"What is that? Corporate art?” Xeno gazed up at the colossal structure rising from the artificial lake, as he followed Garry through the employee atrium. Two massive trunks rose from the water, soaring up past several flights of balconies, pulsing with arteries of fiber optic light, then merging into the vague shape of a gluteus maximus. Beyond the rump, a single glowing trunk continued upward, like an elongated torso with a spinal column, disappearing into the endless ductwork.

“That's the Atomized Synthiopathic Synapse.” Garry stood shoulder to shoulder with Xeno on the shore of artificial grass, admiring the monstrous technology with a look of pride. “Also known as our ASS. The summit of mankind's artificial intelligence.”

“What does it do?"

“Runs things. Networks things. It does buffets, serves wine and liquor . . .”

“Wow, a supercomputer that caters.”

“I like to come here on my lunch break and just watch the lights, and listen to the waterfalls.”

“Looks expensive.”

“It's a big chunk of the electric bill. It even pumps the blue dye into the water.”

“What for?”

“To hide all the nicotine cartridges.” Garry ejected a spent cartridge from the barrel of his E-gar into the opaque cerulean water. He shoved a new cartridge inside the metallic chamber, flicked it on, and began puffing.

“What about all the No Smoking signs?”

“Nobody pays attention to those.” Garry whipped out a report from his breast coat pocket and handed it to Xeno. “What do you make of this electroprecephalogram? Do you know this guy?”

“Yeah,” Xeno recognized the face in the photo on the EPG, “that's Lew.” He looked over the results:

ELECTROPRECEPHALOGRAM SCORE: 25 VOLTS

“Lew's pineal gland does twenty-five volts? His score is higher than mine.”

“That's not his pineal score.”

“Then whose?”

“Flip over the EPG.”

Xeno flipped over the EPG and read the fine gray block print, repeating like a wallpaper pattern, across the back of the card stock:

KEENO'S

SELF SERVE

ELECTROPRECEPHALOGRAM

SAC: 00-02-2D-11-55-4D

FIRST NAME: Trianne

LAST NAME: Registered one-name status

FINGERPRINT: Match

RETINAL SCAN: Match

“This belongs to Trianne?” Xeno flipped the report back over. “But it's got Lew's face on it.”

“He Photoshopped his face over hers. Every EPG is paired with an electronic imprint of the subject's fingerprint, retinal scan, and social access address, then imprinted on the back of the card stock with invisible ink. That's how we knew it was a forgery.”

“How did you develop the invisible ink?

“With lemon juice.”

“So, Trianne has the pineal gift as well?”

“Yes . . . and she's gone missing . . . and that's why it's so important that you aren't so quick to take your synthetic sensory visions so literally. Lew forged this EPG, hoping to get an interview with Intellegella. We knew the truth for what it was and tried to contact Trianne directly, but she blew us off. Then Lew tried to market himself as Trianne's,” he made the quote sign gesture with his fingers, “manager, implying that if we interned her we would have to intern him, because he came with the,” he made the quote sign gesture with his fingers, “package. We sent Number Three to interview Trianne alone, trying to avoid her himbo-suckerfish-boyfriend, but he freaked her out at the mall and she bolted. Then Lew offered his services as a chemist, but we don't do business with people who distribute Black Magic. According to Number Three, she's beginning to show early signs of Black Magic abuse, pale skin, weight loss, fatigue—”

“And you want me to find her and bring her back to rehab? Is that the mission? Is that what this is all about?”

“In so many words, Xeno . . . yes . . . Intellegella needs a piece of her mind too.”

“I saw her hair smolder behind a strip mall, just before she dis-appeared, but I didn't know what to say.”

“Smoldering already?” Garry bit his lip. “Not good. We may have to pick up the pace.”

“Do you have any leads as to their whereabouts?”

“Just the same junk mail we keep getting from Lew.” Garry whipped out a flier from his breast coat pocket, illustrated with a doe-eyed alien head sprouting angelic wings, below the title:

CHURCH OF ALMOND EYES

“Where's the church?” Xeno flipped over the flier and glanced at the cutout coupon on the back:

50% OFF YOUR NEXT PURCHASE

OF

YOU KNOW WHAT

“There is no church per se. We think it's a virtual, word of mouth, operation. You have to go through some shitty contact tree to redeem your coupon and get your fix.”

“Using religion as a front for drugs.”

