Tanith Lee - Indigara--Or, Jet and Otis Conquer the World.pdf

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Tanith Lee was born in 1947 in London, England. Though she was unable to read until almost the age of
eight, she began writing at the age of nine. After school she worked as a library assistant, shop assistant,
a filing clerk and a waitress. She spent one year at art college.
To date she has published almost eighty novels, thirteen short story collections and well over 250 short
stories. Four of her radio plays were broadcast by the BBC and she wrote two episodes of the BBC TV
cult SF series Blake’s Seven. Firebird has published her Claidi Journals (Wolf Tower, Wolf Star, Wolf
Queen, and Wolf Wing), and her picaresque novel Piratica.
She has twice won the World Fantasy Award for short fiction, and was awarded the August Derleth
Award in 1980 for her novel Death’s Master.
Tanith Lee lives with her husband, the writer and artist John Kaiine, on the southeast coast of England.
Her Web site is www.tanithlee.com
1
OTIS’S DISKRIPT
The problem was that on that day I was supposed to go in for my half-yearly service.
The company, S C Deluxe, had smailed the Latters. But at the last moment, of course, Turquoise’s role
was confirmed in the top-budget movie Fall of Super Troy. There was no way at all that the parental
Latters would miss taking Turquoise and her sisters to Ollywood. And so my appointment was canceled.
Naturally all Simulate Canine products are guaranteed for each full year, even if a single service is missed.
It should, however, preferably not be missed. Tiny things can go wrong, as S C Deluxe’s manual informs
all proud owners of a robot dog. But, as so often happens, the Latters had only skimmed the manual, and
it goes without saying no one consulted me.
Instead, everything was gotten ready in a rush, and two days after, we were all aboard transocean flight
701 XY. Though I, of course, traveled in a crate in the hold.
Jet’s Journal
One day I shall kill Turquoise. I’ll boil her in honey and spread her on the front lawn. Or I’ll drown her in
a vat of warm bottled water and her most expensive shampoo. Or—
Or maybe I’ll kill Amber first.
Yes. That’s the best idea.
Save Amber from herself.
Because Amber is already awful, and in another year or so Amber is going to be just as
bad—unbelievable, but a fact—or worse. Than Turquoise.
Basically Turquoise is eighteen and Amber is sixteen.
People seem to change at about sixteen. Or they both did. Though I don’t mean people actually, I mean
sisters. Mine.
I am fourteen, and when I was ten and Amber was twelve and Turquoise was fourteen, we were all fine,
or so I thought. Then one day Turquoise turned into a bitch-on wheels, and Amber, who was fourteen,
and I, who was twelve, said, What has gotten into that damn Turquoise ? This day was, in fact, about
two months after Turquoise’s sixteenth birthday, when we all went to Dazzleland. And since then
Turquoise has gone from worse to worstest. But meanwhile Amber became sixteen, and on her very
birthday I thought, What has gotten into that damn Amber? She is a bitch on wheels.
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Sometimes I wonder if it will happen to me when I’m sixteen. But if it does, there’ll be only me to
wonder what’s gotten into that damn Jet, who will then be a b-on-w.
No, I don’t think it’ll happen to me.
I’m not like them at all.
I mean, Turquoise is tall and curvy and has long, long blond hair and huge blue (turquoise, you see) eyes.
And Amber is tall and more curvy and has blue eyes and red (amber, you see) hair.
And Jet (me) is short and skinny and has wiry very black (yeah, you guessed it, jet black) hair and (jet
black) eyes. And while my sisters are, I have grudgingly to admit, stunning to look at, I am nothing to
look at—as I have very recently found out for sure, when not only Georgis Hann but also my backup
possibility, Scott Paperley, ignored me, both in class and out of class, all year. Also I’m not (apparently)
Artistic, like Turquoise, or (apparently) Unusual, like Amber. I just am. I mean, I’m just alive and getting
on with living.
Which is, frankly, more than enough to cope with.
