Xenoman

22 Lancet Fluke

(FREE Ebook on SMASHWORDS until June 15  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/773380)

Xeno peeked through the blinds of the Intellegella corporate suite in Mall-tel—an all-in-one hotel lumped on top of a mall—overlooking a vast atrium ceiling of polarized glass, shielding the inner concentric rings of balcony suites from the elements above, and the glut of retail outlets below. Tourists in loose fitting clothes flowed like spirits of consumption along the balcony rails, merging into glass elevators with blank expressions, touching down in the retail wonderland on the ground floor, fulfilling their destiny as the true moving parts of the shopping experience.

Beneath the sprouting tops of indoor palms, he could see the food court, and the acrylic Klownburger sign, looming in the sandstone above the open air cash counters. The lunch rush was on with a finger-licking mob standing in slow moving lines, forcing the patrons to shift on their heels, re-read the digital overhead menu, adjust their weight and their shopping bag situation, or else gawk at Klownsy, mopping the dining area of the Klownburger restaurant, looking too hungover to juggle, do card tricks, or make children laugh.

"I thought Darkphalt was supposed to be boring," Xeno said, peering through the Venetian blinds. "This looks like a shopper's paradise."

"This is the pretty side of Darkphalt," Garry said over the black box transceiver. "The side you saw in the premonition with the flying saucer is the barrio. That's where the Klownburger in the Polaroid of Trianne is located."

"How do people in Darkphalt afford to shop here? It all looks kind of pricey."

"On the average, they can't." Garry appeared on a wall-sized telepane across from the bed. "Mall-tel provides all the jobs for the service class, mostly temp work, always part time, so the owners can skimp on benefits. The turnover's high with nowhere to move up. Those who get fired end up getting recycled through Temp Circuit for as long as they last. The latest issue is on the nightstand, if you want to do the puzzles on the back."

"I'm kind of puzzled out, for now." Xeno let the blinds fall, unstrapped his black box, lay back on the bed, and slowly rotated the black box with his fingers. The four bumps on each side had begun to sprout tiny vegetative roots, bendable, like soft rubber. "What's the matter with this thing?"

"What thing?"

"The black box. Remember those bumps I told you about on the side?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, they're getting worse, growing hairs, or roots, or something."

"Put the black box in the carrying case and latch it."

"The carrying case?"

"In the nightstand drawer—the one with the temp magazine."

Xeno rolled over, opened the nightstand drawer, and lifted out an aluminum frame carrying case by the handle. He set it next to his stomach on the bed, flipped open the latches, and lifted the lid. He placed the black box inside the form fitting foam, closed the lid, snapped the latches shut, then placed the sealed case back inside the drawer and shut it.

"Take the black box to Radio Shackle in the morning. There's one in the mall. Flash your badge and they'll know what to do. I think we're making progress, Xeno."

"How so?" He withdrew his steak knife and set it on the nightstand.

"The pink sports car—you were able to see through the subject's eyes, like a camera lens."

"But I couldn't see who it was, unless they looked at something reflective."

"We'll find a work around. Take a cat nap." Garry signed off from the wall telepane.