BOYSTER TAKES A DIVE
(2012) - short story by A.R.Yngve
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In a future world rather different from our own lives Boyster, the protagonist of this story, and his manservant Zeep. That's really all you need to know to get started...
Shuffling over the thick living-room carpet – which on this day was set to brown and decorated with holograms of autumn leaves – Zeep approached the spacious biomechanical couch where his master was taking an afternoon nap. In the master's lap rested a laser rifle, still warm, and he wore his hunting jacket and boots. He had spent hours chasing the giant mutant rats which had been digging holes in his spolf court.
The full family name of the slack-jawed, snoring gentleman on the couch was Attaboyster Aurelius Chang-Tzen-Schwartz-Uttarpradesh-Abrogado-Kensington-Ivanovtyov Von Ulm. His friends and family called him Boyster, or "that bird-brain Boyster."
Zeep was quite a sophisticated robot for its period, with a base IQ of 200. He had a roughly humanoid shape and wore the antique attire of a 20th-century manservant.
Boyster's mother – for Boyster, sadly, had only one mother – had once estimated her son's base IQ to about 20. (That was the gist of her statement, anyway.) A persistent rumor accused her of having auto-impregnated with home-made sperm, for Boyster's father or second mother remained unknown. A man living in another era might have worried over such matters, but Boyster did not. He had an army of aunts to occupy his attention and boost his self-esteem.
"Pardon me, sir," said Zeep softly in Boyster's ear. "Your gentleman neighbor is at the door."
A concerned frown appeared on Boyster's narrow bulging forehead, and his jaw made a sideways movement which would have looked just right on a grazing cow. Zeep leaned his silver-colored alumiplast face a little closer to his master's protruding ear, which was partly covered by a fashionable lead-lined hat.
"If you wish, sir, I could tell Mr. Gezalez to make an appointment."
"Hu-wha-who?" mumbled Boyster. "Gezzie?" The young landowner opened his wide-set blue eyes, blinked and sat up. His clear, open gaze met the calm, unblinking artificial eyes of his robot servant. "Gezzie's outside?"
Years of painstaking research and development had created Zeep's voice – a mild, reassuring barytone which could soothe a caffeinated chihuahua. "Indeed, sir. He says it's most urgent."
"Hm." Boyster stretched, yawned and climbed out of the couch (which asked him in a moaning, feminine voice to return soon). "Well! He certainly wasn't so urgent when I asked him to come along on my rat hunt this morning, was he? If I wasn't such a sterilizingly good friend, I'd show him the proverbial red card."
"My biometric readings of Mr Gezalez indicate that he might be unwell, sir."
"You mean, sick?" Boyster, now fully awake and – after a fashion – alert, dropped his rifle on the cushions (eliciting an annoyed "Oh, you!" from the couch) and marched out of the living-room. "If my friend is sick, I shall certainly not abandon him."
Closely followed by Zeep, Boyster strode toward the main hall while he raised his arm and snapped his fingers. A smaller bar-bot immediately responded and rolled to his side with a tray of refreshments. Boyster nabbed a frothy glass of his favorite brain-drink, downed it in three gulps while walking, and carelessly slammed the glass back on the tray.
The brain-drink quickly boosted his intelligence by 1-2%, giving him the mental edge he needed to get through a rough afternoon of three, maybe four decisions. The most pressing decision of the moment was how to greet his old friend, Fong Gezalez IV.
Brag about the rats he had shot? Nah. Gezzie showed little interest in hunting and was more into boating – he owned a small lake.
Or a mild scolding for refusing to help out with those pesky rats? Perhaps not. After all, just last month Boyster had made up a poor excuse for not attending Gezzie's birthday party, only because Boyster couldn't stand the amorous advances of Gezzie's mother.
Or how about a hearty welcome and a why-Gezzie-I-heard-you're-not-feeling-quite-chipper-what's-the-matter-old-bud?
Or just a show of casual indifference?
Zeep made a run for it. He unlocked and opened the large entrance door just before his hard-thinking master might dent the varnished surface with his forehead – and made a hand-gesture so subtle, it could be mistaken for a malfunction of his wrist.
"Mr. Gezalez, sir."
On the massive granite doorstep outside stood a tall reedy man with a large, bushy black mustache. He was wearing the kind of tweed clothing that went out of fashion last week. Behind him on the gravel courtyard stood his biomechanical vehicle – a blood-red Pawakat 300XL – and did something indecent to a flowerbed.
