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Scene One: Eddie
Eddie's finger reached for the security keypad next to the door, and froze.
Eddie waited. Nothing happened.
<What’s the code again?> Cortese-145 whispered in his brain.
"What?!" Eddie said, accidentally aloud, before shifting to internal dialog. What? I thought you had it!
Being a Controller is hard.
<I was afraid I’d forget it so I left it in your brain. Yours is bigger! And mostly unused… no offense.>
None taken, thought Eddie. But you know better than to leave things with me. Like mom always told me, in one ear, right back out.
<Pretty sure it was 'In one ear, out the other' but that’s a stupid expression, it doesn’t work that way.>
Right, we tried that!
"Eddie! Now!" Brenda screamed from behind them. She was angrily plopping down the "wet floor" signs around the chunks of exploded Taxxon in the dining area.
Being a Controller is hard.
Of course, for Eddie, everything came hard. Family. Friends. School. He'd repeated the eighth grade and was looking to do it again when Principal Chapman convinced him that, despite what they said in the assemblies, it really was OK for some kids to drop out of school (especially before state testing started). Eddie's mother had given him an oldtomato altimeter ultimate demand: "You have two weeks to find a job, or you're movin' out!"
That's what she always said when he talked about quitting school. He'd asked Chapman if that place he was always talking about could help him, and Chapman had really tried to talk him out of it. Eddie took one of the fliers off Chapman's desk anyway, when he left the room to get the papers he needed to unenroll him.
Hey, Cortese... remember what I used to call that place?
<The Sharting!> Cortese said. They laughed, both on the inside and on the outside.
That was the great thing about Cortese—they could do everything together. Eddie never felt like he was being controlled. It was more like, a little voice that helped him do the best thing, and some things he never thought he could do. Speak in front of a group. Operate equipment. Go to space! The other Yeerks thought Cortese was kind of slow, too—at least that's what Cortese said. Eddie didn't understand that—Cortese was the smartest person (slug? Are slugs people?) he'd ever met. And Eddie did his best to make Cortese look good—Eddie always reminded him when to salute. Every third day before feedings when Cortese was feeling a bit weak, Eddie emptied the trash and bussed the tables and mopped the floors, so Cortese could save his strength. And when Cortese forgot the code to the janitor's closet...
<OK this is ridiculous. If we ask Brenda again she'll kill us. Maybe for real. What the hell was the code?>
I remember I laughed when you told me. Was it sixty-nine?
<Not long enough.>
8675309?
<Too long.>
Eddie's arm was starting to get sore just hovering there. Why did they need to lock this closet anyway? He looked at the keypad… it reminded him of the calculator he snuck into math class… which hadn't helped, because he couldn't use that either. The calculator! That reminded him… there was something you could do with it...
Wait! What's that number you can put in a calculator to make it say ‘boobs'?
<Ah… yes. Humans find their body parts funny. I still don't get that. Probably why I keep forgetting. Eight-zero-zero-eight-five?>
The red light blinked at them.
Wait! You had to turn it upside down!
Eddie was frustrated. And a little frightened. Even when Cortese had full control over Eddie's body, he couldn't stop his heart from speeding up. He couldn't do it… no matter how hard he tried, Eddie couldn't turn the symbols over in his head. Of course, sometimes they did it all on their own… it had always been like that. On TV, on signs, on homework… the letters and numbers always seemed to flip or move, all on their own. Trying to read a book was like looking at TV static. But now that he wanted them to flip, he couldn't make them.
I'm such an idiot.
<You're fine just the way you are, Eddie.>
I can't do it.
<It's OK… I can.>
And then Eddie saw them. Beautiful glowing numbers, made of segments just like on a calculator. And on the cash registers at his station. It was something Yeerks could do; Cortese could generate the images that Eddie could see. And for the first time in Eddie's life, they never moved around on their own, unless they were supposed to.
Five. Eight. Zero. Zero. Eight.
The red light blinked at them.
<Shit> they both thought.
<I'm sorry, this is on me. I should have remembered it, Eddie.>
Wait. Wait! "Wait!" It was 'Eddie'! Backwards. Not upside-down. I laughed because you wrote my name backwards!
Oh your God… I think you're right! Hang on.
The symbols re-appeared, showing his name spelled out in glowing blocky letters.
E-D-D-I-E. Then, they all reflected over like in a mirror.
3-1-6-6-3.
