The Eye of the Bedlam Bride — Chapter no 12

[ 12 ]

WE, ONCE AGAIN, TRANSFERRED TO THE SPACE STATION BEFORE BEING zapped down to the underwater production trailer. The trip into space was especially brief.

The two gnolls were already dropping into the room when we appeared. I had but a moment to gaze out the window. The space station itself rotated, but I realized we were always over the same location on the planet over the Indian ocean. Thick clouds covered most of the area, and I didn’t have time to marvel at the view. The guards did a quick, wordless once over on us and disappeared. I grabbed Donut into my arms and turned myself in the air.

We plopped into a familiar room. This was the same room where I’d met the Popov brothers. The place still smelled like rotisserie chicken. A deck of regular playing cards remained sitting on the counter where the Popovs had

left it.

There were two others already here.

Zev sat on the couch, looking both tired and worried.

And standing in the corner on two cloven hooves was a massive, hairy goat creature with a line of red, bug-like eyes down its evil face.

A caprid from the Plenty.

This thing was about twice as tall as Prepotente. He was even taller than the only other full-grown caprid I’d seen, the goat from the presentation of my new sponsor. And that dude had been terrifying. This guy was worse. He went all the way to the ceiling. A creature straight from a nightmare.

Zev had warned us a liaison would be attending the show, and here he was. The tall, shaggy creature turned stiffly to face us the moment we arrived.

A pair of horns curled upon its head. The corner of its top left horn, I realized, pushed up through the ceiling. This guy wasn’t really here. He was a holo.

Donut leaped from my arms and landed on the couch next to Zev. She leaned in and gave the fish woman a quick head bump. I swallowed and tried to appear confident.

“Hello, Mr. Satanic goat guy,” I said. “Are you the same cheat who tried to get Maggie My to kill us? The same one working with the Skull Empire?”

The creature leaned in and paused, not saying anything. He moved oddly, like he couldn’t turn his neck, which was astoundingly unnerving. A full five seconds passed. I was transfixed by his long, obsidian, and wavy hair. Unlike Prepotente, whose wire hair felt very much like that of a regular goat, this guy’s coat appeared to be silky smooth, yet at the same time, it was so black and bottomless that I imagined if I reached into his fur, my hand would come back oily. Or covered with spiders.

The goat suddenly bleated, long and hard, his voice deep and filled with

bass. It vibrated the walls.

“Right back atcha, buddy,” I said.

He opened his mouth again, as if he was about to really say something, but he stopped and leaned back. He made an angry grunt. He rigidly turned his whole body to the side and huffed something in a strange language at someone unseen. The words sounded like something a goat straight out of hell would say, like Latin played backward and in slow motion.

A new figure suddenly popped into the small room. This was also a holo, half obscured by a cloud of smoke. He was rapidly pulling a tie on around his

neck as he zapped, coughing into place.

Quasar. My attorney.

“Not a word to my client!” Quasar shouted at the goat. He looked at me.

“Holy tits. You need to tell me when you’re going to be in the presence of one of these shit tarts. For fuck’s sake. You’re lucky I wasn’t at the Tug-

aporium or something.”

“Hi, Quasar!” Donut said.

I fought the urge to cough, even though his vape smoke wasn’t really in the room. It suddenly felt very crowded in here. “I didn’t realize this was something you’d want to be involved in. And I figured you knew I’d be here.

This program has been on the books for a few days.”

“Do I look like a grixist shaman to you?” he asked. He finished putting on his tie. He normally wore one with an alien hula girl. This time it looked like it was covered with pickles wearing sunglasses. He took a hit of his vape and then pointed an accusatory finger at Zev. “Your outreach associate is

supposed to let me know of any planned meetings with liaisons so I can prepare.”

“It’s not my job to do yours,” Zev said evenly.

“Save it, Fish Sticks. I should’ve been informed ahead of time. You’re lucky our contract allows for me to appear in case of an emergency.”

Zev grumbled and sprayed out water over the couch.

The goat guy turned to Quasar and said something in that same weird, demonic language.

The pickles on Quasar’s tie started spinning in circles on their own.

Donut couldn’t keep her eyes off of them.

Quasar lifted up his hands in a what-the-hell-was-that? motion. “Look, you walking shawarma skewer. I don’t speak whatever the fuck it is you’re trying to say, and it ain’t in the translator system, which is fine by me because you ain’t allowed to so much as bleat at my client. You’re only here because… actually, I don’t know why the fuck you’re here.” He turned to Zev. “Why the fuck is he here?”

