Kaleb's Critters

Chapter Two

“Oh-ho-ho! And he’s down! World Champion Brian Dunning has just punched his ticket with only one round left to go! What an upset! Can Kristine make up the point? Will she go down as the only challenger in Roulette history to make it ten rounds?”

The television took up an entire wall.

“She’s taking a minute to relax, shaking out her hands, and—oh? What do you make of this strategy, Jim?”

“Ah, it’s an old one of hers. Plucking an eyelash: one of the many Inner City superstitions. Ms. Sorenson’s been doing it since stage one, and it hasn’t failed her yet, Dan.”

It was inescapable: the screen was as wide as Robin’s girlfriend’s apartment was long. Jim Donahue and Daniel Marbury, Channel announcers often featured in shows such as “Dog Whistle,” “Escape the Rape,” and “Fear Pong,” were currently on screen. Fairweather could see them out of the corner of his eye. The two announcers’ banter reverberated through the crowded hall, providing a welcome distraction for the anxious man.

“There are still two bullets chambered, and the referee is starting the timer right… now!”

There were more applicants here than Robin was comfortable with: mostly Old Metro citizens like himself. A few of them were even dressed nicely. They packed the large waiting hall, some lingering by the stone-faced receptionist in the corner, while others mingled in small groups, chatting nervously. A guard stood at the entrance, clearly bored out of his mind, but keeping his hand on the crowd-seeder at his hip.

Most of them—far too many—had probably been in the building before Robin had even reached the New Metro border. He’d gotten there too late.

“Kristina has thirty seconds to make the shot.” They were faux-whispering, now. Can’t break the poor girl’s concentration this late in the game now, can they?

“The chamber has been rotated. Gun is up…”

Robin clutched his lucky quarter so tight that his knuckles were bone-white.

“There are plenty of openings,” He repeated to himself, “There are plenty of openings. Plenty. You won’t have to go out as a contestant. You have four years of education behind you. You can do better.”

“It’s coming down to the wire here. Can Kristine pull this off?”

“There are plenty of openings. Plenty of openings. Flyers don’t lie.”

A loud crack shook the waiting room. Nobody flinched.

“Ooooh… It looks like this one’s over folks. Once more, the Grand Prize of two million rotobucks will remain unclaimed. I’d like to take a moment to thank our sponsor, Sargenta Bankers United, and wish our viewers a wonderful holiday weekend! Until next time, I’m Jim…”

“And I’m Dan.”

“And this has been Russian Roulette!”

“Goodnight everybody!”

Robin glanced at the screen, blinking at the wire-cam view of a blood-soaked table occupied by eleven or so slumped bodies.

“Goodnight?” he mumbled, incredulous. The man next to him, a somber fellow with a bit of a paunch and the only other one in the room who seemed to be paying attention to the enormous television screen, turned to him.

“Reruns,” he grunted, rolling his eyes. The wrinkles of unabashed stim use showed on his face, and his breath smelled of alcohol. He was wearing a rumpled tuxedo, missing two buttons and a cufflink, but, nonetheless much fancier than Robin had cared to wear. He looked down at his ratty dress pants and corduroy jacket and frowned.

“I really hope this isn’t black tie.”

“You applying for ‘contest?’” the pudgy man asked, raising a brow in Robin’s direction.

“No. Tech job,” he answered nervously, uncertain how to proceed with the calmly intoxicated man. “Lights. Camerawork, maybe… You?”

He gestures to the television across the room, currently spouting commercials. “Roulette.”

“Mmmm…”

They went back to their anxious waiting. There was nothing more to say.

The commercial break ended quickly, because that’s how the Channel works: always thinking about the viewer, them.

“Well hello there, Mate! Oi’m Kaleb Burnow, and this is Kaleb’s Critters!”

Robin perked up. Kaleb’s Critters? That show was still around?

“Today, we’re on a trek through the jungles of TB-881, hunting for the most dangerous, and, unfortunately, most well-camouflaged creatures around: the Sularan Dragonsnake.”

