Chapter 13: Cosmovision 818 Series Holograms
The hands never stop on the Watchmaker’s Clock.
The pendulum swings with a tick, tick, tock.
He turns on the key when the slowing down nears,
To tighten the coil and rotate the gears.
Remember, Dear Friend, ‘fore you raise yours to knock,
The hands never stop on the Watchmaker’s Clock.
These were the words above the silver and brass door in front of Jackson. It was intricate, covered by and constructed of hundreds of gears and pins.
He read the lines twice without saying a word. Tarza let him read before speaking.
“Before we go in there, I want to make one thing extremely clear…”
“I know, I know. Don’t say a word and let you do the talking,” said Jackson.
“Well, yes, definitely that. Always that. But even more importantly, what you’re about to see is the innermost chamber of the Pocket Watches. It is mostly forbidden for non-members to enter this room. Anything you see, anything you hear, must be kept secret always and forever.” Her tone had become not just serious, but fearful. The type of tone that Jackson had as a child when he was sharing a secret crush, embarrassing story, or his dreams from the previous night. Tarza was placing her trust in him.
“I understand, Tarza,” he replied. “The Pocket Watches’ secrets are safe with me.”
Tarza gave a relieved smile. She took out her Pocket Watch, pushed in a knob on the outside and placed in an open slot in the geometric center of the door. As soon as it lodged, the knob popped out again, engaging a button within the door, beginning a mechanism of gears that Jackson could not follow, nor describe, nor would describe to anyone, given his most recent promise.
Suddenly, the door swung open on enormous hinges, revealing it to be at least a foot thick.
Jackson was struck by a cacophony of noise and a flurry of excitement. The circular room was lined with shelves of books surrounding a long wooden table. A crew of a half dozen was rummaging through papers and devices on the table, tearing books off the shelves and interviewing members of the Pocket Watches seated in chairs. An enormous wood and brass clock covered the far wall. The second hand was at least as tall as Jackson, yet made no more than a subtle, almost imperceptible “clicking” noise as it turned. And Jackson was certain that if he looked at the Pocket Watch that Tarza had just recovered from the door on their way in, it would match the time exactly. But he didn’t get more than two gentle “clicks” to examine the clock, before drawing his attention back to the chaos at hand.
“What’s happening here?!” asked Jackson, sure that they had stumbled upon a bevy of bad news.
“Shhh,” replied Tarza.
“Stop right there!” Shouted an official looking alien with tubular hair and an orange face. “This area has been closed off by The Top Secret Investigation Bureau for Those In Charge.”
Jackson’s eyes darted between Tarza and the Investigator.
“Who’s this??” shouted the investigator.
To Jackson’s utter surprise, Tarza just smiled. “A friend.”
The Investigator raised her hands.
“All right, all right. It’s just Tarza…” She looked Jackson up and down. “… and a friend.”
The rummaging and interviewing stopped. All nine people in the room relaxed and eventually took a seat around the conference table. An elderly fellow, who looked almost human, except for his large oval eyes (twice the size of Jackson’s at least), and bowed arms and legs, shuffled to the head of the table, sitting on a dark-red-clothed chair.
“I’m getting a little tired of saying it, but… I don’t understand,” mumbled Jackson as Tarza led them to seats. Plod and Dusty stood on either side.
“It’s a final security measure,” explained Tarza. If anyone gains access to the room who shouldn’t, like say, someone looking to turn us in to Those In Charge, they’ll be met with a superseding investigation and turned away.”
“And investigation by the Top… Secret… Investigation…” Jackson tried to recount.
“Listen, we don’t know if that’s really what they’re called. They’re secret. But we know they exist and it’s a best guess. And anyone who’s not them will probably be scared away just hearing it. You certainly were,” said the orange alien.
Jackson sat up straight, readying to defend himself, then thought better of it. Because, if he was honest with himself, he had indeed been scared, even more so than they had probably imagined, and it didn’t make much sense to give them that additional information.
“This is Garrow,” said Tarza. “She joined the Pocket Watches around the same time I did.”
A hard-faced alien with two small horns on the top of his head cleared his throat to interrupt from across the table.
“Listen, Tarza. Oh, and, um, wonderful entrance you had.”