“If your successful in finding Trianne by locating her aura with the black box, we may finally begin to get The Eye in the Sky division off the ground.”

“As in missing persons?”

“As in missing anything.”

“But Trianne doesn't have an industrial black box. Can SSP work with only one transceiver?”

“That's what your findings are going to tell us.”

“Why not just ask your ASS where Trianne is, follow her spending trail?”

“We did . . . but we had a rat problem.”

“Rat problem?”

“A rat found its way into the server room and got trapped between the neural racks of our ASS. It tried to escape by gnawing on the insulation, and finally died from nervous exhaustion. A female technician found the dead rodent, freaked out, and spilled coffee all over the grill of the cooling system. Somehow, all that sugary crap seeped down into the bio-sistors and wreaked havoc with the wetware.”

“Is coffee allowed in the server room?”

“No, but nobody pays attention to those signs either.”

“So, you got rid of the rat.”

“But not the problem. Something strange happened to our ASS. He began brewing coffee with this horrible, spoiled, lunch meat, aftertaste. We asked our ASS where Trianne was and all we got was—all we ever get—is this . . .” Garry waved his hand over a communication kiosk at the edge of the lake. A holopane displayed the ASS's text message in midair:

HAVE YOU SEEN THE RAT COFFEE

THAT GNAWS ON MY SPILL?

“What kind of question is that?” Xeno asked.

“We don't know. It's as if our ASS was traumatized by the incident and developed some sort of deconstructed . . . abstract . . . neurosis . . . putting the taste of the rat in the coffee, asking the same oblique question over and over, resulting in a computerized version of what the IT department calls a somatoform disorder.”

“A somato-what?”

“When severe stress causes mental symptoms to become physical. Typically, it only happens to people. Symptoms may include headaches, muscle pain, gas, sexual dysfunction, things that are observable to a degree, but we've never seen it happen to a computer. There's no manual to download that tells us where to go, what to do. So, we wait until someone at Malborg, or Intellegella, comes up with a bug fix that actually works.”

“Does it speak?”

“It used to. Now, we just get the hi-tech version of the silent treatment.” Garry led Xeno onward through the employee atrium, around the shore of the artificial lake, passing a series of dormant Sunlite silos, evenly spaced against the wall.

“Can your ASS make Sunlite?” Xeno asked.

“No.” Garry frowned at the thought. “That whole process takes place at Malborg Pharmaceuticals. You know how that goes.”

“It wouldn't surprise me if they owned Klownburger.”

“They do, but who wants to eat a Mal-burger. Hence, the clowny, family, brand name.”

“You hear that sound?”

“Sound? What sound?”

“That low level humming sound . . . just oscillating in the distance . . . You hear it?

“Yes . . . That's the Hummer.”

“The Hummer? What does it do?”

“It keeps people calm while they work.”

“Where is it?”

“I have no idea . . . Somewhere in the walls.”

“It seems like it's getting louder, moving towards us.”

“Just let it massage your senses. Its calming effect works wonders.” Garry stopped at a curtained entry at the other side of the atrium, closed his eyes, and began massaging his temples.

Xeno did likewise, closing his eyes, massaging his temples, letting the sound of the Hummer do its work. When the humming subsided, he opened his eyes again.

Garry had vanished.

Xeno went through the curtain and came out the other side, to find himself inside a barren parking garage. Before him, were two stalls with their contents concealed by two red show curtains hanging from the ceiling, embroidered in gold with “#1,” and “#2.”

“Now, Xeno, it's time to play Here's Your Company Car!” Garry's voice boomed through the parking garage speaker system. After a brief moment of recorded fanfare and audience applause, he appeared under a spotlight, clutching a microphone in his hand like a game show host. “Now Xeno, it's time to pick a curtain!”

“There's only two,” Xeno griped.

“So? Pick.”

“All right . . . I'll go with . . . curtain number one.”

“Don, show Xeno what he's won!”

“Who's Don?” Xeno looked around for Don, but saw no such person.

Curtain “# 1” rose to reveal . . . a donkey eating oats from a bucket.

“I wouldn't go with the donkey,” Garry cautioned. “Too agricultural.”

“Well Garry, then I guess I have no choice but to go with curtain number two.”

“Don, show Xeno what's behind curtain number two!”

Curtain “#2” rose from the ceiling to reveal . . . a perfectly ugly, sewage-brown, Ford Country Squire station wagon, complete with cracked and faded paint job.

