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Mouse Suits

Written by Stephen Eley

SEE THE WORLD!

BE THE WORLD!

We all know that Earth is a treasure. Like a rare diamond or a work of art, it deserves to be shown off. Millions of our neighbors visit us every year, and Distributed Leisure Intergalactic wants to be sure they see only the best Earth has to offer.

We're looking for today's brightest and friendliest humans to join our Earth Park teams as Cultural Guides. It's a tough job. Different roles, different bodies, and long hours are just a few of your challenges. But you'll get to meet some of the most interesting people in the galaxy—and you'll show them that Earth isn't just home to mankind, it's home to funkind!

—DLI Recruiting Pamphlet, "Earth Needs Women—and Men!"

****

I hate the bus. I hate the noise. The smell. The fresh guest bodies bouncing around. I understand why they make us come in this way—someone's got to babysit, and the job starts the second the shuttle door opens—but it's a little unfair. The guests all get a few days of orientation before they start their roles. Mice don't even get time for gravity adjustment.

I watch the cows and rolling pastures repeat outside. It cycles every eight minutes or so. No one else notices, of course; they're all too happy and excited. I look up, and I accidentally catch the eye of a large black man in the aisle. He literally picks up a chattering little woman next to him, and puts her down in front of him. Not hard in one-sixth gravity. She smiles and waves.

"Hello, friend," the black man says, and thuds down next to me. "This seat is empty. I claim it for my comfort."

He's sitting and facing me adversarially, eating up most of my personal space. It's unnerving; but then, my personal space was already confused. I'm taller than I usually am, and haven't gotten used to it yet. I force a smile and slip into guest-speak. "Please do. I will introduce myself. I'm Melvin Seebanks. I'm an executive for a major company. How do you do?"

The man's eyes light up. Introductions are the first thing everyone learns, and they all love 'em. "I am doing well. You honor—I mean, thank you for asking. I am Reginald Dowell, but I require you to call me Reggie. This other is the wife who is married to me. She is Mary. Greet Melvin Seebanks, Mary."

Mary waves at me again, harder, and assaults me with conversation. "It's sooo nice to meet you, Mr. Seebanks! Did you say you executed? I think that's lovely. The weather is also lovely, don't you think Mr. Seebanks? I wonder if they let it rain in New York Park."

"They must," I offer. "There's grass in some places, and grass requires rain."

"Oh yes, and there's beaches! Beaches need water too. Do you think they mine the water, or do they ship it from"—Reggie shoots her a glare—"Oh! Sorry, Reggiedoll, I forgot we weren't supposed to ask. What religion are you, Mr. Seebanks? We're Republicans. Do you think Reagan is going to win the duel?"

"He always does," I say. Mary laughs, a hyenalike bark. If I have to endure these people for the next two hours . . .

A voice behind me says, "Excuse me?" I look back. She's a brunette, mid-thirties, in a simple blue blouse and slacks. And glasses. Nobody wears glasses, even in the retro parks. "I'm sorry, I'm looking for a Gemini. My psychic told me I should always sit next to a Gemini when I travel." She winks. She's bailing me out. "I'm a Gemini!" I cry out, before anyone else can respond. "How did you know? We should sit together and compare, uh . . ."

"Our biorhythms!" the woman says, and grins. To Reggie she says, "I'm sorry, sir, but do you mind? It's very important for my aura."

"I will leave. I see others with my skin color and shall greet them as symbolic brothers," Reggie says.

I say, "Good idea. By the way, I'm a Republican too. If you're ever in the offices of Mega Industries, be sure to stop by and see me."

"I will come. I will challenge you to golf. Farewell, Melvin Seebanks." He lifts Mary again and carries her forward. She waves a fast goodbye at me as they sail down the aisle.

The brunette slides into the seat beside me. "Cygnans?"

"That's my guess." Cygnans only have one sex, but they mate in dominant/submissive pairs. They're universally obnoxious tourists. For a moment I have a mental picture of what Reggie and Mary must really look like. I look at my rescuer again to get it out of my mind.

I hold out my hand. "Thanks for saving my sanity. Today I'm Melvin Seebanks, corporate dummy. Tom Gaines, for short. Please call me Tom."