The green light blinked at them, and the door opened.
Scene 2: Brenda
"Pine scented? Pine!" Brenda shrieked, as Eddie strode toward her with an inexplicable look of accomplishment on his face.
"What's wrong with pine?" asked Eddie, dumbfounded.
"It clashes with the aroma of the food, especially with the fry oil and the taco stand! Plus it makes the Hork-Bajir homesick! Nobody wants to share a table with a nostalgic Hork-Bajir!"
A Hork-Bajir grunt lifted his head and leered in Brenda's direction—a very exaggerated gesture given Hork-Bajir anatomy. He glanced down, slowly, at the gelatinous pile of Taxxon guts quivering on the linoleum, before lifting his gaze back up at Brenda. Hork-Bajir may not be gifted orators, but they sure know how to make up for it with passive aggression. Brenda was unafraid.
"If you're not happy with the service, grab a mop, and try not to eat the handle! Otherwise, shut up and eat your oakmeal!" The grunt returned to his food. Brenda turned back to Eddie. "Bring that back and get the lemon scented; lemon goes with everything."
Eddie looked terrified, like she'd just asked him to tell Visser 3 that his brother had been promoted.
"Is there a problem, Eddie?" Brenda hissed.
Eddie was silently mouthing something to himself. It looked like numbers… 'three… one… six… three….'
"Cortese-145! I gave you an order!" Brenda shouted.
"Yes ma'am, no problem." Her subordinate turned and left, practically dragging the pine scented disinfectant along the ground with him.
Brenda—that is, Canatta-452 of the Stat-Haatan Pool, surveyed her corner of the mighty Yeerk Empire. How depressing.
In her earlier and more glamorous days, Canatta had overseen the convergence of four Pool ships in disputed space, a move which was universally agreed to have cut the Andalites off from an entire galactic arm. She had drawn up the proposals for the Empire's first interstellar supply chain: organics from the Hork-Bajir world, minerals from the Taxxon world, ore from the asteroid fields, all with secondary and tertiary Z-space routes and stockpiles to cover for losses. Even in the halcyon days of the Earth front, it was Canatta who had learned how existing Earth infrastructure worked—and what was needed to siphon from it.
Dozens of independent contractors and thousands of what passed for skilled laborers had built the Yeerk Pool, and they never even realized it was all connected. They thought they were laying foundations for skyscrapers, or hollowing tunnels for a new mass transit system. The fact that nobody questioned why no new skyscrapers ever appeared while public transit remained as anemic as ever was a testament to how badly the humans prioritized their own civilization.
Brenda was hardly surprised then when she got her summons. Most Yeerks called before the Council of Thirteen tremble in terror. For Brenda, it was all she could do not to lead with "Took you long enough!" And, in truth, her accomplishments were recognized.
"Here's the situation" Councillor Garoff had explained. "An army lives and dies off its food supply. Lose three attack ships and you have to re-strategize. Lose three meals and you have a revolt in the ranks. We can go three days without Kandrona... but not even one without food. Now the Hork-Bajir on their home world live off the land, and the Taxxons, with no disrespect to my more generously proportioned councilors, live off of anything. But humans require a very delicate..."
And thusly on he had droned while Canatta tried to hide the despair enveloping her as she realized the spiritual death sentence she was being handed. "Chief Logistics and Procurement Officer, Earth Front" was the job title. To use a term Canatta had gleaned from her host, Brenda: "Bull shit."
She was running a god damned food court.
Punished for competence. Brenda had done such a good job growing the Yeerk Empire that she'd been made to trade Blade Ships for boxes, Dracon beams for bacon bits, and front lines for food lines. Turns out delivery of perishables, waste disposal, allergy accommodation, hygienic concerns, and staffing (especially staffing) did present a muddled mess of moving targets, a task as thankless as it was endless. And how good was Brenda at executing this menial, stupid, insulting, depressing task?
Despite the fact that the remnants of an exploded Taxxon were still jiggling at her mockingly from the floor... not a single patron had abandoned their meal.
"ROOOOAAAAR!"
Several patrons of various species rubber necked towards the sound of savage melee combat out in the main pool area.
"What the hell is that?" a patron at a nearby table asked.
"Somebody else's problem," muttered Brenda.
Eddie the idiot was coming (finally) with the lemon scented disinfectant. Maybe one of these days he'd get it right the first time.