"Bustie!" said the man in a nasal voice and held out his hands in supplication. "You must help me. I'm dying."
Boyster made a pained face – he had told Gezzie not to call him "Bustie" precisely 53 times.
"Oh what is it now, old bud?" said Boyster with a world-weary sigh. "Nothing your body-bots can't help you with, eh?" A sly smile escaped him. "Not coming down with a nasty strontium particle again, are we?"
"I'm serious, Boyster. It's Belonce DellaMart. She has stabbed me in the heart, right here." He clasped his chest dramatically. "If she won't love me, I can't go on living."
Sympathy warmed Boyster's mood. "Let me go get my rifle…"
"On it, sir," said Zeep and walked exceedingly briskly back to the living-room.
"…and I'll listen to your love troubles while I go looking for those pesky rats again. Want to join in the hunt, old spolfer?"
Gezzie made a hapless shrug. "Sure, why not."
"Another rifle for Gezzie, Zeep!" shouted Boyster and led the way down the steps, past Gezzie's muscular Pawakat. The living sports vehicle sniffed a tree, curled up and lay down to sleep.
"Nice car," Boyster said in passing, holding one hand on Gezzie's sloping shoulder. "Mind if I borrow it someday?"
Gezzie gave him a gloomily reproachful look. "Boyster," he said in a withering tone, "you drove my Weedawacka into a tree. You let my Kwanzaroaster bike loose in Coyott-Chang's sheep pasture. It tried to mate with the sheep! Why would I ever want to let you borrow anything from me ever again?"
"Noblesse obligee, old bud, or something like that. Can't be a gentleman if you're not gentlemanly." Behind them Zeep was catching up, driving the electric spolf cart. They passed the gate that opened into the park, and before them lay the modeled green landscape of Boyster's three-hole spolf court. The rats had left large piles of dirt and gaping potholes in the otherwise pleasant terrain. Zeep had installed ultrasonic scarecrows on the lawn, but this new breed of rats was apparently stone deaf.
Boyster stopped a few meters from a smelly dirt pile and regarded it eagerly. He could feel a series of vibrations in the ground underneath his feet, as if something was shoving and digging.
"Hand me a loaded number nine and the rifle, Zeep."
With a grim, set face he extended both arms, hands open and ready to grab a suitable instrument of retribution. From the spolf bag in the back of the cart, the faithful robot lifted a portable #9 pneumatic cannon and gave it to Boyster, who grasped it without looking. With a swift series of movements, Zeep unplugged the laser rifle from the cart's recharging cable and put it in Boyster's other waiting hand.
"Thanks! Gezzie?"
With a lack of enthusiasm unworthy of a man of his station – namely, that of being a male in a world populated by 81% females, 10% hermaphrodites, roughly 1% non-gendered people, 5% robots and 3% males – Fong Gezalez IV accepted the second rifle from Zeep and took a rather lackluster aim at the pile.
"Now, about Belonce, that mouthful of a lady…" said Boyster and fired his #9 at the unsightly pile. The small, hard, white ball shot out of the nozzle and struck the pile with a loud thud. There came a furious scurrying, scratching noise from the ground, and the pile began to stir. Both men took cover behind a stonewall, took aim with their rifles and waited for a rat to emerge. Zeep produced a handkerchief and rubbed mud stains off the cart.
"You met her at the Belle of September Ball," said Gezzie. "She tried to chat with you. Then you said something rude about her dog, and she threw a drink in your face."
"A gin and tonic, I recall," said Boyster and licked his lips. "I got a lemon slice in my eye and had to leave the ball in a serious state of citric shock. Aunt Zelda was there and gave me a stern talking-to. She told my other aunties, and you can imagine what they told me. Can't remember what I said about that dog, though. Probably something to do with its ridiculous haircut."
"You insulted her," said Gezzie.
"The dog?"
"I came this close to challenging you for her honor."
"Why didn't you?" asked Boyster, gaze fixed forward, and immediately frowned at his own question. "I mean, sorry old bud, I don't want a friend to pop me one in the nozzle, even for the sake of a lady… but I'm curious."
"Because when you left, I tried to offer her my defense of her honor – and she laughed in my face. She told me, 'I certainly don't need my honor defended by a family with so much blood on its hands. A bloodline of mass murderers.' I was so shocked I couldn't say a word. And then she just left while I stood there – humiliated, scorned, mortified."