A man of undeterminable age stood on-screen, facing the camera, a jaunty smile parting his rugged, graying beard, and a jolly twinkle in his sky-blue eyes. He was wearing a canvas snap-up aussie hat, all-khaki clothing, and a leather belt. The absurdity of the outfit was overshadowed only the size of the weapon he was carrying, slung over his shoulder on one muscular arm. The barrel had to be about an inch in diameter, and the gun itself looked like it would knock Robin over if he’d tried to shoot it.

Kaleb Burnow: the man, the myth, the legend, and the most stereotypical expression of Australian manhood on the face of the earth. It was funny now, but when Robin was young, Mr. Burnow was the epitome of masculinity, and, consequently, his idol. He’d loved Kaleb’s Critters and had often forgone homework every Tuesday night when it came on. The season’s were pretty far apart, considering the distance the film crew had to travel and so on, but that was fine by him. He didn’t care, as long as he was able to get his weekly fix of hunting dangerous animals and conquering primitive outworlders.

Robin’s parents allowed it, because, in the larger scheme of things, that was the least violent show on the Channel.

“Hold it, Sage. R’ you getting this? Come closer, mate.” The picture jiggled, likely from “Sage” the cameraman jostling to reach Kaleb, who lay crouched behind a fallen tree. “Right there, ya see it? Sularan woman. Gatherer, Oi take it. Notice the compound eyes that circle ‘round the back of her head: perfect for spotting predators and keeping tabs on the rest a’ her tribe. And the third set of arms, there, used mainly for cradling her young… simply remarkable.”

When Robin had been accepted to IC-U, he stopped watching. This was mainly because anyone caught watching the Channel on school grounds was ostracized as a “commercialist.” Professors lambasted the Channel, the Network, and the Station endlessly, preaching anti-entertainment age lessons from day one. Liberalism in its finest form.

Eventually, Kaleb’s Critters just fell off the face of Robin’s memory… until now. If he hadn’t come to the Channel applications building he probably would still be ignorant of the show’s continued existence. He didn’t watch the television, and no-one ever thinks they’ll ever stoop to applying at the Channel when they leave the University. It was altogether possible that he would never have watched Kaleb again in his lifetime.

“Let’s bag her.” There was a gunshot, followed by a drawn-out, primal wail. Robin watched Kaleb skin the Sularan for a bit, wondering how the Australian Legend could have stayed so fit as he began pointing out the body parts unique to the being he had just “bagged.” It looked like he barely aged a day from when Robin first watched his show as a child. He took a look at the date on the show calendar in the top right of the screen.

July 21st, only a month ago. This was a recent one then, and he wasn’t tricking himself. This was turning out to be a rather interesting day.

Robin watched for a bit, still working the quarter he’d found between his fingers. He quickly became bored, however, and tried to strike up a conversation with the guard at the door. A hard shove and one nasty bruise later, he gave up, and sat waiting, alone. The cold receptionist began nasally droning out names soon afterward.

“Clarissa Aaronson.”

“Alphabetical, last name… there are plenty of spots: I’ve got this,” Robin rapidly calculated, beaming to himself. Finding a position that fit his qualifications would be a snap.

“Canis Jones.”

“Shit… okay… Alphabetical, first name. That’s not too bad.”

“Ronald Berkenhaur.”

Robin cringed and deflated completely, dropping his smile and grimacing in frustration. “Order of arrival... shit…” Hunching his shoulders, Robin prepared himself.

He was in for a long wait.

“Robin Fairweather…”

“Mmmph.” It was too early… Jenna, you cruel mistress.

“Robin Fairweather…”

What could possibly be so important that Jen would wake him after so little rest? Robin smelt no breakfast cooking—the air was actually rather ripe with the stench of carpet oil and monotony, not fried oatcakes, Jenna’s culinary equivalent of a balanced meal—and the steady blaring of a television in the background was strangely soothing. Robin’s girlfriend rarely watched the TV…

“Fairweather?”

A small shiver traveled down Robin’s spine. Damn was it cold. He really needed to get the radiator fixed before he caught a cold. By the sound of Jen’s voice, she already had one. She resonated like a mag-bus recording.

Jenna sighed heavily. “Soto Nihorima.”