Zev sighed. “The program they’re attending is owned by the Open Intellect Pacifist Network, and as you should know, Valtay rules state a liaison needs to be present in any instance when a crawler might be alone with a sponsor.”

“Tits,” Quasar said, sounding surprised. “Shadow Boxer is owned by those crazy assholes? Really? I gotta tell you, Fish Sticks. I’m more than a little annoyed at the lack of communication. But why is it this guy? We usually work with the naked worm.” He turned to the goat. “What’s your name again? Harbinger, right?”

“I have no control over who they send,” Zev said.

“Harbinger?” Donut asked. “The devil goat’s name is Harbinger?

Really?”

“Well, considering his history with my client and the princess, I’d say this is improper at best. It’s a three-ring ass casserole at worst. Even if he hadn’t already been sanctioned for trying to straight up murder my client, he’s a caprid, which is another one of Carl’s sponsors. It’s like hiring an incubus as a guard on a chastity yacht during an elven rut.”

I felt a chill wash over me. This was the same guy. The one who’d given Maggie My help in trying to kill me, all with the help of the orcs of the Skull Empire. Orren the other liaison had told me it had been dealt with, but I still didn’t know what that meant. I still didn’t know why any of that had

happened.

“Like I said,” Zev said, frustrated, “this is something you’ll have to take up with the liaison office.”

“Oh, I will. As soon as I can find one that isn’t going to accidentally raise my grandmother from the dead when he speaks. Seriously. What is up with your voice? Why aren’t you getting translated properly?”

Harbinger the caprid said something, but it still came out in his demon language. He turned and started grunting at someone we couldn’t see.

“The system has been buggy lately,” Zev said.

The goat turned back and said, “The error has been corrected. We will proceed.” His voice remained deep and terrifying. “Administrator Zev, you may inform the show runner we are prepared.”

“I’m pinging Rosetta right now,” Zev said.

I went very still.

“Rosetta?” Donut asked. “Is that the host? That’s a very pretty name.”

“This is Rosetta’s new show?” Quasar asked, straightening. “Tits, I had no idea. I need to pay better attention to this stuff.” He rubbed a hand along his bald, alien head. “Carl, how’s my hair look?”

“Yes,” Zev said, ignoring Quasar. “Rosetta Thagra. An Odette wannabe.

She’s a former crawler and game guide. She’s a Crest.” She looked at me.

“Actually, she was more like you, Carl, than Odette. She was a big fan of blowing things up. She’s only recently been released from her indentureship contract. Her new program, Shadow Boxer has become quite popular.”

My heart skipped a beat. No. No way.

I felt the line of red eyes of the liaison bore into me.

“Oh, one of those,” Donut said. A Crest was a human race with no eyebrows. They’d been a common hunter type on the previous floor. Donut turned to Quasar and said, “You need to straighten your tie if you want to make a better impression. I really like the pattern, though.”

Quasar looked down and picked up the end of the pickle tie. “Yeah, this one is pretty great. You know there’s some new ones out there featuring you on the back of your dinosaur. You fire magic missiles. The Donut merch is

much better than the Carl merch.”

Donut gasped.

I barely heard this. I had to fight to stop myself from shaking. Could it be? Was it possible?

<Note added by Crawler Rosetta. Ninth Edition> How can they do this? Do they not see us? Are we not real to them? We are the same. By the gods old and new, we are the same.

Yet they kill us like we are nothing. Comrades, if I ever get out of this, which seems more and more unlikely by the day, I swear upon the moons I will spend the rest of my days making certain this evil is not only eradicated from the stars, but there will be accountability for

their crimes.

I swear it, I swear it, I swear it.

“No, no, no,” Donut said, sounding irritated. “Gossip Girl and Gilmore Girls are two completely different shows. Gilmore Girls was entirely fantastic, yes, but Gossip Girl is, quite simply, the pinnacle of television achievement. You can’t just lump the two together. It’s like, I don’t know, serving a Twinkie on the same plate as caviar. Tell me, Miss Thagra, what is considered the greatest program in the universe?”

Rosetta Thagra shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The human-like woman was pale, pretty, and appeared to be in her early twenties, wearing a professional pantsuit. A strange blob of yellow hair sat atop her otherwise bald head at an angle. It looked like a faded, blond toupee for an aging surfer dude. I couldn’t tell if it was her real hair, an actual wig, or if it was supposed to be some sort of hat.