Boyster sighed. He had seen Gezzie heartbroken before, but his moods usually passed in a short time. This had to be serious – the September ball was last month.
"Now look here old bud, what you need is a bit of cheering up. I'll have a party with games, drinks, some lady friends, spolf –"
"Don't bother, Boyster. I'm a shell of a man, a walking dead, a remnant of –"
"Take that, you filth!" Boyster fired a barrage of laser pulses at the giant rat which was poking its furry head up from the pile. "Eat photon death!" The rat expired violently and a disagreeable stench sprayed the hunting party.
"I'll go get the air-cleaner, sir," said Zeep. "Sir, I would politely advise you to abstain from dragging another rat carcass into the house. That one is not fit for taxidermy."
"Anything you say, Zeep," said Boyster cheerfully – and suddenly remembered his friend. Gezzie stood holding the rifle as if it were a broom, and studied the inside of the barrel in a morbid manner. "Gezzie! Don't tell me you've let that ranting girl get to you? Your family's clean as a whistle! Not a single mass murderer among them." He made a thoughtful face. "Unless you count Aunt Falamar and her sixteen decapitated cats."
"I looked up my family history. Generation after generation, all the way back to when they were called Gonzalez." He winced. "My great-great-great-grandfather, Malachite Gonzalez, was an Air Force general during the Great Reduction. He fought on the Masculinist side against the Sterilites, and was responsible for the deaths of millions. Such blood guilt can't be washed away. Belonce despises me and my family, Boyster. And now everyone's heard of it."
Gezzie sounded so depressed that Boyster gently took the rifle from his hands, as a precaution. "My dear pal, do stay over at my place for a few days. You need a friend to look after you, so you won't do something stupid. And let me talk to your aunts."
"Don't. They refuse to talk to me about it. It's too embarrassing, they don't want to hear."
"Your mum?"
"She's on the Moon for some business and won't come back for at least a few months."
"I see." It was getting dark, so they retreated to the Von Ulm mansion for the evening. "Zeep, arrange a guest room for Gezzie. And find a place for his car to sleep."
"Right away, sir!"
***
Finally, after an hour, Zeep had goaded Gezzie into taking a strong sedative and carried him to the guestroom bed. Boyster went to the bathroom to wash off the smell of roasted rat, while Zeep went out to the stable to look after the cars.
Boyster touched the button that opened a voice link between him and Zeep.
"I've been thinking, Zeep," he said from the bath. "What's the whole meaning of 'blood guilt' anyway? I mean, what the efficious effity does it mean?"
Zeep's voice replied from one of the mansion's countless speakers, "An archaic term, sir, referring to the notion that every member of a family bears moral or tribal responsibility for the actions of their kin."
"Say what?" Boyster blew soap suds from his nose.
"If I may put it so bluntly, sir – Ms. DellaMart apparently thinks that if one Gezalez was a mass murderer, then every Gezalez is a mass murderer."
Boyster sat up and nearly slipped. "Why, that's preposterous! Surely she had to be joking?"
"Perhaps the young lady was speaking with an ulterior motive, sir. She might have brought up blood guilt as a ruse… to avoid offending his pride with a more, how shall I put it, personal criticism."
Boyster was as baffled as he seemed. "If I live to be a thousand years old, I'll never understand women!" He blinked. "Or biomechanics."
"Mr. Gezalez's vehicle has been safely tethered for the night, sir. Shall I give it a sedative too, sir?"
"Why?"
"So that, in the interest of Mr. Gezalez's safety, he won't be able to leave suddenly and drive himself into harm's way."
"By Govinda, you're right! Go ahead."
"Very good, sir."
In the silence that followed, interrupted only by the popping of soap bubbles, he thought hard about how to help Gezzie. The heart of the matter, Boyster figured, was how to change Belonce's mind.
Belonce DellaMart spent her time moving between several family residences across Europe, and was only staying in this district for a quarter of the year. She was the daughter of a consortium of five wealthy mothers, brought up in luxury and educated in the art of elevated superiority. She was permanently brain-boosted and spoke four languages. (Gezzie spoke two. Boyster spoke one. He had once attempted to learn Italian body language, which nearly caused a diplomatic incident in New Rome.)
