TRIPOLI.
‘Don’t be intimidated by jargon and formulas.’ Non realized the road was his local geodesic — the simple path. ‘Physics is simple only when analyzed locally. Meanwhile, horse hungry. Get food.’ A vendor with snacks played Pop Corn Man by the Kidoodlers.
“Hey, equitaur, sack of apples for a dime?” An anthro rabbit boy offered a bag.
“Long haulers can’t afford that much for apples,” scoffed a nearby human boy.
Apple merchants [https://i.imgur.com/QUCSXg4.png]
Under the dimming sky, the equitaur looked over the plaza for the medieval-style town of Tripoli, then back to the boys. ‘It’s a scam,’ Non noted to himself. The rabbit and human had tried a good cop-bad cop routine over a pennyworth of apples. But the lagomorph–or leporine–got his species name right, which lent respect towards their hustle. “Deal.” Non exchanged a tenth of a planck for the bag.
“That big book has an apple on its cover,” said the rabbit. “Coincidence!”
The taur shook his mane. “Without coincidence, there is no story.”
“Gravy ...Gravitation,” the human boy noted as Non placed the book and sack of apples in his cart. In the distance, a loud rumble caught his attention. Suddenly a carriage careened around a corner, moving so quickly that two wheels left the ground as it tilted to the right. He snatched the boys and barely moved his cart to the side in time. A minotauress coachee whipped two lathered Percherons, with a unicorn pulling a cart of blurred cerulean bulges close behind. Non braced, ready to shield the boys with his body as they galloped past. Non took a mental snapshot, intending to report the reckless driving later.
“It’s that minotaur lady we couldn’t understand!” said the human boy. “Last night, she told us to egress the rag-fair. Then she went looking for roborants, whatever those are.”
“We could tell she was mean,” said the rabbit boy as Non set them down. The boys waved as they ran off to get more apples. The taur watched his wheel alignment after the sudden cart maneuver, then continued onward when sure that no damage had been done.
‘Couldn’t understand? Egress the rag-fair? Roborants? Did the minotauress swallow a thesaurus?’
Others eyed the equitaur as he made his way down the street. The four Fs of animal instinct — feeding, fighting, fleeing and mating — demanded awareness of a half metric ton beast, especially after the minotaur’s careless egregiousness. But he acted aware and careful. Animal instincts satisfied, they let him trot by. Soon, the attention left him entirely as others prepared for the eclipse and pointed to half-crescents in the tree shadows. ‘Don’t stare at the sun.’
“One moment, equitaur.” A human with a badge stepped up, armed with paperwork.
“How can I assist you?” inquired Non, coming to a stop.
“Agent level health warning for you from the GCC for your counterpart on Earth.” The sheriff handed over forms and the Handbook for Earthself Departure. “I know this may be a difficult time for you, and if you need a place to rest and absorb this information, you can stay at my office, the green two-story over there. Follow the book’s instructions and then decide for yourself.”
“Thanks. Is this just another warning? What’s the reason for the book?”
“An urgent warning. Read over the printout. If you have questions, you know where to find me.”
“I’ll get off the road. I can see the green house, maybe I’ll stop by. Thanks.” Non looked for an escape from the town bustle for a moment of quiet. He halted near a woman selling beets.
Non compared the newest health warning letter to earlier letters with generic preparations for an Earth visit and a full memory upload. It entailed how to get cleaned up (large quadruped edition), opting out of being a backup, and what to tell friends and family about personality changes. He reflected back to the time he had helped a dolphin merman with the change. ‘You can breathe underwater now, Don.’ He shook the thought away. Shouldn’t get distracted.
Memory update: Pills. Tea. Groceries delivered. Lots of rain. Haircut and shower. Tycho barking at the vacuum. Unclog the vacuum. Chop onion, carrot and celery for mirepoix. Add to tiling database. Stream Muppet Show.
Every day Non got these memory updates. Could this be the last one? To balance worry, he hummed the theme song that followed Kermit’s “It’s the Muppet Show with guest star Roger Moore!”
A person halted nearby, interrupting Non’s attempt to uplift his spirits with music.
“I hope you don’t mind. I’m Max.”
Non turned to look at the human. “Is this place reserved? I can move.”