“What the fuck?” That was strange. Robin had been living with Jen for nearly three years, and he’d never known she spoke Japanese. “I guess you learn something every day… like how Jenna knows the pin to my bank ca—”

Remembrance jolted Robin awake like an overseer stun-rod. He bolted to his feet from the chair he had been snoring in and glanced frantically about. He was still in the CAS waiting room. Jenna wasn’t there. She’d taken his entire savings and kicked him out of their shared apartment in District Nine. She said he’d never amount to anything and that he owed her for the time he’d lived in her home.

Robin’s heart clenched in his chest, and tears threatened to spill from his leaden eyes, but he held it back. He’d cried enough already, and now it was time to prove her wrong.

“Marian Helms…”

“Shit!” Robin breathed, garnering attention from the few men and women still waiting to be called. Ignoring the stares, he quickly strode over to the receptionist’s desk—“not Jenna”—and fidgeted impatiently behind one Ms. Helmes as she received calculated instructions from the woman at the desk.

Apparently, she was applying for contest on some show called “Roaming Charges.”

When the portly woman finally moved along, escorted to the door behind the front counter by another bored-looking overseer, Robin rushed forward. He placed himself right in front of the emotionless secretary, right between a stack of contest apps and a procession of wood and rubber stamps, lined up like soldiers on parade. “Robin Fairweather. You called me?”

The receptionist—her nametag said “Sue” but her pantsuit screamed “Disgruntled Wage-Laborer”—glared at him, her lips twisted into a sneer of distaste. Her glare never wavering, she rifled through the stack of numbered applications to her left, pulling one out seemingly at random.

“Fairweather,” Sue’s eyes flicked to the paper she’d withdrawn briefly before going back to indignantly glaring into his own. “Technician… You’re lucky: there’s one technical opening left.” She reached into a drawer at her side, whipped out a sheet of reflective, green stickers, placed one on his application, and then stamped it with a rubber brand from the regiment for good measure. “Show this to the officer at the door, and he’ll take you where you need to go. However, if your attention span is as short in the waiting room as it is on the job, I wouldn’t bother. It would save yourself the humiliation.”

“Heh, thanks ma’am, I’ll take that to heart. Oh, and I’m sure you’ll get that promotion you’ve been working so hard for,” Robin replied, simpering as he rounded the desk, paper in hand. “Really, the rug burns are hardly noticeable.”

Not sticking around to witness her reaction, the beaming man slipped through the waiting double-doors and found himself in a hallway of dull, tan drywall and lush carpeting. Another hallway intersected with his own a few yards further. After a quick walk, Robin looked around the corner for the overseer he’d seen leading Ms. Helmes away. Not seeing anyone, he settled for leaning against the wall and waiting. It was then that the tidal wave of relief finally rushed in.

There was an opening! Robin practically shook with anticipation: this was the first techie interview he’d had in months, and he resolved to make it the last one he’d need for months to come. If he nailed this interview, Robin wouldn’t have to pray to make the weekly quota for community service at the ICE office in District Four. Channel positions—as long as they weren’t for “contest”—were generally very steady, consistent occupations, if not exactly glamorous.

Robin hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d gotten past the receptionist. No more meter counting. No more demolition work in the central districts. No more power washing the streets. No more “cadaver clean-up,” and, best of all, no more long hours at the waste compactor. A short bark of laughter escaped Fairweather’s lips, absorbed by the dull, plastered hallway walls.

He fucking hated compactor duty.

Now, finally, Robin could leave that behind and do a job worthy of his education, or, failing that, one that had something to do with electronic maintenance. Hell, he’d even settle for changing on-set light bulbs. As long as he never had to cart another cube of crushed debris, fecal matter, and putrid flesh to the central incinerator in District One, Robin was satisfied.

Maybe, just maybe, Jenna would be too.

Fairweather shook his head, not allowing his good mood a chance to falter. He needed to focus on the interview. Finding a place to sleep that night, and perhaps reconciliation with Jen, could wait until afterward. Robin grinned. He couldn’t wait to tell her: she’d be thrilled.

Footsteps, muffled by the excessive carpeting, sounded from around the corner. The giddy human tensed up a bit, but didn’t lose his smile. Here came the overseer. Robin leaned against the wall, hands at his sides, waiting.

A submissive posture was key. He didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, and overseers were notoriously jumpy.

Robin had been to a fair amount of “peaceful” protests at the University to know that first hand.