Tarza waved a hand. “No need for formalities and compliments with me, Azzle. Say what you need to say.”
He nodded gratefully. Bogdergans were typically ultra-uncomfortable with compliments, praise, and emotional language, and Azzle was no exception. At birthday parties, weddings, and funerals, the nicest sentiment that most Bogdergans could muster was a common phrase that roughly means, “I’m glad you didn’t fall on your way to this event in such a way that prohibited you from attending.” However, since they are also known for their respectful nature towards other species, this made greetings between them and Byzongs difficult, and generally avoided when possible.
“I’d trust Dusty and Plod more than any ROBs out there. But as we all know, they’ve been removed from your care for a significant amount of time now. And this ‘friend’ of yours… well, with all due respect, we are not aware of who they are. And we’ve been receiving fugitive notifications with your faces on them all day. So before we go around introducing ourselves in front of this stranger, in the heart of our secret hideout, I believe an explanation is in order.”
Tarza took a deep breath.
“This, is Jackson Fickle. He’s a human who works for President Racha.”
“Hi there!” said Jackson in a surprisingly cheerful way. Up to this point in his life, he had been called many things: shy, nervous, quiet, friendly, weird, annoying, kind, odd, funny, freckly, nice, boring, smart, silly, space cadet, and, in a few hours from then, “Jackson Pickle”. But never had he been called impolite.
“He was taken aboard my ship as a prisoner. They believed he was the actual President.”
Garrow shook her head. “They don’t look anything alike! Why you Byzongs don’t use pictures, I will never understand.”
The elder at the end of the table listened intently without saying a word, his big eyes staring at Jackson.
“Why did you bring him here with you? Your job was to rescue President Racha if she was taken. Not bring us every prisoner they mistakenly capture.” said Azzle.
“They would have figured out he’s not President Racha eventually and let him go, right?” Added Garrow. There were murmurs of agreement from the rest of the table.
Tarza shook her head. “He knew too much. About me. About them. I didn’t know what would happen to him. I couldn’t just leave him there. It’s not his fault he got mixed up in all this.”
As the debate raged on around him, Jackson felt a tingle in his brain. At first he thought it was appreciation for Tara’s defense. But that feeling, though present, was more of a pleasant wave. This tingle was different. When he felt it again, he recognized it as a question. The tingle grew larger, making it clear that it was of the “burning” variety*. It was accompanied by all sorts of doubts, like, “what if the answer is obvious?” and “they probably don’t want to hear from you.” But the longer Jackson sat with it, the more sure he was that this tingle was not going away, and that if he didn’t ask it, it would only be because of his fear and doubts. Or, as he named them in that moment, his FADs. And after all he had been through, he was not going to back down because of some silly FADs.
*The U U of U currently recognizes 6 varieties of questions (with 35 subcategories). In no particular order, these varieties are rhetorical, burning, big, small, loaded, and multiple choice.
“Excuse me,” interrupted Jackson. The conversation continued.
“Excuse me,” said Jackson a little louder. The elder at the end of the table noticed him, and raised his hands to quiet the group.
“I was just wondering. And it might be a silly question*, but, if Byzongs only use names, and not pictures, then why were our faces on the fugitive notices.”
*not a recognized category of questions.
There was no answer. Dusty and Plod looked at each other. The elder gave the smallest of smirks.
“That’s… that’s a good question,” said Garrow.
“It must have come from somewhere else,” added Tarza.
“Which means they’re working with someone else,” added Azzle.
A Pocket Watch member from the Ollywog Solar System slid over to the elder and whispered in his ear. He leaned forward and al conversation stopped.
“Whoever is behind it,” he said in a raspy voice. “It’s safe to say they’ve figured out the identity of our new friend.”
He turned an elevated gear and a Cosmovision 818 Series Hologram popped up in the center of the table, with its stunning and unparalleled 80 zettapixel quality.
There were the images of Tarza, Jackson, Dusty, and Plod, as Jackson had seen them before. Except the border of his alert had changed from red to yellow, and his reward had decreased to just a fraction of its original value. But that’s not what drew his, or anyone else’s, eye.
In the center, larger than all the others combined, was the face of the real President Racha, under the word: CAPTURED.