“No, you’re fine, right where you are. Excuse me,” Max said, rubbing the back of his neck with a slightly paint-stained hand. “I couldn’t help but notice you from the balcony up there, using these old binoculars of mine. You see, I’ve been keeping an eye out for some new and interesting scenes to capture with my brush.” He gestured toward the easel box, unmistakably belonging to an artist. “Your stride is so graceful and elegant, it reminded me of a Friesian. That’s the breed, right? Just absolutely magnificent. And when you were by that popcorn shop, I noticed how you changed your steps, probably to match the music that plays there. Then the kids came up to you with apples, and you saved them from that speeding carriage. Your lively steps came back, and that’s when it dawned on me—I just had to draw you. But then, the sheriff had a word with you, and your cheerful gait vanished as you made your way over here. Now that I see that handbook, it all makes sense.” Max smiled apologetically. “It’s seldom a pleasant book to read.”
Non couldn’t help but smile back. “Thanks for checking on me, Max. I doubt I’m worthy of art.”
“Everything has artistic value,” Max declared, his eyes igniting with passion. “But I shouldn’t start on that. I’m headed to the big library. Need some company? If you need to go, I promise to deliver your cart.”
“Sure, hop in. I’m Non. Non Sequitur the Equitaur. Feel free to move the books.”
The artist climbed in. “Thanks. My guy got dementia.” The human tossed his easel into the cart as he spoke about his own experience. “He’s lived a full life. I’m ready to go. Then the memories get hazy and stop. He dies, but there’s nothing left to back up. No finale, no Earth visit. And no cure here, either.”
Once the human had settled in his cart, the taur returned to the road. “No Earth visit? That’s rough. So, Max, are you an artist, or are those just props?”
“Props? Do you think these might be props? How could I press the button of skepticism more?”
Non pondered. “Make a bad sketch of me?”
“Maybe I don’t like my own stuff; I just draw anyways. There’s a Faulkner quote.”
“An artist is a creature driven by demons. He doesn’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why,” quoted Non.
“What a memory! On a good day, I can only recall trivia like This Old Man having numbers one to ten.”
The knick-knack paddywhack earned the artist Non’s laugh. “There’s a trick to it. Regardless, you seem happy. You must like doing what you’re doing enough for it to be worth the effort you put into it.”
“Enough to be worth it. Reminds me of another quote. There’s one thing a rich person can never have: enough. Something the Catch-22 guy once told Vonnegut. I just moved them onto the Howard Garis books. Maybe I can say this stoically.” Max deepened his voice. “Of course, he was just quoting Seneca.”
“I’ll try to say this cynically.” Non added snark to his voice. “Seneca was quoting Diogenes.”
“You’ve read Tom Swift! I’ll take your word for it. Myself? I’m a man of simple tastes. A good breakfast and time to sketch and I’m happy.” The human held up his sketchbook to Non’s back. “Is your pattern changing? I’m sketching you, but the splotch left to your mane moved.”
“My skin has chromatophores, and my follicles have pilomotor rotators that allow pattern changes. Every hair is black on the right and white on the left, like Frank Gorshin on Star Trek when he played a Cheron. Here’s a clockwise rotation.” As Non briskly trotted, he changed to a seemingly pure black coat, with the longer hair, tail, mane and wrist-ankle stockings, turning a chaotic darker gray. “Here’s a widdershins twist.” Non transitioned to a completely white coat. “And now mixed deasil and counterclockwise.” Non skewed to a zebra pattern before returning to random piebald splotches.
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“Wow! Hard to draw you incorrectly, then. And a glorious uncolored encolure. Is that the right word for the mane of a horse?”
“Encolure? I … don’t know,” said the equine, ingloriously.
“Your Earth self must have a liking for fantasy art.”
“How did you figure– right, I’m an equitaur,” he laughed. His tone shifted to one more somber. “Yeah.”
“It’ll be all right.” The human reassured him before reaching down into the cart. “Is the journal with the big W yours? Wait, no, an N with tildes top and bottom.”
“It’s the letter eñe, Ñ, pronounced nyah, with a gravitas squiggle on the bottom, Ñ̰. I used to have a name that was a homophone of Non Sequitur. My original first name turned into British slang, and I hoped the tildes would stop the bullying,” said Non, sighing. “Didn’t work. I abandoned the pun-based name.”
Max pieced together the hints. “You’re worried that your Earthself won’t approve of a name change? Don’t fret. You’ve done worse, I’ll guarantee it. A new inhabitant is about to enter your mind, someone who will uncover every secret. Are you prepared?” The artist had caught the hesitation and delved in deeper.
“I hope I am. I frequently question my worth.”
“You seem like a decent enough chap. Do you work for Lernea the Hydra?”
Non paused briefly, his hearts momentarily offbeat. ‘Have I given away something?’ The frantic thought crossed his mind before he remembered: ‘Oh, right, we’re headed to the library. And the cart is labeled.’