The footfalls grew louder, and Robin watched carefully from the corner of his eye as a proud member of Metro’s police force rounded the bend to his left. The officer started and took a step back, his hand lowered to the stun-rod at his belt and causing Robin to flinch. Fairweather kept his eyes low, intent on tracing the holes in his shoes. Passive enough? Probably. An effective deterrent after startling an contest-jockey? Robin could only hope this one was having a good day.

Luckily, the tension died down almost immediately. The overseer gave an annoyed snort and cleared his throat. “Papers,” he gruffly demanded, holding out a gloved palm. The man’s fingers twitched impatiently. Robin let out a breath he was unaware he’d been holding and held his application aloft. The guard quickly snatched it away and began scanning the top row.

He was in his mid-thirties or so: well fed in Robin’s point of view but not quite overweight. The Overseer’s Helm he wore was skewed slightly, the upper-case “C” embossed in its forefront leaping out in contrast with the white casing of the protective headgear. He wore no nametag—few did—and his dark blue uniform was rumpled from overuse. Fairweather felt his eyes drawn to the weapons at the guard’s belt: a short, handle-less, ebony rod and a small firearm. He wondered why contest-jockey’s were so well armed. What’d they expect, a riot in the Channel lobby? Terrorism?

St. Metropolis loved its television. No one would dare strike out at any of the three major stations. If you were crazy enough to try there was no support from the populace; if you were caught, no sympathy either. No… It was more likely that one of the other two stations would stage a raid on the CAS. But even then the chances were slim. If the Network or the Station really wanted to hit a Channel building it would be the television station headquarters in District 24, not Applications Services.

So why the weaponry?

The overseer’s brusque voice snapped Robin back to his senses:

“Cut the staring,” he grunted, eyeing Robin like a jittering sablehound might eye a particularly offending mound of rubbish: with equal amounts disgust and dark anticipation. “You’re in room twenty-two nineteen Mister… Fairweather.” The guard narrowed his eyes, looking Robin up and down one final time before turning and walking down the hall. Robin just stared after him, unsure what to do. Search or follow? “Let’s go, Innie!”

“Follow it is, then.”

Robin rushed to catch up with the overseer while managing to walk at a safe distance behind the gruff officer. He followed for God knows how long, twisting and turning down too many hallways and riding up and down too many elevators to count. The numbers posted on each wooden door alternated without rhyme or reason, leaving the numbly plodding man in a daze. He could have sworn they’d been walking in circles, but, then again, he also could have sworn he never gave his girlfriend the pin to his bank account.

Fairweather groaned, eliciting a glance from the overseer. Thinking like that would get him nowhere, but he couldn’t stop. It just kept cropping up: the love of his life had kicked him out and left him broke on the street. What did it matter that his thoughts were self-defeating anyway? He wasn’t going anywhere, was he?

It was then that he almost ran into the stiff body of his armed escort. They had arrived.

Robin’s nameless overseer stood in front of a polished oak door, just like every other door they’d passed so far. It was one polished slab of wood, adorned with a dull, metal placard with the number 2219 etched into it. Despite the mundane nature of the room’s entrance, Robin felt excitement—along with a heady dose of fear—begin to well up inside him after the seemingly endless trek deeper into the facility. This was it: a chance at an occupation worthy of his education.

The guard grunted something unintelligible and moved away. He receded down the hallway to Robin’s left, his footsteps swallowed by the lush carpet as he disappeared around another corner. Fairweather didn’t care. The door was all that mattered now. With an appropriate level of trepidation, he reached forward and rapped on the cold, oaken wedge between him and the possibility of cold, hard cash.

“Come in,” rasped a voice burdened with a highly cultured Outer City accent. Robin pushed lightly on an indent in the wooden paneling, just above the center of the door, and the polished slab slid into the wall, revealing a modestly decorated office. There were no windows, and the walls were made of the same dull, tan plaster of the hallways behind him. An occasional hanging oddity broke the monotonous expanse of drywall: a painting—watercolor—of the Appalachian Mountain Range, a diploma of sorts on the far wall, a tribal mask made of an indistinguishable red material, interwoven with dried reeds, and, oddly enough, a volleyball situated in the center of a glass case.