Perhaps Gezzie should get engaged in some charity or other, to show his good character? There were plenty of causes a young landowner could support – such as the Fund For Mute Bears, Bring Back Bananas, the Society For Raising Holland, the Home for Old Robots…
On second thoughts, charity work took time and Belonce would not stay in New Baden-Württemberg much longer. Boyster had to come up with a faster scheme. He ordered two more brain-drinks and a late snack to the bathtub, and poured more water.
It dawned on him that he must be crafty. He had to quickly arrange a situation where Gezzie could demonstrate his humanitarian spirit before Belonce's own eyes.
"A controlled environment, that's the thing," he said to himself. "To create a setting where everything is designed to draw the two closer together."
"Pardon?" said Zeep's voice from a speaker.
"Sorry, my man, just talking to myself," said Boyster and shut down the voice link. "Like this tub… or a lake. That's it! Gezzie's lake! I'll make up some excuse to get the two of them on a romantic boat ride on a romantic lake, where they can't escape each other's true feelings… and then I let the hands of fate squeeze them together like a tofu sandwich."
He had his second brain-drink and frowned. "But once they are in the boat, what should Gezzie do? Save her from drowning?" He let the empty glass sink into the foaming bathwater. "Perhaps not. He'd have to push her in first and then rescue her. This one's a poser."
He saw a duck-shaped shampoo bottle float by – and he brightened up.
"Her pet! She always carries around that silly-looking pooch. Gezzie shall jump in the lake, save the dog – and Belonce will throw her arms around him – The End."
After the bath, when Boyster was taking a brief training pass in his gym while watching the world news on the wall hologram, he started thinking about precisely how to lure the lady to the lake. That would require some very complicated planning and prodding, and he needed Zeep's assistance with arranging all the boring details.
One great advantage of having one's own intelligent robot butler was that Zeep could work while Boyster slept, thus allowing Boyster to set his detailed plan into motion faster. Another blessing of having Zeep around the house, was that he had been equipped with superhuman patience.
***
A few days later, the major part of the setup had been completed. On direct orders from Boyster, Zeep had composed a formal message for Fong Gezalez IV to sign and send to Belonce DellaMart. In said message, Gezzie apologized and showed deep contrition for any embarrassments caused by him during the Belle of September Ball.
The letter also contained a lengthy plea to Ms. DellaMart, to accept an invitation to the Gezalez Estate in New Baden-Württemberg, where she would receive a tour of the mansion and a pleasant boat trip on the adjacent Lake Malachite.
"I am as always your humble servant," said Zeep to Boyster, "but nevertheless I urge you to show caution and reconsider this plan. It wouldn't be proper to embarrass Mr. Gezalez and Ms. DellaMart by intruding too roughly in their lives."
"Reconsider the alternative, Zeep!" said Boyster and continued putting on his scuba-diving suit, which he had received as a birthday present. He had not been using it much, but he could still squeeze himself into it. "What if poor Gezzie goes and offs himself? And if he does, who moves into his home?"
"The heir, sir?"
"His mother, that's who! She's still mad about me. It's bad enough when she occasionally drops by. I fear I'm not up to the task of reciprocating the persistent advances of an over-rejuvenated ancien regente. I might end up having my gentlemanly reputation, not to mention the reputation of my mojo, demolished!"
"I see your point, sir," said Zeep and helped Boyster put on the diving suit.
Zeep and Boyster were taking cover behind a thicket by the edge of Lake Malachite, which was roughly 250 meters wide and lay near one of the region's wetlands. The Gezalez mansion stood only 50 meters from the pier where Gezzie kept his collection of small boats. Gezzie and Ms. DellaMart – and her pet dog Pawlsie – were seated in a tiny sailboat which was drifting slowly across the deepest part of the lake. White, black and red swans swam by on the placid water, and only a few clouds bothered the blue-gray sky of New Baden-Württemberg.
Boyster peeked out through the foliage with his binoculars, and overheard the conversation between Gezzie and Belonce through a hidden mike in Gezzie's clothes.
"I'm so grateful for this chance you gave me to prove myself, Belonce."
"But you sent me such a nice message, Fong. I had no idea you were so eloquent. In writing, I mean."
"I… I'm shy in public. And when I talk face-to-face. Writing… is different."
"But you can write. Are you… a poet, Fong? Secretly?"