“Thanks–yes, I’m taking these books to her library.” He looked back to see the artist sketching in his journal. “You aren’t Audubon, are you?”
“Me? Audubon? I did paint a gryphon and phoenix the other day, but no. Your strange question intrigues me.”
Non confessed. “I’ve worked for Lernea for years. This morning she told me she’d met Audubon while enslaved. An ivory-billed woodpecker wounded her. Audubon talked with her and sketched in her journal. She’s hunted for The Birds of America for two centuries. This morning, we found a copy.” He saw the artist pale. “Oh, it’s not in the cart. You’re not sitting on it.”
“Whew. That explains a bit. Not a secret to share with a wandering artist.”
“I know. I might need a change of job soon anyways,” said Non. “I’m not sure he’d approve of hauling books for a hydra.”
“Hah, maybe not. But don’t fret over it. If you’d like, I could narrate the prep book to get your mind off things. It seems like you need it.”
After considering it, Non passed the Handbook for Earthself Departure back to Max.
Max theatrically cleared his throat a few times before beginning to read aloud. “By the Galactic Core Corps. Congratulations, you’re green level! You’ve gotten memory updates for ten years or more. By all checks, you and your Earthself should mesh wonderfully. The other ratings are yellow: concern and red: complications.” The artist paused and the sound of rustling papers filled the air. “Here, take these forms.”
Non carried and messily completed forms while the artist read, paying attention to potential issues with memory transfers and Earth visits. Until he’d slept, he’d need to share body control. To the tune Funeral March of a Marionette, he thought ‘I’ll walk at my guest’s behest. A puppet without protest.’
Max hesitated at a question in the book. “Does a character sheet exist for you?”
Non’s equine nose reddened. “Yes, in many systems, from Aberrant to Zweihänder.”
Max nodded, flipped through a few pages, and resumed discussing Earth’s hazards.
“Finally, the last page: Just as your memories have been collected, your writings and Earth libraries have been collected to the extent possible. Ask your agent if you have questions or concerns. In the meantime, our condolences for your last day of Earth memories and best wishes for your new, enhanced life here. And they lived happily ever after.”
Non laughed at the fairy tale addition as he finished the forms: Questions, Junk to Get and Note to Self. “I can only hope. Thanks. I feel calmer now.”
“You’re welcome. Let’s switch gears with a pop quiz. Your Earthself wakes up in a new body. What do you say to the transition agent?”
Non tried to think like his Earthself. "Did I just get Isekaied?"
Max looked up at the funny word. "I don't know what that means."
"Isekai means otherworld. The main character steps through a portal into another world."
"Keep those thoughts in mind for in your near future. What are the rules for a healthy memory overlay?”
“Never talk to yourself. Never think to yourself,” said Non. “Introspection can lead to a permanent split. Focus on merging, not separating. Leave no trace. Don’t create a crime scene.”
“I meant to bring that up. Crime scenes, they’re a lot like a painting, really. Each one has its own unique composition, its own story to tell.” Max paused, stroking his chin in contemplation. “It’s fascinating how each detail, no matter how small, plays a vital role, just like the brushstrokes in a piece of art. It’s all about connecting the dots, figuring out how those seemingly insignificant elements fit together to reveal the bigger picture. There will be a body on the scene where you’re headed. Avoid it. Whatever happens to your Earthself, the mystery behind it has to stay as is. Now, we skipped the character sheet section. Will you be going to a zone with augmented reality, with eye implants and stuff? Fake weapons?”
“I do have implants, but just for calls with friends.”
Max chuckled. “Sure. On Earth, it’s cell phones. I’m glad I’ve avoided that distortion of my perspective.”
“I’ve experimented with augmented reality during vacations. Dion has a great zone, including more than half of Mount Olympus. But to get seriously into it you need to know everchanging exploits.”
“I’ll say a few magic words: ‘Access Central Character Control Working Concept.’ You should get something. You’ve just placed a copy on your back. Can you make the font larger? Yes, there we go.”
| GAME SYSTEM: DICEBAG (FATE VARIANT).
| ACTION STATS (4D3-8): DRAMA 1, IDEA 1, CARE 1, EVADE 0, BODY 2, ASAP 1, GRIT 1.
| CLASS: HARLEQUIN.
| CONCEPT: BOOK HAULER FOR A HYDRA.
| TROUBLES: ESCAPIST, EQUIVOQUE, EURION, NOTIPHOBIA.
| TRAITS: REGENERATION, EIDETIC MEMORY, PILOMOTOR ROTATORS, CHROMATOPHORES (GRAYSCALE).
| TALENTS: MATHEMATICIAN, PROGRAMMING, PATTERN CONTROL, PING (MEASUREMENT).
| SKILLS:
| +4: MATHEMATICS, PHYSIQUE.
| +3: ACADEMICS, ACROBATICS, NOTICE.
| +2: ATHLETICS, FIGHT, INVESTIGATE, LOGIC, NATURE, PERFORM.
| +1: CONTACTS, CRAFT, DECEPTION, DIPLOMACY, EMPATHY, STEALTH, SURVIVAL, WILL.