She takes my hand with a firm grip. "I'm Connie Marsand. They have me down as a record producer."

"Done that before?"

"Once," she says. "Have you ever listened to a tourist rock band?"

"Oh God." She nods. By now I'm dead certain about her, so I say, "Connie's nice. Is that your name here or back—?" I gesture upwards with my thumb.

"Yes," she says, a little too shortly. I look out the window, blushing. Stupid of me.

It's unusual to have two mice coming in on the same transit, but I guess it has to happen occasionally. Strictly speaking, Cultural Guides aren't supposed to talk out-of-character at all, except for simulation planning or emergencies. If Connie's a straight shooter she can report me just for giving her my real name. If she were a guest I'd be in even more trouble; but that seems out of the question. She's way too normal.

Of course, she did start it with the Cygnans comment, so she can't be too hard-core. She's shirking her duty too, chatting with me instead of the guests. She must hate the bus as much as I do.

I turn back to her. "Listen, I'm grateful for your help. But I just can't lie to you any longer. You see, I'm really a Libra. And my horoscope today said—"

"Watch out for strange women in lunar transit tunnels?" She smiles and taps the PDA in her shirt pocket, and leans a bit closer. I can smell her shampoo. It's got floral highlights in it.

I almost kiss her then and there. I'd be fired immediately, of course; apprehended at the end of the transit and sent back to Earth on the first cargo liner. But it would almost be worth it.

"Actually it said, 'You will meet many people today. Speak only to the annoying ones.' It hurts me, Miss Marsand, that you don't qualify."

"Connie," she says. "And you're Melvin, Tom."

Does she sound disappointed? "Right. But listen, I'm here for a month. If you'd like to do lunch sometime . . ."

She smiles again. It's a good smile, bright and just a little crooked. It's a human smile. "My people will call your people."

"Shoot me now," I moan. We shake hands, and I wander back a few rows to talk with fake people about fake weather.

****

THE NEW YORK TIMES

Tuesday the 17th

* Fire Rages Across Bronx; Rebuilding May Take Days (A1) * Record High Predicted for Wall Street (B1) * Giant Ape 'Unlikely,' Says Leading Scientist (A7) * "Cats" Features Humans in Animal Suits (E2) * 47 Minutes of Rain in Late Afternoon (A8)

****

We wanted a lot from them. But we had nothing to trade. Nothing on Earth was remotely interesting to the galaxy. Nothing was unique, except for our frenetic, emotional, two-steps-up-from-monkey-tribes culture. So we did what every newly-discovered backwater does: we became a tourist trap.

Nobody can afford to leave Earth, but we get a lot of traffic coming our way, and they've brought a lot of improvements. Because of that, though, Earth's no longer what it used to be. Today's humans aren't the ones in the movies, the sitcoms, the old magazines—our native art. That's what the aliens came to see. Lucky for them, they've dealt with this before, and they had a solution that's already worked on a few hundred other worlds. They created the Earth Parks.

New York Park is a popular one. It simulates twentieth-century New York as well as a Disneyland ride simulates the Caribbean, compressing about fifty years of culture into a few square miles. Aliens from everywhere pay a lot of money to be body-sculpted and spend a few weeks' vacation as primitives so dumb, they've only just discovered semiconductors. The brightest of the dumb primitives get recruited as tour guides. They give us a crash course in half a dozen historical periods and interspecies relations. They sculpt us too, because real-looking humans would stand out among all the ideal bodies. We call our temporary bodies mouse suits.

Our job isn't to educate. Our job is just to keep the game going, and to demonstrate how to be human when the guests get lost and frustrated. It's a hard job, because this isn't a very human place. It's humanity from the outside, condensed into a pamphlet. I don't know much about that sort of humanity. Reggie the Cygnan paid to be here, and gets to do what he wants; I'm getting paid, and have to do what they tell me. That's the only real difference between us.

****

Cultural Artifacts Voucher

Profile H6492-Seebanks-4 will be issued the following historical artifacts for educational and demonstration purposes:

* One MXL-10DP programmable business phone. Voicemail and simulated call recipients included. Personal and extralunar calls prohibited. * One Swingline 444 desk stapler. Staples provided upon written request. Not to be used for personal stapling or self-defense. * Five sheets genuine wood pulp paper. For simulated note-taking only. Personal use, damage, or stapling will be prosecuted.