“That's it? Where's my secret agent sport scar? Where's my hot rod?!”

“Xeno, this mission isn't a game show. We want you to blend in with the general, junk-like, public. Once you get past the ka ka brown coloring, it's really quite a rig!” Garry went to the station wagon and caressed the roof of the car, flaking off pieces of old paint as he slid his palm across the surface.

Xeno circled the station wagon, shaking his head, kicking the tires, knocking off one of the hubcaps.

“C'mon, get behind the wheel.” Garry hopped inside the passenger seat. “You'll love it!”

Xeno flung open the driver door and plopped down behind the wheel.

“Mmmm!, it's got that new car smell!” Garry took a long whiff. “And the seats are made with real Corinthian leather.”

“There's no such thing as Corinthian leather. That's just a marketing concept.”

“Roomy, isn't it? The back seat even folds down if you want to take a snooze, or . . . if you have female company.”

“If I do, are you going to zoom in on me from outer space with the SSP satellite?”

“Just cover the windows with cardboard.” Garry whipped out a pen and notepad from his breast pocket and began scribbling notes. “But if it adds spice to the story, I would love to include it in my screenplay.”

“Screenplay?”

“Yes, of your mission. We'll hire actors to play our parts, cut it together on Andrea, and make a fortune on merchandise!”

“Merchandise? You mean, like baseball caps and T-shirts?”

“Action figures! I even have a mock up of The Shoki Pao Playset.” Garry reached behind the backseat and lifted up a miniature mock up of the Shoki Pao Playset, complete with posed action figures of Xeno, Trianne, Zoom, Holly, Lew, and Garry, glued to the base. “It comes with two sections: the bar, stage, and dance floor on one side of the wall, with a secret door that leads to the other side, with the Black Magic lab.”

“Does it burn down?”

“Yeah, watch.” Garry pushed a button under the playset and the walls glowed with flashing cookie-cutter flame patterns.

“I've never felt so immortal in all my life.”

“I'm telling you Xeno, if this mission is successful, we may be able to get out of this business altogether and retire on our own private island.”

“Yeah, whatever became of the mission? You know, the whole reason we're here?”

“Glad you asked.” Garry whipped out another manila folder from his breast pocket. “What do you make of this?” He removed a report from the folder, containing a Polaroid photo, and handed it to Xeno.

“How do you store all these documents inside your breast pocket?”

“A manila folder pocket, sewn inside my uniform, so I can keep whipping things out. Gives me that dramatic edge.” Garry scooped out the remaining junk from the pocket. “Geezus, look at all this stuff . . . Sharpie's without the caps . . . Taco sauce packets . . . Sudafed . . . Need one? . . . Pencils? Who uses pencils anymore?”

“Looks like Holly screaming at Lew.”

“Number Three photographed the two having a blowout at The Orange Curious, downtown at The Galaxia Mall. They left soon after, and he lost them in the crowd.”

“Did he get any other Polaroids of them?”

“Yeah, but they're mostly of his feet and the sky. He's kind of klutzy with ordinary electronic devices.”

“What's that white stuff all over Lew's head?”

“Holly's milkshake. We think it may be Vanilla, or Piña Colada, but we can't be sure.”

“It looks like Holly is showing Lew a Polaroid of her own.”

“We think that's what they were fighting over. We tried to do a zoom morph at Keeno's, but the resolution was just too degraded.”

“So, you want me to pay Holly a visit?”

“Check it out. She may know something.”

“What number should I turn the knob to?” Xeno put his fingers to the main dial of the black box.

“Nothing yet, but when I tell you to, I'll be recording your progress through the POV camera, built into the front panel of the box.” Garry hopped out of the station wagon and walked around to the driver side. “You can also reach me through Andrea, on the dashboard telepane.”

“How do I get out of this garage?”

“It's quite simple, really.” Garry dropped the keys into the palm of Xeno's hand through the open window. “Just start the engine.” Garry took a few steps back, waving goodbye with a bon voyage grin.

Xeno turned the key in the ignition, then revved the engine until it backfired dirty exhaust from the muffler. The doors auto-locked and the power windows rolled up, sealing him inside. He looked at Garry through the windshield, bewildered by the clouds of yellow gas pouring into the cabin, engulfing him in the driver's seat, making him sleepy . . .