Boyster swallowed, for Belonce had not uttered an innocent question. Poetry was still regarded as a dangerous activity in many countries, especially when perpetrated by males. The act of inciting poetry could result in legal charges of corrupting the young, a stiff fine or a period of exile. Even so – or perhaps because of this risk – many women thought of male poets as tremendously exciting rebels, and there was a thriving subgenre of romance fiction wherein the heroine discovered that a man was a "secret poet."
Gezzie, of course, was barely capable of writing "Happy Birthday to" followed by a name. Boyster worried that Belonce might talk the fellow into trying poetry anyway – with dire consequences for language and reputation. Boyster dressed faster.
"Well… you mean like, write under a pseudonym?"
"You've got one? Oh, I love secrets, Fong. What is it?"
"I… I can't tell you."
Boyster groaned. He did not feel confident in Gezzie's ability to improvise romantic dialogue. He had suggested giving him a concealed earpiece, to provide live speech prompts. For some vague reason, Gezzie had refused.
Zeep made some quick adjustments to the oxygen mask, helmet and tube, and said: "Suit's ready, sir. Please stay in touch and do watch your head, so you don't bump into a boat."
Boyster crawled through the thicket, into the reeds and the depth increased until he could get into an honest underwater position. The water itself had the opacity of asparagus soup, and he would have been swimming blind without the radar display on his diving goggles.
Boyster kept listening in on the conversation while he tried to evade the treading feet of swans.
"Your neighbor, that bird-brain Boyster, he's a certified microcephalic. Why do you put up with him?"
"I don't want to talk about him now. I'd like you to meet my family, and show you that they're good people – nice people. Will you be attending the Belle of October Ball?"
"I don't know. Pawlsie, what is it? Don't bark at the swans. Leave them alone!"
Boyster heard angry yapping through his earpiece, and realized that Belonce's pooch was either being upset by the swans, or by the stealthy approach of a gentleman scuba diver. He had to act fast, before the girl might notice the bubbles rising from his breathing-mask. The boat lay less than ten meters away and one meter above his position.
Fumbling with the small pack in his belt, Boyster pulled out a string of fat German wurstchen and released them. They ascended to the surface like a bloated gray grease necklace. He was certain that this lure would prove irresistible, for Zeep had found out beforehand that Pawlsie had recently raided a delicatessen, stealing a whole bundle of such culinary vulgarities.
And almost before the sausages had surfaced, Belonce's pooch grew extremely agitated. Boyster's heart rate quickened. The game was afoot!
"Woof! Woof! Woof!"
"No! Sit! Don't touch that! You don't know where it's been!"
Boyster had rehearsed the scheme with Gezzie before Belonce had arrived. Now he hoped desperately that Gezzie shuld not forget his part and would rise to the occasion when Pawlsie jumped in the water to catch the dog-lure.
A splash came above Boyster's helmeted head, then a woman's high-pitched scream in his earpiece… then the frantic kicking of paws in the water.
Now for the tricky part, thought Boyster and swam closer to the surface. Just hold the dog long enough to let Gezzie jump in and rescue it…
Grabbing hold of Pawlsie's leg proved much harder than he had imagined. The poodle would not stop moving. After several attempts, Boyster clasped one hand around a furry, wet leg and tried to hold the dog without pulling it underwater. His diving suit's color was set to blend in with the muddy water, so hopefully he would not be spotted.
As he struggled with the furious dog, and the dog tried to eat the sausages while treading and kicking, and Boyster's head received a few kicks and scratches, Gezzie seemed to gather courage. He hastily took off his white jacket and sailing shoes, stood up…
…and tripped backwards into the water on the opposite side of the boat. Belonce had rocked the boat and unbalanced him. Fortunately, Gezzie could swim. He splashed around and made spluttering noises, grasping feebly for the boat. Belonce screamed again – first at Pawlsie, then at Gezzie.
With Ms. DellaMart's voice screaming into Boyster's earpiece over the loud splashing and gasping of a capsized Gezzie, and Boyster's wrestling with the swimming poodle's overexcited leg, he was too preoccupied to notice a flock of swans swimming toward him.
At several earlier occasions, Boyster had suspected that Gezzie's swans had something against human beings. Their nasty, greedy temper entirely contradicted their elegance and long-necked beauty. This time they went after both the dog's catch of sausages and the dog itself – but Pawlsie knew how to defend itself. In the ensuing battle, Boyster lost his grip of Pawlsie's leg and accidentally surfaced – and then the swans attacked him as well.