The moment I saw her, I immediately started to question whether this was the same person as the author of the ninth edition of the cookbook. She had an almost meek appearance. If Zev hadn’t told us she was a former crawler, one just two seasons older than Mordecai, I’d never believe it.

Zev said she liked explosives. Rosetta from the cookbook had provided dozens of explosives recipes. It had to be her.

Only her voice hinted at her true age. Whatever rejuvenation system this universe used to keep people young, it wasn’t perfect. There were still traces

of one’s unnatural age here and there.

According to Zev, the first thing Rosetta had done upon exiting the dungeon was make a documentary movie, program, whatever about her home planet. The movie was called The Other Side of the Glass. Zev and Quasar both said it was well-received and entertaining, though I strongly suspected they both likely missed the point of it. After the success of this first movie, the mysterious Open Intellect Pacifist Network had funded Shadow Boxer, a weekly show that was now telling the story of Earth through interviews that were designed to look like regular conversations. Like Zev had said earlier, it was similar to Earth Beautiful, the other program we’d once gone on, but this

one was much more “raw.”

“Well?” Donut asked Rosetta.

Rosetta planted a fake grin on her face. “I suppose I’d say the best show in the galaxy is Shadow Boxer.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Donut said. “But what’s the best, most popular fictional program?”

“I don’t get time to watch much anymore,” Rosetta said. “But when I was a game guide, I really liked Little Settler Miss. It was very popular.”

Donut leaned in. “Well, let me tell you, Miss Thagra. Gossip Girl is better. It’s not even a question.”

Rosetta nodded thoughtfully. “I know you didn’t gain your sapience until you entered the dungeon, but looking back, how do you think watching this program…”

“No!” Donut said, interrupting, waving her paw up at the screen, which was showing scenes from the show. “These screencaps are all wrong. That first one is from the horrific Acapulco spinoff, and the second is from the HBO reboot which we won’t even dignify with a response. I mean, really.”

Rosetta took a deep breath. I watched as the former crawler took her right hand and started to rub the side of her thigh. A nervous gesture. Her attention kept darting to Harbinger, who stood in the dark, his eyes glowing. “I apologize, Princess. I’ll tell you what. After the interview, why don’t we hang out for a few minutes, and you can help us choose a few proper screencaps for when this tunnels.”

“Negative,” Harbinger said, talking for the first time since the interview started.

Rosetta’s eyes flashed to me and then back to the caprid. “How about between the interviews? It’ll all be automated anyway. She can just point. I

won’t even be in the room.”

Harbinger didn’t answer.

“Uh,” Rosetta said, turning to Donut. “If that would be okay with you?

We’ll show you a bunch of the collected screencaps, and we’ll number them, and you can call the best ones out to a producer.”

Donut preened. “That would be most acceptable. Now, what were you asking?”

This went on for a while. We were in a production studio adjoining the green room. It was the same room where the Popovs and I had done our autograph signing, and where I’d stabbed that reporter guy in the neck with a pen. We each sat in a pair of comfortable chairs while Rosetta sat across from us. The room was dark with a hot spotlight shining right into my face. We were ringed by floating screens that were showing pictures and videos of a younger Donut winning cat shows and screencaps of the various television programs and movies she was obsessed with. Everything from Misfits of Science to Downton Abbey to Stranger Things where Donut went on a five- minute rant about Barb to, of course, Gossip Girl.

Rosetta was no Odette. She was obviously nervous, and she wasn’t that great of an interviewer until the conversation started to flow naturally. Only then did she steer the conversation away from the shows themselves to how watching them made Donut feel. How did the shows compare to the real world? Did she feel they had an impact on culture?

It was a bit ridiculous that she was asking these questions of a goddamned cat, but Donut really warmed to the conversation, and Donut’s answers were strangely fascinating. Donut was oddly cold on Rosetta at first, probably because she was a Crest, but by the time the interview started to wind down, Donut was happily chatting away with the woman like they were best friends.

This whole time, Zev, Quasar, and Harbinger stood off to the side in the dark, not talking with one another. Tiny Zev held onto a tablet, working on something while she watched. A chair appeared and Quasar parked himself in it about halfway through as he watched Rosetta with puppy dog eyes. A cloud of smoke floated in a square around him, breaking the illusion that he was actually in the room with us.

