Ms. Merrimoose’s Soothing Syrup
I bet it is just like my GrandCow’s tonic…the secret ingredient was honey. And Brandy. But GrandMama always said it was the honey that soothed my throat and helped me sleep.
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Brandy tonics! That does bring back some memories. I can’t say I ever knew my grandmother, or much of my mother either really, but I do recall the floor matron at old Harbinger’s Reform School used to insist on nanobots and brandy. Nanobots for whatever child was coughing his lungs out, and brandy to help matron sleep though it.
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pip! boing!
So much to-do. So much to-see. Consider this a gentle reminder to:
Cmdr Damerl Capstanturnbuckle (@pogo)
Olivier Richard Pierre Jean-Robèrt Sylvain (@MalevolentPixy)
Cmdr William T. Piker (@fintastic)
Lady Jane (@penguinchris)
Elizabeth Mary Farnsworth VI (@hadley)
Carcinogennifer Honeyvenom (@Donald_Petersen)
<pleasing hum> (@manwich)
Julius Rothschild Karekin (@David_Falkayn)
Jean-Rhys Witherspoon Wilhelmina Winnifred Rodchaser née Westingham (@MrMonkey)
Eudaemonia Betalinda Ponsonby-Britt (@Nightflyer)
that 36 hours remain for your intentions to be recorded in the Public Ledger.
ffffzzzzzzzzzorrt.
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“…And, that’s right, folks, you can have all of these benefits, guaranteed by Franklin Gooseberry himself, for just the low, low price — and this is a special offer, valid only for today, and only while supplies last, so buy now, and buy as much as you can carry — of…”
St-Patrick-Hartbrooke has heard quite enough of this street-corner huckster, and pulls the window shut. He had wanted to let in a bit of fresh air to soothe his throat, but there’s nothing fresh about that line of patter. Or, if there is, it’s the fresh smell of a lagoderm stable in sore need of mucking.
The Space Griffon takes a deep breath of a perfume-scented handkerchief in order to clear the imaginary smell brought by that train of thought from his head, and by so doing dislodges something from within his throat. He spends a rather unpleasant minute coughing, and when that is done, something gooey and yellow is sitting on his handkerchief. He folds the kerchief over and passes it to his manservant, who rinses it out and tosses it into the hamper, pulls a fresh one out of the drawer and perfumes it, and then passes it back to his master, who folds it stylishly and stows it in his pocket.
This blasted cough. It’s been with him almost a full season now, and St-Patrick-Hartbrooke has spent the past few weeks trying to seek out a competent doctor. Unfortunately, it appears that a particular quirk of the colony system is that not many people really want to be a doctor: the lower class do not receive the right kind of education for it, and the upper class can make much more money by simply existing. Certainly, St-Patrick-Hartbrooke has exceeded most of his peers in funds and social standing, not through any rigorous higher education, but through courtesy, manners, etiquette, and simply his preternatural talent for timing things well.
There will, of course, be people who feel a calling to serve their fellow men (although such a thing is shamefully rare among the aristocracy), but the Taaa’keee has found none of those in his searches; all of the medical doctors he’s found have seemed to be either play-acting the role, or to be confidence artists of one sort or another.
And then there’s the complicating nature of his biology, of which the less said the better; he’d tried to convince some doctors from the homeworld to immigrate, but none were willing to take the chance of being reduced to Citizen-Pretender status. Reportedly, there were many more doctors and scientists on Britannia Prime than on the frontier colonies; perhaps they would start appearing here as the colony matured. Not that that did St-Patrick-Hartbrooke any good now.
It was almost enough to tempt a bird to buy one of that huckster’s miracle panaceas. Not quite, though: it was more likely to be spiced alcohol than any actual curative, and the likelihood that a pusher might add a contaminant that might be harmful was far too great for any prudent sentient to take.
No, he’d just trust his own strength, and trust God, and surely his health will improve shortly. After all, there is a party to attend, and a debt to settle (the price to be repaid rising with every day and every stained handkerchief).
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Ensign Crusher to Commaner Piker, reporting in…
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As requested, I’ve manufacuted six of those Nautical Echolinguistict Traps per specifications. I’m ready to deploy them in any ponds, streams, or byways that we can access.
Also, Commander, I want to talk to you about an opportunity to invest in a scientifict experiment that may greatly benefit our mission. This experiment seeks to…
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Damnfin, Walleye.
Don’t go appoaching me with another line.
These waters are rife enough with traps, tramps, and scamps that we are to navigate, thusly rignt now I don’t need your help in muddying the waters with any sort of speculative investment opportunes.
I’ve already secured assurances that we have the necessary permissions to to investigate the majority of the new fisheries for sentience that are coming online with this colonization There are some holdouts…but…
With the six Nautical Echolinguistict Traps (NETs) that you’ve constructed, it will take the better part of a Weatherby Season in order to evaluate the sentience of most fisheries of usual size.
For this season, proceed with the unintimable Richard Oomingmak Ticklebot Liversnaps-Grayson to evaluate the fisheries of Reginald Oblongnoknees Ursulak Nock-nock Dipswitch, VII.
I will proceed to attempt to obtain the necessary and proper approvals to investigate the remaining fisheries.
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Acknowledged.