In the midst of a barrage of biting, hissing beaks and beating wings, Boyster became aware of two things. Firstly, that the hidden microphone in Gezzie's clothes had ceased to function. Secondly, that Belonce DellaMart was crouching in the boat and had caught sight of a scuba diver.
"Of all the rotten, vicious…" Her voice echoed across the lake. "You sent an underwater assassin to drown my little Pawlsie! You're even more murderous than I thought! I've never been so insulted in my whole life!"
Belonce grabbed an oar, waved it at the swans and at Boyster until the birds had scattered, and the dog swam back to the boat with the sausages firmly lodged between its jaws. She picked up the dripping-wet pooch, threw a life jacket over Gezzie's face, then switched on the boat's outboard motor and drove it back to the pier.
"Belonce! Come back! I can explain!" Gezzie slowly turned and looked at Boyster, who removed his breathing mask. "You've ruined my life. Ruined! I might as well drown myself… after I drown you!"
Thanks to his diving flippers, Boyster reached land before Gezzie could catch up with him. The frantic swim had exhausted them both as they crawled up to the spot where Zeep was waiting for them.
"Sir," said the robot with impeccable calm, "we have just received a subpoena from the city magistrate. You and Mr. Gezalez are to appear in court tomorrow morning, to deliver testimony of today's events before the judge, and Ms. DellaMart, and her legal representative, a Ms. Baumkopf of Baumkopf & Prancevsky. You have both been charged with conspiracy to murder Ms. DellaMart's dog. Shall I inform your aunts?"
Boyster paused to catch his breath and get out of his diving suit, and looked for a brain-drink. Zeep swiftly walked over to the electric cart, took a frothy glass out of the mini-fridge and handed it to Boyster.
Gezzie buried his face in his hands. "What are we going to do?"
After he had downed the cool drink, Boyster wiped his mouth and said, "We show up, of course. Anything else would be unmanly. Zeep, what should we say in our defense?"
Zeep's semi-expressive face showed only the slightest sign of concentration. "If I may be so bold, sir – first of all we take Mr. Gezalez to the local beauty salon and do something about his appearance. A makeover is called for."
"Your logic eludes me," said Boyster.
"There's a perfectly good explanation, sir, if you compare your friend's face with that of his infamous ancestor."
A projector in Zeep's body produced a small image of the portrait of Malachite Gonzalez which hung in the entrance hall of Gezzie's family mansion. Boyster looked at Gezzie, then at the old painting, then at his friend again.
"Sap me sideways! The likeness is positively uncanny. Particularly the mustache. What gives, Gez?"
Gezzie tugged at his soggy mustache. "Tradition. Every male Gezalez was brought up to grow the same mustache as Malachite." He shrugged and let out a bashful laugh. "It only occurred to me just now, that it might send the wrong impression."
"So do we defend ourselves only by shaving?" asked Boyster as he got into his regular clothes. "Isn't there anything else we – I mean you, Zeep – could do?"
"Second," said Zeep, "I took the liberty of capturing the lake incident with my telescopic lens. I'm certain that this shall provide evidence to counter Ms. DellaMar's accusations.
"Third, I have prepared a defense of Mr. Gezalez' character. And a bit of digging in the historical archives has produced some rather interesting information about Belonce DellaMart's own ancestry."
Gezzie looked torn. He shifted his feet and scratched his head. "I don't know, Boyster… this feels wrong. If we use this information against Belonce in court – and win – surely she will hate me even more! Isn't there any way we could settle this without humiliating her?"
Both men looked at Zeep. The robot's gleaming face made a nod. "I understand your concern, Mr. Gezalez. I shall take this into consideration."
***
The following morning, while the rain was drizzling on the rooftops of the city, they met up in the court house – Boyster, Gezzie, Zeep, Belonce, Pawlsie and Belonce's legal aide, Ms. Stahline Baumkopf. A few elderly citizens sat in the benches behind them and watched.
Stahline Baumkopf was a severe-looking, matronly woman with pepper-and-salt hair, wearing a bulletproof suit with broad shoulderpads.
Boyster had chosen Zeep as his legal aide. This was not the first time.
"All rise for the honorable Ms. Sharouk," said the athletic courthouse security guard – and she threw Boyster a very brief smile.
Boyster and company were seated behind a table before the judge's bench. Behind the table on the other side sat Belonce and company. Her dog lay inside a transparent cage, with all four legs wrapped in bandages and plaster casts with electrodes attached. Pawlsie seemed rather calm and was munching on a bone.