“What’s an action stat? I’m used to stats like Strength and Luck,” asked Max.
“Here’s an action. I will move the heavy bookcart forward. What stats could apply? My equine Body is doing the work. I’d get +2 on the roll. In online posts, they promote succinct actions.”
“I get it. I’ll clear my throat and return to my best reading voice.”
“Exactly. You’d get a Care bonus for that.”
“I was going for Drama. Your character page serves as a predictive assessment only. Many details may be in flux and may change again after a full merge.” Max continued reading until he’d finished the skipped part. “And back to happily ever after. There’s an optional section on character goals.”
“Goals? My Earthself wants more critical thinking in the world. I want to get back home and sleep.”
Max closed the book, then touched a part of the taur's scrolling body pattern. "Your chyron says you're a harlequin? I recall that type of fool serves as a foil for rich-poor relations."
"My brother's named Chyron. Are you familiar with the wild hunt, Herlaþing, a legion of demon horses led by King Herla? Harlequin derives from that particolored herd."
"Do you satirize the absurdities of the ruling class? Do you disarm people with your distinctive appearance, while exposing the lies of the arrogant?"
The backseat talk took Non aback. "Well, I do have an ever-changing piebald pattern and I'm good with acrobatics. Also, I speak softly and carry a big stick that's basically an Olympic bar." Non halted the cart and pulled a strap, then suddenly rolled off-road, coming back up holding one of the poles formerly attached to his cart and body. He did a fancy twirl with it, much like the swordsman shot by Indiana Jones.
Max chuckled at the display. "So that's your slapstick? In commedia, a Zanni performed as an astute foreign worker who was also a trickster, able to adapt quickly within improvisational acts."
"I'm good at adapting." Non returned to his cart, then turned to profile his long equine nose. "Zanni wore masks where the length of the nose indicated the level of zaniness. Hence the word zany."
Max continued his sketches as they resumed their journey, then mused aloud. "Are you sure that zany comes from Zanni? Two related events might not necessarily be related. My mention of the rich earlier didn’t imply the developer of Harlequinade, John Rich."
Non's pattern shifted like a kaleidoscope. "Seems I fell into the trap of Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc. In accepting the lexicology geology, I believed one event implies the other. As Non Sequitur the harlequin equitaur, I need to be careful of such logical pitfalls."
"As Seneca said, to err is human, my dear palomino arlecchino. Planning for perfection will lead to disappointment. That's the plot of most murder mysteries. Things always go wrong."
Non adjusted straps as he sped up. "Yes, the nirvana fallacy. The perfect is the enemy of the good. Voltaire. Ultimately, I combat fallacy via metatheatrical derision with mathematical precision."
“I just paint stuff,” said Max, spacing the words. Then he returned to speaking quickly. “Would you like me to read another book?”
“Maybe the big black book with the apple on the cover? My other half has struggled with it.”
“As you wish. Gravitation, The Parable of the Apple. Starts with a quote by Voltaire about Newton.”
The artist managed four pages until a mention of nuclear bombs: Trinity, Baker, Mike and Argus. “We’ve got a spacetime coordinate for Trinity. My translator says it’s the Greek letter, Xi.”
“We can stop there. My Earthself once researched those early nuclear explosions. If you ever saw Dr. Strangelove, Warner Taube filmed most of the explosions in the We’ll Meet Again section.”
“Really? I adore that song,” said the artist, placing the book aside. “If you’re not in a great race to get to town, I want to paint this eclipse.” He held up his hands in two big L’s. “That’s suitable for framing.”
The taur stopped. “Considering these warnings about my counterpart, I should head into town.”
Max climbed down from the cart. “I just read to you about two ants on apples taking divergent paths. Here’s an idea for you: I’ll be the other ant. There will be another ant out there thinking about you.”
“You’d do that?” Non felt oddly moved by the offer.
The artist arranged his easel. “I will. Good luck in your travels, old chap.” He hummed as he sketched.
Non waved goodbye to his new friend and walked on, thinking of his Earth father, calling his young Earthself to the television to watch Slim Pickens riding an atomic bomb to the ground.
‘I wonder when my next sunny day will be.’