In the center of the room, standing tall atop a plastic carpet covering, was a desk: modest, as was the rest of the office. A personal touchboard jutted from the center of the humble mesa, flanked by a bowl of various styluses, a lamp, and a glass nameplate. There were no photographs. Apparently, Mr. Nowell—the gold leaf on his nameplate proclaimed this to be his title—had no immediate family, or even pets, that he found worthy enough to occupy his desk.

Looking at the man now, Robin thought he understood why.

Lounging languidly in an upholstery-coated rolling chair, the man who would be conducting his interview eyed Robin disdainfully. He picked idly at the fibers of his charcoal black suit for a moment before clasping his thin, spectral hands tightly under his pointed chin, drawing attention to the contemptuous frown he wore. A pair of golden irises shone like beacons from his gaunt face, tucked below a swatch of greasy, black hair. Robin was fairly certain those were contacts (they were all the rage with the citizens of New Metro), but when he approached the well-dressed Channel interrogator he couldn’t tell.

Nowell motioned for Robin toward the small chair erected in front of his desk. Fairweather handed him his application, and the ethereal man sneered bitterly. Taking the document, he held the paper between two fingers as if the glossy, ink-scrawled page were a piece of legislative refuse and scanned its surface quietly. They didn’t shake hands.

“So, Mr. Fairweather,” he droned listlessly, pausing mid-thought with a resigned sigh, “It says here you’re a registered citizen of St. Metropolis. What District?”

“Nine.”

“Mhmm… I suspected as much. Previous work experience? This says Office of ‘Ice?’”

“Inner City Employment. I worked a few cycles of community service.” Robin kept telling himself that there was nothing wrong with that, but he couldn’t help but feel embarrassed for admitting it to this man.

Nowell raised an eyebrow. It looked like a greasy caterpillar making love to his forehead. “Mhmmm.” Fairweather tensed. That sound just didn’t sit right with him. Coming from this man, confirmation sounded like an insult. “Just a few procedural questions, now. Please answer these to the best of your… ability.”

“Now he’s just being rude,” Robin thought, struggling to keep his face neutral. “The bastard’s not even trying to hide it anymore.” He held his tongue. Robin knew an altercation here would ruin any chance he had at this position—whatever it was. Besides, to Nowell he was just another Innie, and his so called “rights” meant nothing on Channel property. He couldn’t win.

A reedy whistling noise emanated from the gaunt man’s nostrils as he let out a breath. “Have you ever been accused or convicted of any commercial misdeeds, felonies, or crimes against the city of St. Metropolis, the Province of New England, or the Republic of Western Nations? If so, what were the results of the proceedings?”

“I have committed no memorable crimes to speak of.”

“Mhmm,” Mr. Nowell crooned, leaning forward to tap a small stylus to the screen of his touchboard. Fairweather winced: that sound was becoming quite irritating. “Have you ever aided in petition for, participated in, or incited a riot with the express purpose of damaging this station—either aesthetically, financially, or in repute?”

“No.”

“Right. Have you ever used stims, sable dust, raid-lite, or any other type of artificial mood-boosters, performance implants, or psychoactive drugs?”

“… Yes,” Robin conceded after a short pause, “but at the University everyone dusts up at least once a term. I tried a line of sable one year in and got a bloody nose.” He paused again, looking across the desk to gauge Nowell’s reaction. “Never tried it again after that.”

The dark-haired man seemed to perk up a little. “University?”

Feeling a minute surge of hope, Robin continued. “Inner City graduate… I was in the class three summers back.” Nowell seemed to consider his answer for a moment before his eyes narrowed.

“Who was your ‘Modern Philosophy’ professor?” he sneered, leaning back in his chair haughtily. He thought Robin was lying! How many people came in claiming they went to IC-U to warrant such suspicion? It was true that applicants for contest and employment at the three stations centered in St. Metro were rarely highly academic—that was probably why there was no “educational background” portion of the application—but did that really warrant so much skepticism when someone came in claiming they’d graduated from IC-U: one of the least prestigious colleges in the area? No matter, Fairweather would play along.

“Sorenson. Gene Sorenson.” It was the truth.

Nowell looked surprised, but the emotion didn’t last. “Degenerates of a Generation?”

