants to bring them home, sir. He also says the people can only survive on their own for another two weeks, sir.”

     “You mean eco-system,” said Stanley coolly while correcting a calculation in one of the reports on his desk. “Tell him we don’t have the budget for lost colonies at the moment, but he may mount a rescue next quarter if he would like; we should have a surplus then. If, however, he wishes to correct the situation now, we can afford an orbital bombardment.”

     “Yes, sir. Also, sir, the barber is here for your appointment.”

     “Ah, good,” said Stanley. “Send him in right away.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     CLICK

     The door slid open, admitting a tall middle-aged man who crossed the office and sat down in one of the almost comfortable[2] chairs in front of Stanley’s desk.

     “Echo system,” said the man while slowly shaking his head. “I really don’t understand why you keep that woman. Surely you need a more competent secretary.”

     Stanley glanced up from the reports. “Even idiots need jobs.” He sighed. “I have a dozen more competent secretaries down on the eighth floor, but I keep Susan for the look of the thing. As you know, appearance is important”—the lines around his mouth briefly stretched downward in an almost-frown—“though her appearance won’t be necessary much longer.”

     The other man raised an eyebrow. “You still think Garza will do it?”

     “I know he will,” said Stanley. “I’ve made sure. Leaving these things to chance is . . . inefficient.” Out of the corner of his eye, Stanley caught another miscalculation on the report. He corrected it.

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[1] You can’t trust anyone who erases their mistakes at will.

[2] While Stanley believed in making his guests comfortable, he also believed in having their undivided attention.