Manticore Tales – 3 Super Short Stories

The Founder’s Armchair

He sat in the massive armchair that was the focal point of the room. It did not beg for attention like the hand-drawn paintings on the wall. It didn’t need to be picked up and admired like the physical books on the shelves. Surely no one would light it on fire to enjoy it like the humidor’s cigars.

In a room of off-world luxuries and antiques, the conglomerate founder chose this chair to be his respite from the chaos of his world. Upon entering the private lounge, the chair drew attention like a black hole. The back stood firm with an ergonomic slant so one could relax but would not doze off. The arms were well padded and comfortable for elbows and the occasional grandchild who snuck in to play after slinking past the nanny’s watch.

The chair was a dark maroon red that accented the orange fire light that burned before it. It had wings near the head that acted as blinders for a man that was just the right height, and the conglomerate founder was just the right height.

His success in business and colonization had afforded him countless luxuries like private starships with captain’s chairs and suites of comforts. He has palaces on three of the five planets he owned, and a fourth was under construction.

But this chair, with its genuine wood legs carved into claws holding orbs, is where he found peace and relaxation. It sits in a modest apartment on his home world. The world where the Central System was founded, where he signed up to be an officer in the Imperial Wars, and he was given command of a modest mining fleet that he employed to make him his fortune. This modest home could only hold half his extended family, and the waitstaff barely breaks two dozen, but that kept things quiet for him.

Some who see it assume the chair is an heirloom, passed down from a grandfather when he came to this world from off planet and settled in a tiny three-room apartment. He humors some with that story or tells of a craftsman that made it upon his arrival to some far-off world.

Only he and his accountant know the truth. There are a few thousand in existence in a storage bunker on this world. For the chair wears out like anything else, and a new one is delivered in an inconspicuous box when the cushions feel a little too soft. And every few months, he unboxes this perfect chair, pristine and always new by design.

In Memory of Tally Rushing

Talilda Rushing, or “Tally” as her schoolyard friends called her, died at the age of 142 last night. She was in an unfortunate car accident with a tree on the edge of her ranch. A tree she planted with her grandfather to commemorate the passing of his wife.

Tally was a pillar of the community and was among the first generation of children born on Picadillum, the planet we call home. She was the daughter of a mechanic, and her father was an honest vat farmer. She watched “the cities grow out of the ground,” as she described it in many town meetings, and was a strong advocate for every Picadillium citizen receiving land they could call their own. “We have so much space here, and the administrators of the Central System build towers so they can live in boxes?”

Between 13256 and 13266 or PY (Picadillium Year) 26 to 37, she won the colony’s Best Pie Award 8 times at the annual Picadillium Fair, now renamed First Founder’s Fair since countless fairs are hosted around the globe. The pictures and bows of her first place victories hang above her homestead hearth with pride. No visitor could leave Tally’s home without hearing about the secret recipe her grandma left her and the travesty of letting off world ingredients into the competition. “She was never a conservationist,” Tally’s granddaughter Joannah told us, “she welcomed administrators with open arms and baked goods. Grandma just had a love for Picadillum life and wanted to share it.”

Her passing comes at a tumultuous time for the First Founder & Picadillium community. Proposal 31.B.3, which will designate building permits for three new administrative cities, is up for approval in less than one week. These cities promise to bring new trade into Picadillum and cement its place as an up-and-coming trade hub in the Central System.

Tally was an advocate against this proposal claiming, “We have a fine way of life here on Picadillum. They can administrate from moons and satellites if needed but taking up beautiful land that Picadillum citizens should enjoy is a travesty.”

This proposal affected Tally directly as it required requesting over half her family’s land. “It’s not giving up the land that bothers me,” Tally recently stated at a town hall meeting, “I’d happily give it up to any Picidillium citizen. But to house more admins that complicate our planet’s way of life, no thank you!”

“Tally fought for her whole life to maintain the natural beauty of Picadillum because there aren’t many left like it.” Close friend and Founder’s City mayor Harriet Klein said. “Our ancestors worked hard to make a life on this planet, and we should respect that by not giving it away to off-world bureaucrats.”

Without Tally’s strong voice, many citizens are concerned by the conglomerate and admin influx. Her family requests that in lieu of pies and flowers, you vote against the upcoming proposal.

— Founding News 5th Xin 172 PY

Muck and Miscreants

I remember wading through the streets with muck on my boots and neon lights buzzing in my ears. Hordes of people flowed past me as if they were fish in the stream, merely following the current while I defied them and their conventions. After what I’d done, it was no shock that I felt like a heretic. I wore the collar of my stained brown trench coat high to hide the scars, not that anyone in the street was interested in anything other than getting home with their dinner, taking off their dirty shoes, and resting before another day struck them. I was interested in much the same, but my prospects were looking worse by the minute.

The smell of the sea and fishmonger’s wares still pummeled my nostrils, filling my mind with their pungency. The random cries of products for sale in the local’s bastardized dialect of Common Tongue still startled me since I had no way to filter the noise out. I wanted nothing more than to be off the street and get some quiet for my new senses.

I turned down a short alley and knocked on the scrap metal door, a thin piece of corrugated metal that time and sea air ate away at the edges. Its hinges squeaked as the innkeeper peaked through the slit she’d made. “You want what?” she asked.

I kept my head down and angled my body, so only my good eye faced her. “Room for the night, please.” Mixing the order of my words to try to sound like a citizen of the city would only confuse both of us. “I have credits,” I added as she looked at me dubiously.

“No trouble,” she said.

At first, my heart fluttered with hope. When she didn’t open the door any further, I slowly realized I’d missed a cue. My old implants would have informed me that this was a question, not a statement. Her irritated voice repeating the message with squinted eyes prodded me to respond.

“No, I’m no trouble. I have credits.” I gave her my best smile. The left side of my mouth twisted from where they removed the subvocalizer.

“No manticores!” The squeak of the door closing was short, and the staccato of the latch punctuated her statement.

Despite having the same natural cognition as everyone else here, I was not welcome. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and the overlay text and video had gone with them. I was far from a manticore now but still as despised as a tax collector.

However, it was the right thing for her to do. Giving me a bed could ruin her reputation in the city or, worse, pit her against the conglomerate that ruled this planet. The same conglomerate that fired me for reporting accurate census data to the Central System.

That action had gone against the conglomerate’s best interest. Soon a minister judge would be out to evaluate and hopefully improve the living conditions of these citizens, assuming my former colleagues didn’t misreport other numbers first.

They charged me with misallocation of equipment, citing that I’d overordered meal rations. An act that everyone did at some point. On a station with standard rations, this could lead to the starvation of the crew. However, unlike the city around me, our station was overflowing with meals, equipment, and space.

I lost my position and implants, leaving me with the biological standards and scars on half my face. My meat memory is no computer and is flawed with inaccuracies and gaps. But I remember this moment at the inn door better than the painful uninstallation surgery or the slap of the fish breeze at the landing shuttle’s doorway.

I was shocked that my unenhanced ears noticed the door squeaking back open. A young boy’s face peaked out. “Two down doors and an alleyway away. They take your credits and face.”

The innkeeper angrily shouted at him, and he slinked away, latching the door closed.

I hoped his punishment was less than mine. Thanks to the little miscreant boy, my prospects of a quiet bed had improved.