“Zemo Woon.” Once again, the truth.

The interviewer didn’t miss a beat this time. “Commercial Cultures of the Western Republics?”

“Professor Ronald Hosmer.” This was getting old, but Robin knew he had this man beat. Nowell’s sneer slowly turned upward into a genuine smile. It was the grin of a confidant in some great, disgusting conspiracy: one that spoke volumes, implicating Fairweather in some age-old plot; that of the educated.

Robin felt more comfortable with the sneer.

“An IC-U man, eh?” Nowell groused. He gestured toward the diploma hanging from the wall to his left with a sweep of his thin arm. “It’s good to meet a fellow alumnus. Tell me, what do you make of Professor Sorenson’s recent refusal of tenure?”

Fairweather squinted at the dutifully framed papers on the western wall in disbelief. This man? A graduate of Inner City University?! Seeing a student of the most liberal institution in the Northeast Province employed at a major station was exceedingly rare: working as a man of the Channel—the least intellectually conscious of the bunch—no less! No one coming out of the IC-U ever saw themselves in a Channel office, so what was this man doing there? Shit, what was Robin doing there? Why?

Money? Self-assurance?

Jen?

Whatever the reason, Robin’s interview just became that much less stressful. He didn’t know whether to be disgusted or relieved.

“Honestly, sir, I thought Sorenson was a nutcase. His views on the nature of morality are antiquated and not conducive to progress. I’m not surprised to hear he was refused tenure: he’s too controversial.” Judging from the unpleasant little man’s growing smile, Robin had said exactly what he’d wanted to hear.

“I always thought exactly the same thing! He’s truly an artifact of the 21st Century,” Nowell ranted, the conspiratorial smile never faltering. He leaned in closer: “What house were you?”

“D’antonine: the engineering dorms,” Robin droned.

“I was in Scalia,” Nowell countered, smirking. “A technical major, eh? Anyone ever tell you that was a bad idea?”

“Yes…” Fairweather hesitated, “Uh… shouldn’t we get back to the questions?”

Nowell scoffed and waved an arm in negation. “Oh there’s no need for that: those were just useless procedural requirements. You’re perfectly qualified for this position.”

Robin let out an enormous breath of relief. He got the job…

“Wait, um, Mr. Nowell, sir?”

“There’s no need to be so formal Fairweather,” the gaunt man reached across his touchpad and shook Robin’s hand. “Call me Simon.”

“Sure… Simon…” Robin fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment. “What responsibilities am I expected to uphold while in this… position?”

“Oh the usual: maintenance and operations of the recording equipment for our next expedition. If you do a good job, the Channel will consider renewing your contract for the following year...”

Camerawork. That was fine. Robin hadn’t expected anything prestigious, but he was nonetheless slightly disappointed. He had studied computer programming and maintenance of complex electrical systems for his entire college career, and the only vocation he could find was being a camera grunt for a television station. Still… it was much better than community service.

Simon was still rambling about the process of contract renewal in that reedy, unpleasant voice of his when Robin was struck by something he’d said earlier. He patiently waited for Nowell to finish his lecture on “acceptable applicant behavior” and cleared his throat.

“You said ‘expedition’ earlier,” he said. “What, exactly, did you mean by that?”

Nowell gave him a blank look. “You… You don’t know? Didn’t Ms. Stebbins in the lobby explain the nature of the opening?”

“She might’ve, but she wasn’t exactly civil abo—” Robin was cut off by the whisk of an automatic door and the soft thud of boots on the bottomless, plush carpet of the hallway behind him. A deep, jovial voice boomed from the doorway:

“Oi! Simon! We take care a’ Sage’s replacement ye—oh!”

Robin swiveled around slowly, aware of only one thing: a familiar, Australian accent. It couldn’t be. Not possible…

He finished his turn and recoiled internally. There stood six foot four inches of muscle, graying hair, and khakis topped with a rumpled, dun-colored hat that shaded a pair of piercing green eyes and a dazzlingly white smile. Robin was face-to-face with him.

The man.

The myth.

The legend.

A huge, sun-bronzed hand rose in the still air before the stunned man, and Robin quickly took it, calmly losing his grip on reality.

“Hello there,” the man said, “I’m Kaleb Burnow.”