"You need any help with that, boss?" a voice asked from behind the counters. Oh, thank gods for small miracles.
"No, Joel, I've got it. Wash up and start working your station, we want to be ready for the dinner rush."
The sound of Dracon fire joined the din of hand-to-hand fighting out by the pool.
"Dinner rush?" Joel asked, carefully maintaining the balance of deference and healthy skepticism. "There's an Andalite and a bear tearing it up out there, you think people are gonna come in to eat?" A Hork-Bajir flew past the entryway, as if to underscore his point.
"Two things guaranteed to make soldiers hungry, Joel: surviving a battle, and cleaning up corpses."
Scene 3: Joel
My name is Joel. And here's what I've been able to gather: right near the end of the lunch rush, someone complained about seeing a roach. Then a Taxxon exploded, something ran out of it, and two minutes later, the Andalites were having a party on the pool deck. Also everyone's watches are suddenly off by about 14 minutes, which is why I was almost late, but I think that's a coincidence. Not that I particularly care what happened, or why, other than the fact that knowledge is power. Or in this case, survival, which is the number one rule in all situations; my personal prime directive: survive.
I don't know much about the "Andalite Bandits," but I am highly confident on two points. Point one: they are not Andalites. At least not all of them. Actually, that seems to pretty much be common knowledge among the lower ranks. But no one is going to say that out loud; see Rule 1.
Point two: the bandits, whoever they are, are absolutely terrified of the Yeerk Pool. And on that issue, we have something in common.
Like them, I am more terrified of the Yeerk Pool than any place on Earth.
But unlike the Andalite bandits, who show up once every few months, tops, I have to come in five days a week. Sometimes six (staffing is always an issue). Like the "Andalites" themselves, I have a secret which must be protected at all costs. I am not a Controller. I just work here.
Oh I'm supposed to be a Controller. They think I'm a Controller. And I thought I was just picking up a shift at a different store. I work for Subway, as a sandwich artist. Emphasize the artist. Most of the other shops here are subtle imitations of the "real deal" businesses you find up top.
MorkDonalds. Pander Express. Little Seizer.
Starbugs Coffee.
But Subway is always Subway.
You might be wondering how I get away with it. I did too, at first. Apparently the lower ranks of the respective Yeerk and Subway empires see similarly high levels of turnover. They were expecting a new host for an old Yeerk, when I showed up. They asked me if I was the new host; Subway doesn't really use that terminology, but customers are guests and I supposed that made me a host? So I said "yes". I don't know what exactly went down before I got here, but parts of "the old guy" were still in my sandwich station. Déjà vu I guess. What happened to the Yeerk that was supposed to be in me? Don't know; don't care: see Rule 1.
After what was supposed to be my only day down here, I talked to corporate. When I told them about the technologically advanced, slavery-driven hostile invasion, they were remarkably unconcerned. The signatures on the franchise agreement were legit and the checks always cleared—that was the full extent to which they cared. They were excited about the possibility of off world franchises... I asked if they really wanted customers with no free will; they offered me a book about free market economics.
I thought about not going back... but I have bills to pay. Two years studying culinary arts at Drei Husaren in Vienna will do that.
And more importantly, I'm an artist.
Hey, everybody has a dream, right?
The customers are, for the most part, pretty nice. Better than average as far as retail goes, anyway. It took me awhile to get used to the constant screaming, crying, and begging for mercy. But not too long. After all, I work for Subway.
They've started installing Gleet bio-filters, beta testing them in some of the more out-of-the-way entrances. That presented a bit of a problem, but not for long. The Yeerk Pool needs all kinds of provisions and supplies, in and out, and not all of it is handled by Controllers. A bunch of them are just regular UPS guys. They're used to not asking questions. I just started using the freight entrance. I'm not sure if the "Andalites" know about the bio-filters yet, but I'm sure they'll figure something out. Those freight entrances aren't too hard to find.
My story does not have epic battles, brilliant tactics, or clandestine intrigue. But it does have rumors, secrets, and innuendo. To that end, I'd like to take this brief opportunity to address some of what's getting passed around up top. First off: the Yoga mats. That is ridiculous. There are not, and never have been, yoga mats in Subway's bread. That shit is expensive, and that's all the proof you need right there.
For that matter, the tuna is tuna, not dolphin. Although it is about half mayonnaise.
And sometimes... not often, but definitely sometimes... it's Taxxon.