Sometimes I think of the old story of Cinderella, in a new form. There is the one poor Ugly Sister, jet
black Cinder-hairy, bullied and lorded over by the two horrible Beautiful Sisters, and if anyone’s going to
the Ball, it isn’t going to be Cinder-hairy. Anyway, you wouldn’t catch me in a glass slipper. Not with my
big feet.
I suppose you could say the Ball happened for Turquoise, at least, last Fiveday, when the smail came in
that said she’d landed the part in the movie FOST.
Oh, the scenes. She cried for joy and so did Mom and Dad, and so did Amber. But then she got jealous
and cried without joy in the downstairs bathroom with the shower running so no one could hear her
sniffling— I want it— I want to be in movies —only I did hear.
And what did I do? Nothing.
And in the end Mom said to me, “Honey, aren’t you pleased Turquoise is going to play Helenet’s Third
Damsel in Fall of Super Troy?”
And I said, “Sure.”
And Amber, just out of the shower, said, “My eyes are red because soap went in them, but Jet’s just a
jealous, nasty little kid. Everything always has to be about her.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’m really jealous. I’d rather be eaten alive by a crocodile with blunt teeth than play Third
Damsel to Helenet.”
And Mom said, “Oh, girls.”
And Dad said, “Just going for a round of golf.”
And Mom said, “Only think, Jet, we’re all going to fly out to Ollywood. Now isn’t that exciting?”
“Sure,” I said.
Is it?
Exciting?
I mean, perhaps it is.
Only I know how it’ll go.
It’ll be Turquoise this and Turquoise that and don’t upset Turquoise and nobody make a noise
because Turquoise is learning her lines with her electro learn-a-lot , and now we must go to this
showbiz party that will last until seven the next morning earthclocktime , and where everyone will
be all over Turquoise and perhaps Amber, and Mom and Dad will drink champagne Sec (or Sick, as I
call it) and get giggly and hold hands or dance together to some old, ancient music by Coldplay or
Eminem, and no one will say a word to me and I will be so completely glad they don’t as I will have died,
due to boredom or Mom-Dad embarrassment.
But I guess it’s exciting.
Ollywood is the movie capital on Planet Obelisk.
It’s called after some long-ago old actor. Horrel Lardy, I think was his other name. And he was two
people. No, that’s not right . . .
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Anyhow it’s now one in the morning, earthclocktime. And I have my last class in school tomorrow.
Where Georgis and Scott can really ignore me properly before this semester ends.
Night, all. Night, Otis.
(I like Otis. He switches off circuits at night to pretend he’s asleep.)
Otis is a gentleman. Even if he’s a dog. (His fur, in this low light, is all tufted and silvery.) A robot dog,
Deluxe.
STUDIOCITY: OVERVIEW
Flight 701 XY lands with a slight bump, for which the robo-pilot apologizes. Apparently there is a flood
of weed-guano on the runway. Since weed-guano can spring up inside of five minutes, despite the
wonders of technology, no one can ever quite get ahead of it.
A polished, nine-seater slinkousine picks the Latters up from the airport. They are by now escorted by
two execs and one producer’s assistant from the studios.
But there has already been a press rush.
Turquoise has been cameradioed for twenty minutes, posing this way, now that, speaking of how happy
she is to have been chosen for Third Damsel. An exec finally detaches Turquoise, and she and everyone
else are whisked away in the slinko to their hotel in Studiocity. Their luggage follows in another vehicle.
Otis, still in his crate, is included with this, but in the trunk.
Studiocity lies behind seventy-foot-wide, two-hundred-foot-high gates of platinebony, under red banners
that carry in gold the Studiocity logo: DREAM-SPINNERS TO THE PLANET.
Desert palms and forest cedars also tower hundreds of feet high along the broad white Avenue of Fame
and Fortune. Classical-looking buildings soar on all sides. The perfect weather-controlled sky is the
deepest blue.
Then the hotel building appears.
It is shaped like a gigantic white swan.
High on the vast curved neck, two golden eyes in the swan’s head are the windows of a colossal
banquet-ballroom.