Judge Sharouk walked in, sat down, yawned and peered down at the two legal parties. She regarded Boyster and made a sigh.
"Be seated. Mr. Von Ulm and his robot… making this your second home, are you? The fee you had to pay last time wasn't high enough to deter you from another day in court? How many times have I had to deal with you?"
She looked exasperated rather than scornful. Boyster felt like a schoolboy being called up to the headmaster's office. Zeep whispered in his ear, "Say nothing, sir!" Boyster wisely said nothing and averted his gaze.
Judge Sharouk read the case file on her screen, and then asked Ms. Baumkopf to come forth and present the case against Mr. Von Ulm. Stahline Baumkopf must have felt confident, for she did not seem to put that much effort into her presentation. After a short speech, she called for her star witness Belonce DellaMart.
Belonce was wearing a white suit, skirt and hat. She kissed Pawlsie on the head and walked up the bench with a grieving expression. She wiped her eyes and began:
"I came to Fong's place in good faith, after he sent me such a polite and charming invitation. He took me on a boat ride. For a while I was starting to think maybe he was a nice man after all. But then came the sneak attack – the ambush! That Boyster Von Ulm, that dog-hating madman, conspiring with Fong, made my Pawlsie jump off the boat. And then he tried to drag Pawlsie down to a watery death – while Fong did nothing but bathe! I had to defend my dog with an oar, until Boyster gave up and fled." She wept.
When she was finished, the judge made notes and then asked for the defense to make its statement. Zeep stepped up to the bench and Boyster nodded at him to begin.
"Your Honor," said the robot – who for this occasion did not wear his usual butler costume but a conservative striped suit – "I wish to convey Mr. Gezalez's and Mr. Von Ulm's most heartfelt regrets for any inconvenience they may have caused Ms. DellaMart – and Pawlsie."
"Get to the point, please," said the judge and began to file her nails.
"The point of this case, as it were, is that of honorable intent versus unexpected outcome. It is true that Mr. Von Ulm tried to draw the attention of Ms. DellaMart's dog while she was in the boat with Mr. Gezalez. And it is also true that Mr. Gezalez knew of this. But the intent was never to harm, but to edify by example. Mr. Gezalez has been heartbroken by Ms. DellaMart's stated opinion, in front of witnesses, that he was a man of low character, and the stated claim that his ancestry proved his low character through 'blood guilt.'
"Mr. Gezalez's intent was to wait for the dog to jump in the water, attracted by food, and to then jump in himself to rescue the dog. Said dog could swim and was in no danger whatsoever."
Ms. Baumkopf sprang to her feet and shouted, "Objection! This… this machine has been ordered to lie! Look at Ms. DellaMart's poor pet – traumatized, manhandled, barely alive!"
She pointed to Pawlsie's cage. The bandaged dog was busy getting its teeth into the marrow of the bone, and was wagging its tail. It could not have looked happier if it had been sitting in a doghouse made of biscuits.
The judge stopped filing her nails and inspected them. "Objection noted. Will the defense please get a move on, I'm late for my game."
Zeep made a slight bow. "Your Honor, I have collected technical evidence which shows that no one, at any time, attempted to kill or injure the dog. It may prove, however, that on the day in question Ms. DellaMart attacked and injured at least one rare red swan with an oar. Mr. Gezales has explicitly prohibited me from showing the court this evidence, as he feels it might cause Ms. DellaMart personal suffering."
Boyster was alarmed. Only Gezzie's firmly clasped hand over Boyster's arm – and his mouth – prevented Boyster from intruding on the defense.
"Further," said Zeep, "regarding Ms. DellaMart's previous accusation of 'blood guilt,' I can show by example that this is not true. I have in my possession documents which prove that her family, the DellaMart-Chablang clan, is directly descended from one of history's most infamous mass murderers. Again, Mr. Gezales has prohibited me from showing the court this evidence, as he feels it might cause Ms. DellaMart personal distress. Despite everything that has happened, Mr. Gezalez's foremost concern is for the well-being of Ms. DellaMart. Modesty forbids me from sharing with the court a recorded confession, wherein Mr. Gezalez admits his deep and unrequited feelings for Ms. DellaMart.
"The defense therefore requests that this case is settled out of court, and I hope for a mutual agreement of such a nature. Thank you, Your Honor, the defense has nothing further to add."