****

Two days, and the boredom is getting to me. I do try—I manage Mega Industries as much as I can get away with. I start conversations at the water cooler. I pop into employees' cubicles and critique their solitaire games. Yesterday I sent a memo to announce a new memo format. But that doesn't fill much of my day. Mega Industries doesn't produce or sell anything—we couldn't if we tried. Half my staff are bots, here to make New York look populated and with conversational skills slightly above cabbage, and the rest are paying guests. My mandate is not to annoy them while they spend their workdays having desk chair races and interoffice affairs.

I reassemble the stapler I took apart, then I sigh and flip open my PDA. That's one nice thing about New York Park: simple communication. My last gig was Neolithic Park. My status updates came from reading magnetically charged entrails.

No new messages from the Cheese today. I scan the news headlines, looking for inspiration or amusement. Or, just maybe, an excuse to call Connie Marsand without bending the rules.

I find it on Screen Five. Elvis is giving a show at Madison Square Garden. No, wait: a whole band of Elvii. It sounds hideous. The clients who can afford celebrity identities tend to be the richest, stupidest members of the richest, stupidest civilizations. Each Elvis has on a Coca-Cola jacket and pants—this week's fashion—and the logo catches my eye. Didn't the Culture Guidebook say something about corporate sponsorships?

Aha.

I spend a few minutes skimming notes on my PDA, then I hit the intercom button on my phone. After two days, it's still the only button I know how to use. "Miss Twint? Come into my office please."

Sally Twint enters twenty seconds later. She always enters in exactly twenty seconds. She's a weird one: most secretary guests buy impossibly curvaceous bodies, but Sally's practically a stick, with a hairdo as big as the rest of her head. She looks like a giant Q-tip. She's got the odd, formal overtalking of the Eridani and other insect species, but I like her. For one thing, she keeps finding things for me to do.

"Mister Seebanks!" she spurts. "I was to page you momentarily: the Accounts Receivable team has completed this week's quarterly report, and desperately desires a review meeting with you. And them. Sir."

"Good. Thank you, Miss Twint. That sounds like desperate fun. Um, I was thinking . . ."

"You were, sir?"

That throws me. If she were human, I might have suspected sarcasm. "Yes, Miss Twint. It's occurred to me that we might, ah, reenergize our mission-centric paradigms if we"—I look at my PDA—"broaden our core synergies. Do you follow me?"

"That . . . means . . . that you want me to take a memo, sir?" She's looking at me like I'm the alien. I guess I don't blame her, but I'm feeling inspired.

"No. I mean we need to diversify. What's our market share in the entertainment sector?"

"I'll . . . have to check the handbook . . ." She flips open her own PDA. She's got the sort that looks exactly like a handwritten notepad.

I slap my desk, and she drops the pad, startled. "Exactly! We don't even know! So I was thinking—I mean, it's entered my cognizance—that we have a prime opportunity to consolidate our presence in that market. Set up an immediate meeting, Miss Twint!"

"Immediately, sir." She bends to pick up the pad, and every hair on her head stays fixed. It's uncanny. "Ah . . . a meeting with who, sir?"

"With the record companies, of course. Whichever ones are in town. We'll have advertising! Cross-promotional initatives! We'll have synergy!"

"That sounds . . . exciting, Mister Seebanks. I'll get right on it. Immediately. Thank you, sir." She backs out of the office, looking a bit dazed.

I settle back in my chair and prop my feet on the desk. I could have asked Sally to track down Connie Marsand by name, but that might look suspicious to the Cheese. Instead I'll network my way to her. It's all in-character, all legitimate, and it'll keep my busy. Hell, it might even be good for Mega Industries to actually do something.

I bask in my pride for a few moments, then hit the intercom button again. "One more thing, Miss Twint. Have a dictionary sent in as soon as possible." I ought to know what 'synergy' means before I use it again.