“Oh,” says Turquoise.
“Ohh,” says Amber.
Mom murmurs to Jet, “Look at that, honey.”
Jet says, “Oh sure. The duck.”
OTIS’S DISKRIPT
Unfortunately the Latter house robot had not packed me very well. Had I not been switched off for the
journey, I could have put this right, but Mr. Latter had insisted I switch off before packing. He gets
nervous about all property.
The result of the mistake was that no sooner did my auto-system wake me in the hotel, switch me back
on, and I stood up, than my left hind leg fell off.
I was forced to spend several minutes trying to make the in-apartment robot understand what was
needed. The machine seemed to believe I was human and so called a medic. Then it became certain I
was an animal-dog and called a vet. Just after the proper maintenance had arrived, and my leg was being
put right, two men with a stretcher burst in, soon followed by the vet.
Luckily the Latters had all gone to have brunch with some studio people.
Once I had explained, the medics laughed and went. The vet was harder to get rid of.
He was still there when Jet reappeared unexpectedly. She managed to get him to leave, though he then
seemed of the opinion I was an animal and Jet was the robot. I assumed he was insane. Jet flung herself
on a couch.
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I sat down and looked at her attentively, the way she likes. I even put on the little soft glow light in my
eyes. She seemed very unhappy.
“Guess what they wanted for brunch—those awful execs and Turquoise—even Mom and Dad.
Pan-fried dashcashy. Oh, and Amber had swamp-wasp pâté.”
“That is bad?”
“Very bad. I had eggs earthside-up and a muffin. Then I said I was tired.”
She sighed.
I went over and jumped up beside her, and she leaned on me.
“There’ll be at least three months of this,” she said. “At home even school stops for the weekend. So
that’s just six days of hell and then three days off for—well, only home-hell.”
We gazed together from the window at the tops of pines. A faint trail of weather-controlled fluffy clouds
was passing overhead. Red and gold smoke-writing swirled over, too, reading: OLLYWOOD,
CAPITAL OF DREAMS.
But already I could see a little patch of weed-guano growing by the edge of the window. I correctly
predicted that, by the time the hotel systems were alerted and crawled out to it, it would be the size of a
soccer ball.
SETTLINGIN: MONTAGE
Prefilming began on Oneday.
Turquoise’s personal exec took charge of her, and Turquoise, who was already installed in her own
separate hotel, began to turn into a remote other being, nothing much to do with her family anymore.
She became the Third Damsel, whose name was Ariasta.
Turquoise, when or if they met for lunch or dinner, had been swallowed by her role.
“He says we must live our parts. On set or off. At all times.”
Dad was all over the place with pride, horror, and grief, when Turquoise-Ariasta would eat only
ash-plums for lunch, and drink only red grape juice with a spoonful of Rise-and-Shine in it. Also because
she came to meals if not in costume, then in costume-type floaty robes, her eyes all full of Ollywood
dreams, whispering her lines of (stilted sounding) dialogue to the bread and butter.
“He says nothing matters but the movie. Until the movie is done, we belong to it. And to him.”
“Does he?” said Dad. “This guy—”
“Hush, honey,” said Mom in her briskly gentle not-now-dear voice.
He, the guy—one of the most famous directors of modern Ollywood—specialized in the Epic Picture.
He had made Son of Beowulf Unchained and Building Rome in a Day . His name was Rector Pandion,
but everyone, Turquoise had told them, called him Reck. Because he was “reckless,” a risk taker, and
would try anything in his work for the sake of Art.
Turquoise, though, had begun to look even lovelier than usual. The now daily routine of steam baths,
massage, facials, makeup, and hairstyling, perhaps even the steady diet of plums and juice and
Rise-and-Shine, made her gleam.
“The sheen on her hair,” Jet remarked to Otis, “blinds you. You need to put on shades to look at her.
Not,” she added, “that I do, much.”
Amber sulked. She, too, went on a diet—asparagus. She, too, went to Studiocity’s baths and massages,
and to exercise classes. She had an exercise bike brought to the family’s rooms in the hotel, and spent
two hours a day pedaling on it noisily.