He made another bow and returned to his seat next to Boyster, who glared at him.
"Zeep," whispered Boyster, "what are you doing? Belonce's lawyer is going to make wurstchen out of us!"
"If you won't mind, sir, please ignore the prosecution and take a discreet look at Ms. DellaMart and Mr. Gezalez."
Boyster turned his head left, then right, not knowing what to expect – and received a surprise. Gezzie and Belonce were facing each other across the room, exchanging long looks which could not be mistaken for animosity or fear. Gezzie seemed as smitten with Belonce as before, but his gloomy demeanor had completely changed. And it was much easier to notice his change of mood now that he was clean-shaven. Ms. DellaMart smiled warmly at him, and Boyster was convinced that the girl had fallen for Gezzie at last.
"But how?" he whispered. The scene was interrupted by a sudden violent argument between Belonce and her lawyer. Apparently Belonce was having second thoughts about the whole thing.
The judge pounded the desk with her gavel and called for order. "Get over here, you two," she said and looked at Zeep, then Ms. Baumkopf. When the prosecution and the defense had approached the bench, Judge Sharouk said, "Will you please settle out of court? Stop wasting my time."
Ms Baumkopf hastily agreed to settle. The judge immediately declared the case dismissed – and beat a hasty retreat to the spolf court, for the rain had ceased. Gezzie and Belonce rushed into each other's arms, held hands and uttered mutual apologies. Belonce's lawyer said a curt goodbye and left, completely ignored. Pawlsie scratched his cage and signaled his desire to go for a walk.
Regarding the happy couple, Boyster could not help but feel the satisfaction of a job well done – even though he was not sure what exactly had been done.
"Zeep," he said, "did you know this would happen when you said what you said to the judge?"
"There is always an element of unpredictability to human behavior, sir. But in cases like these, when human emotion is heavily involved, it is always prudent to promote humility over pride. You wanted Gezzie to come off as noble, so I made him look as noble as possible."
"Well! That certainly won Belonce over." Gezzie and Belonce left the courthouse hand in hand, Gezzie carrying the dog. "Now I'm glad you didn't tell us about her infamous ancestor. Who was that, by the way?"
"One Genghis Khan, sir."
Boyster raised his eyebrows – he knew some ancient history. "I wouldn't say she has a Scourge-of-God-ish sort of character."
"Most of his descendants don't, sir. About one tenth of all humans alive today are related to Genghis Khan. So are you, sir – no offense intended."
Boyster gathered his things and made to leave the courtroom, while Zeep helped him into his overcoat. "But that makes the whole ancestry question rather a moot point, doesn't it?"
"I was aware of that, sir. However, Ms. DellaMart was probably not making a logical argument, but an emotional connection. When she saw Mr. Gezalez without his ancestor's emblematic facial cover, she could see him as himself."
Boyster made a grimace, one third amused and two thirds flabbergasted. "Carbon dioxide! If I live to be a thousand years old, I'll never understand women."
Zeep began to say, "Yes, sir" – when he was cut short by the courtroom doors flying open with a bang. Before them entered the ninety-eight-year-old figure of Hatamunda Gezalez – mother of Fong – beaming at Boyster.
"Boysie!" she shouted in her loud, rasping voice, reminiscent of carrots being grated. "I just arrived on an early flight. I came just at the right moment to see my son propose to Belonce DellaMart outside the courthouse, and she said yes! He says it's all thanks to you! My darling Boysie, I'll always be very, very grateful for this. And I'll stay over at Fong's house to plan the wedding, in two months' time – so there's plenty of time for me to come over and see you!"
A gentleman never said "no" to a lady.
Boyster paled, his eyes went blank, he saw an open side exit nearby, dashed for it and shut the door. He shook his head as if to free his mind of a nightmare. By some miracle or by superb design, Zeep had managed to follow close by.
"I say, sir. Are you…?"
"I just saw my life pass before my eyes. Zeep, get in touch with my aunts. Any one of them can take over the family mansion by tomorrow. We're moving out."
"Where to, sir?"
"I would've said the Moon, if Hatamunda hadn't been there already."
And thus it came to pass that Boyster and his manservant moved to an apartment on Easter Island.
And there Boyster continued his lifelong quest for the easy life, until a busy world interrupted his struggle to avoid all struggle – but that's another story.
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