Harbinger stood behind them both, a mountain compared to the other two, unmoving and unspeaking as he took it all in.

Rosetta didn’t ask me any questions at all during Donut’s portion. She barely acknowledged my presence.

When Donut’s interview finished, the woman stood from her chair and announced, “Thank you, princess. I am going to change wardrobe for the next segment. While that’s happening, we’ll be scrolling images on the screen with numbers. You can just call out the numbers you think would work for the segment. I’ll be back shortly so we can do Carl’s interview. Okay?”

“Of course, darling,” Donut said.

A disembodied male voice filled the room. “Princess Donut, we’ll be showing you scenes from shows on the roundabout. Just call out the numbers.”

Donut did a little hop in her chair and looked up at the screens. She loved this sort of thing. “Not number one, goodness. I don’t even know what show that is. Where’s the rest of that guy’s shirt?”

“That’s Miami Vice,” I said.

“The show where the guy had a pet Florin on his boat? I only saw a

couple of episodes.”

I laughed. “Yes.”

While she watched the screens, Quasar jumped at the opportunity, getting up and leaning in close. “Okay, buddy, listen up,” he said, talking rapidly.

“There’s only so much I can say, legally that is, with that scary fucker standing over there. I can’t answer too many questions, so keep your honey hole closed while I get this out. There’s been a lot of movement on the Faction Wars front. Your team’s castle landed right in the middle of the Lemig Sortion’s battlefield, and it splattered half their army.”

“No, number six is Golden Girls. I did like that show, but why was all their furniture wicker?” Donut looked over. “Zev, did you ever watch Golden Girls? I think my favorite was the slut one.”

“I loved it,” Zev said after a moment. She’d put away her tablet and was staring up at all the screens intently, a strange look to her face. Harbinger was laser focused on me and Quasar.

“Number seven is good,” Donut continued, “But again, that’s Gilmore Girls. That was the spring break episode. I think number eight is Dexter. Carl liked that show, but I only thought it was okay. Did you know he was married to his sister from the show in real life? Can you imagine how weird that had to be? At least it wasn’t the other way around. I thought these were going to be scenes from Gossip Girl.” She gasped. “Ten is Jane the Virgin! I loved that show!”

Quasar continued. “The resulting ghoul things from the Zerzura spell are

still a problem, but most of your army has gotten away and has installed themselves onto your battlefield. The Lemigs are now squatting in that blown-to-shit elf castle and are using it as their stronghold, but consensus is they’re fucked. Did you know their commander is still trapped in the Desperado Club? They filed a grievance stating the castle placement was an attack, but we successfully argued it was an AI action. Those tattoo memory golems that Signet lady gave you are all still around. People really like the shark. Tina is still an allosaurus and is causing problems. Her mother is another story. I got ten credits on what that baby is gonna look like. The changelings have started construction on your own stronghold. The cat, Ferdinand, lost his hat and moved straight to the city. Too bad that giant castle didn’t land in your own territory. I hope plenty of you guys survive this floor because you’re gonna need as big of an army as you can get.”

Harbinger made a growling noise.

“Oh, keep your weird goat dick in the bag,” Quasar said to the liaison.

“There ain’t no explicit rules against this. He’s a sponsor.” He turned back to me. “I’m sorry, buddy. There’s so much more happening, and I wish I could tell you all of it. There’s a shit load of action items that need to be hashed out.

You two are scheduled for a preproduction meeting in a day or two. I put in a petition to be there, but they denied it.”

The screens all flicked off and were suddenly replaced with photos of myself, including one I’d never seen before. It was me, about seventeen years old, staring at the camera while I carried a baby goat.

“Carl, look, it’s you!” Donut exclaimed. “You’re holding a baby Prepotente!”

“We’ll talk more soon if we can,” Quasar said, backing up.

Rosetta reappeared, wearing a different outfit. She’d changed from a pantsuit to a short dress, revealing a long, flowery tattoo that circled up her right leg and disappeared. The hair blob on her head switched sides and was now red. She sat in her chair, settled and gave me a wink.

A photo of my mother and father hung in the air, just above me. It was from their wedding. I remembered the framed photo from the living room.

It’d been over my fish tank. The memory came suddenly and quickly, like a jab to the stomach. I’d been so preoccupied with who Rosetta was, I’d completely forgotten about what we were supposed to be talking about now.

“So, comrade,” Rosetta said to me. “Let’s talk about your dead mother.”