“She’s like a hamster on a hamster wheel,” said Jet.
Mom and Dad, apart from Dad’s worries over Reck, grew young, silly, and carefree. They swam and
went dancing. They were often out late. Jet felt like a parent. She frowned when they didn’t come in until
dawn and then slept in till noon.
Jet and Otis walked the wide avenues of Studiocity, the Avenue of Award-Winning Stars, the Avenue of
Fame Forever. They found a park and ran races, Otis tactfully letting Jet win one race in three—which
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she knew, but tactfully pretended she didn’t.
“Jet’s great feet are getting even bigger,” said Amber. “It’s all that walking and running. You’re not
eleven now, Jetty. Haven’t you heard of proper exercise programs, in class?”
“Your butt has gotten bigger, too,” said Jet thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s from sitting on that bike.”
Amber screamed.
Next day Reck invited Dad for a drink in some glass bubble of office miles up in some building, and Dad
came back saying what a great guy Reck was after all.
Turquoise now made everyone play parts at dinner. “I mean, not parts actually in the movie. But so I can
go on getting in the right mood for Ariasta. Perhaps you could all act lesser servants. Yes, that’s it.”
All through the meal, if she spoke to any of them, it was an order: “Fetch me that salt hither, slave.”
Mom only beamed and passed the salt.
Not even Dad recoiled when Turquoise addressed him with “Fie, rodent, back to your hovel.” To
Amber, Turquoise said, “You shall be whipped.” When Amber dared to join in this playact with: “Spare
me, mighty Damsel,” Turquoise returned to planet with a thump. “Oh, don’t try and improvise, Damber,
please. You don’t know how to do it. And now you’ve spoiled my concentration.”
To Jet, Turquoise said little or nothing. None of them now said much to Jet. Jet became invisible.
Jet’s Journal
She has only fifteen lines in all.
I’ve counted them. I’ve had enough chance; all she does is say them over and over. Also I played back
the learn-a-lot yesterday.
Fifteen lines. About fifty words.
Most of them are: Yes, Lady. Which she says to this Helenet princess, who’s in love with the hero whose
name I forget—but he’s played by Bronze Shunk, who Amber collapses at. He once walked through the
restaurant. All the females swooned (even Mom looked odd). Not me. He’s all muscles, but his face is
too small, just like his eyes are. Well, I think so. But I suppose if you’re eight feet tall as he is, your head
and eyes are a long way off, so maybe they just look smaller. (I think Georgis Hann is better looking,
even though he’s only fifteen and ignores me.)
We’ve now been here three weeks; that’s twenty-seven days. Sorry. Twenty-seven millennia.
Had a weird dream last night.
Dreamed the weed-guano was back on the window, but now it was deep blue and there were berries
growing in it. And then a fish—that is, a FISH—swam through it.
And I could hear this musical sound, on and on, quite tuneful. It was like—what’s it called—an oboe,
that old instrument they still have in some orchestras. But you can’t hear anything from outside through
the glass, ever. And no one in our rooms had on a telecine, or music center. And Amber wasn’t even on
her hamster bike. And all the soundstages here are soundproof anyway, inside and out.
I met this guy in the westside park. He’s old, I guess about thirty or something. He was feeding the birds
despite notices saying DON’T FEED THE BIRDS. So I sort of liked that.
Then he said he liked Otis.
Mom and Dad always say, Don’t talk to strangers . They are completely right, and I don’t, but
sometimes you can just exchange a word or two, because otherwise it gets stupid.
So I said that yeah, Otis was good.
Then he asked was Otis an S C Deluxe, and although most sane people (unlike that insane hotel vet)
realize Otis is a robot, few get the brand. I never mind so much if they make a comment as long as they
recognize Otis is extra special.
When I agreed, the guy—whose name is Ben—said he’d known someone years back who’d had an S
C Deluxe, and that one was pretty great, but Otis is fantastic.
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