****

MUSIC: Native art made of sounds organized in patterns. Human nervous systems react positively to some patterned sounds, and negatively to other patterns. In previous historical periods these patterns were known as "music" and "noise," respectively. By the early twentieth century, cultural assimilation had rendered these definitions largely obsolete. Any sounds created by any physical process can be called music, so long as they serve no purpose other than art. Music is fundamental to human culture and economics, with tribes forming around prominent sound-creators and adopting their sigils as ornament. See also: rock group, T-shirt, illegal drugs.

—The Visitor's Guide to New York Park

****

Horror. Pain. Also some nausea. If I'd stopped for half a moment to consider that my idea necessarily involved listening to local music, I'd have locked the door on Miss Twint and spent the month playing with my stapler. But I just had to outsmart myself.

Turns out half the population of New York are rock stars—the other half are on Broadway—and each one of them has a "record producer" assigned. There are no record companies, just producers, and they each produce a single keepsake CD for the guest to take home to Upsilon Andromeda or wherever. (I assume they get a CD player, too, but nobody seems to know the details.)

Most of the producers are bots, I think, although the richer or more significant guests seem to get human Cultural Guides. I can tell by the look they give me when I tell them Mega Industries is looking for spokesmusicians, superstars to spread its message, a new sound for a new era. By the end of the week I'm numb. The Pickle Jars, the Houses, and the Amazing Integers are sincere but terrible. Flying Cat Bus, Paramecium, the Bathrooms, and Tons of Nuns are insincere and terrible. Chocolate Taco hasn't gotten around to picking up a guitar yet; the Good Band misrepresents itself; Masturbation for Hire is actually decent, except for their name and their lyrics. Pablo Picasso With a Machine Gun is . . . well, Pablo Picasso with a machine gun. He's got a dangerous look in his eye when I explain to his producer that we're looking for a softer, more upbeat sound than sustained gunfire.

I don't give a damn about Mega Industries, but even so I can't bring myself to affiliate it with any of these musical troglodytes. More to the point, none of them are represented by Connie Marsand. Miss Twint's a trooper through it all: making calls, setting up catering, and even sitting through several of the auditions. She's warmed up to me a bit, offering nervous but elaborate opinions, and a couple of times I've caught her staring at me. I think I've begun to earn her respect. Hard to do, if she's an Eridani like I think she is.

My luck swings as Friday wraps up, just as I'm wondering why I haven't gotten any weekend plans from the Cheese. I say goodbye to Giant Shrimp Special and their producer, and I'm starting to take apart the makeshift sound stage in the company lounge, when Miss Twint says, "You have one more appointment, sir, of which I am hastily informed. A Miss Marsand and her client, whom she represents. She requested the meeting, sir. I would not have scheduled—"

"Send her in!" My hands are blackened from whatever it is on sound cables that always blackens hands, so I wipe them on my expensive suit. Connie's already walking in, more primly dressed than she was on the bus, still wearing those glasses. "Miss Marsand! A pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure's mine, Mister Seebanks. I understand you've been frightening defenseless synergies." She's followed by four Asian youths wearing aluminum foil. Two are boys and two are girls, I can tell that by body shape, but otherwise they're identical. The boys have electric guitars. One of the girls has an electric cello, and the other . . .

"Is that an electric trombone?" For a moment I even forget about Connie. The Asian kids are staring at me with no expression. This is what an alien invasion would look like.

"I'd like to introduce my clients," Connie says. "The Fruits. I can say with some confidence that their music is like nothing you've ever heard."

The kids plug in immediately, and run a sound check without a word. Miss Twint excuses herself. She's done for the day, or maybe she's scared off by the Fruits. Then they start playing, and Connie's very right. This sounds like music by people who invented music with no outside help, and then asked around to see if they'd gotten it right.

The two guitars do nothing but scales; but they're five-note scales, and when one's going up, the other's going down, and they shift keys on each other in a way that almost, but not quite, sounds like it means something. The cello doesn't play discrete notes, but simply slides up and down in a smooth wave, sometimes varying the frequency. The trombone's actually playing a melody, slow and liquid, with the odd reverb that you can only get, I discover, from an electric trombone.

"Something about it sounds almost familiar," I tell Connie. "I can't quite put my finger on it."

"It should all sound familiar. It's John Philip Sousa's 'Liberty Bell March.'"

There's no response to that. The Fruits finish up, and for half a minute I can only sit there. Finally Connie says, "Melvin? . . . Tom?"

"That was very . . . Very. You kids say you're the Fruits?" They stare. "No, ah, connotations there, huh?" Even Connie stares at that, playing innocent.

"All right, welcome to the team. You Fruits are the new face of Mega Industries. Let's all say hooray!" They don't hooray. They unplug their instruments and move silently to the door.

Connie says, "I hope you didn't sign them on my account."

"Actually, I didn't. I listened to thirty groups this week and yours is one of the only ones that knows how to play. What they just played, I'm not sure, but they knew how."

Connie smiles. "You're luckier than you know: you just met a Tauboo hive mind. They don't get out much. The rest of the galaxy considers them a bit weird."

The rest of the galaxy gets a few notches more credit than I'd given it previously. "So, if we're going to be business partners, Miss Marsand . . ."

"Then we'll have to partner up?" she says. Her eyes gleam behind her glasses. "Work through the weekend?"

"Strategize. Harmonize." This is going beautifully. It's still technically forbidden, but we're working the system.

"If you say 'synergize . . .'"

I don't get to say it, because my PDA beeps at me with a waiting message. Connie sighs as I flip it open.

Of course it's from the Cheese.

NOTICE OF OPERATIONAL ADDENDUM

Client E-29-4735 has filed a Special Interaction Request with Profile H6492-Seebanks-4.

Requested interaction profile: 2C -Sustained

Romantic Encounter. Client will meet with Profile immediately for S.I.R. proposal. If accepted, bonuses will be paid on positive client feedback.

To reject S.I.R., contact Cultural Supervisor—

Shit. So much for weekend plans. Of course they never send these things until the very last minute—

The door opens, and Sally Twint enters. She's looking a bit more nervous than usual. My stomach drops. "I hope I'm not interrupting, sir. The reports, sir, on your . . . cross-promotional initiative . . . will have to be filed. Thus the reports must be written . . . The board has been asking, sir . . ."

"You want me to work with you on this. Over the weekend." Miss Twint acts surprised. I barely keep from wincing. As a "sustained romantic encounter" proposal, I've heard a lot better.

I look at the two women. I've seen pictures of the Eridani. They look like spiky stick bugs with twelve legs. Their mating ritual involves breaking off and eating parts of their lovers, which regenerate slowly over the course of a year or so.

As soon as I think of that, I can't look at Sally Twint. But I'll have to—the Cheese has made a request.

Connie puts her hand on my arm. "Weren't we going to strategize?"

It takes me a while to find the words. "I want to, Miss Marsand. I want to strategize with you very much. But . . . not this weekend. I'm sorry. It's the job."

She stares hard into me, but finally she nods.

It's the job.

****

"The average golfer does not play golf. He attacks it."

—Jack Burke (human golfer)

****

Reggie shows up to duel on Tuesday. He's wearing a yellow shirt and plaid pants, and he's shouldering his golf bag like a bazooka. "We will golf now," he says.

I raise an eyebrow. "What if I have a prior engagement?"

"You do not. Your secretary surrendered your schedule to me." Sure enough, Sally's lurking in the doorway, looking to see if there's going to be bloodshed. I weigh golfing with Reggie against staying in the office with her.

I smile. "Miss Twint, this man is a very important business partner, and I am going to play golf with him. Hold all of my calls."

"Calls, sir?" She's understandably confused; I haven't gotten any calls. Not even the one I want.

We take the subway out to Fair Oaks, the Moon's largest course. It's only six holes, but they're built to original scale, and the greens can resculpt themselves to give the experience of eighteen different holes. The balls are heavier to compensate for the gravity. Reggie must be a very rich guest, because he's able to get a teetime almost immediately.

We play the first few holes in near silence, because Reggie insists on concentrating. He plays with undisguised ferocity, driving so hard that at one point he strikes the ceiling and knocks a few pixels out of the partly cloudy sky. He's surprisingly good, however, for all his glaring at the ball. He drives straight every single time, whether or not the fairway is straight, and he putts with precision. He's not great, but he's much better than I am.

Finally on the ninth hole he says, "Golf is a stupid game. Only humans could work so indirectly