But,
Commander Piker,
about that experiment I mentioned:
There is a Dr. Tunas-Lee on this planet that seeks to inter-connect distributed computing devices. If we can just hook his devices properly, we could connect together each of our Nautical Echolinguistict Traps (.nets) and thusly speed our endeavor. With the traps inter-connecteded, we could likely speed our investigation by 3 or 6 seasons!
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Acknowleged.
I will invest in the reseach of this “Tunas-Lee,” as it may accelerate our work here.
I will hasten to remind you, Ensign Crusher, of the need and importance of our mission here. I know that there’s a diversity of life, lust, and love, that could be pursued in the city of Weatherby, on the planet of Weatherby, within the Weatherby solar system.
As one Federation Officer to another, don’t let those opportunities detract you from your fishion. Mission. I said mission.
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zipzipzipZIP!
So much to-do. So much to-see. With a slightly greater degree of urgency, I must remind you:
Cmdr Damerl Capstanturnbuckle (@pogo)
Olivier Richard Pierre Jean-Robèrt Sylvain (@MalevolentPixy)
Lady Jane (@penguinchris)
Carcinogennifer Honeyvenom (@Donald_Petersen)
<pleasing hum> (@manwich)
Julius Rothschild Karekin (@David_Falkayn)
Jean-Rhys Witherspoon Wilhelmina Winnifred Rodchaser née Westingham (@MrMonkey)
that a mere 10 hours remain for your intentions to be recorded in the Public Ledger.
ding!
Once again, Jean-Rhys finds herself strolling along the promenade, keenly observing the parade of Weatherby’s finest citizens as they take the afternoon air. She’s just come from Waithman & Sons, where she’s availed herself of this season’s haute couture, and she feels resplendent in her carnelian pelisse and ostentatiously arched poke bonnet. Her distal life-support vents belch invisible waves of fragrance, redolent of lilac and freshly smelted copper.
Last season’s signet ring fairly drips from the middle digit of her monocle-positioning-arm, and flashes in the sun as it idly waves her new fan to-and-fro. More than once on her stroll, a swell of the first stare has cocked a knowing eye (or eyestalk) in her direction, so she imagines the effect must be quite charming.
The whole affair seems a bit silly, in her estimation, but it can’t hurt to be noticed in the rarefied strata of Weatherby’s striving class. Fashion is fashion, after all.
Even so, the crowds seem somewhat subdued, compared to last season. King Grigori’s illness weighs heavy on the hearts of many, it would seem.
The Great Lobster’s current confinement to quarters brings to mind her own domestic difficulties. Between her offices on campus and her lodgings at the club, she scarcely needs more rooms, but it seems she will escape the notice of Weatherby’s finer salons until she has a more suitable address. She will instruct Mr. Frobisher to find her a new apartment, post-haste; one must maintain appearances, mustn’t one?
The additional expense, while somewhat bothersome now, will be a mere trifle in the long run, she’s sure. Her plans to expand her current holdings are proceeding apace and, with a bit of luck, she will soon have her own research labs in addition to her lectureship at Weatherby University. If she applies a small measure of perseverance now, she’ll be swimming in lard before the year’s out.
Her musings are interrupted by her arrival at the Apothecarist’s. She’s come to inspect the medicinal tonics purported to protect against the plague, partly out of professional and chemical curiosity, but also out of concern for the scourge’s growing reach. A certain amount of pestilence is expected among the unwashed masses of citizen-pretenders, of course, but now it’s bony finger has touched two of her peers. Why, poor St-Patrick-Hartbrooke (@nimelennar) hasn’t been seen at the Leviathan in weeks, and is rumored to be fair done to a cow’s thumb!
Jean-Rhys estimates her own risk to be quite low (after all, her head is already enclosed in a fishbowl helmet hermeneutically sealed to her biological life-support systems), but one can never be too careful. Even so, she ultimately forgoes the tonics when a snuff box catches her eye. The image on its lacquered lid seems to express the current zeitgeist in a manner that is somehow more comforting than mere medicine, and sparks an intuitive leap that settles her indecision regarding the upcoming Lagoderm races. She will bet on Thunder Snuff; the synchronicity is just too delicious.
Her last stop of the afternoon is at Lackington & Co. Booksellers, where she intends to spend an idle hour or so simply enjoying the pleasure of the written word. But instead, upon entering, she is confronted with the latest scandal, a novel (of all things!) entitled “Wild Sargasso Sea.” The name is intriguing, given the location of her family’s Estate, but her curiosity turns to alarm after a quick perusal of the introductory pages. The story appears to be a thinly-veiled expose of her ill-fated marriage to the late Mr. Rodchaser, filled with innuendo and speculation surrounding the disposition of his family holdings following his untimely death in a tragically accidental conflagration.
It’s all faradiddles, of course, but the implication is clear: someone is out to slander her good name. But who? She purchases a copy for herself, and another to forward to her solicitors, and resolves to make some discreet inquiries with her aquaintences at the Leviathan Club. Perhaps some of her peers with holdings in the press can help her ferret out this muckraker…
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[Your soul feels a gentle tug from a dark place long forgotten. A yawning existential realization twists your mind.]
{OOC: Request has been made to remove my GIFs due to epilepsy concerns, sorry to those affected!}
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A queer thought occurred while inspecting my new farm and ranch. Who are these peasants? Wherever did they come from?
We came to Weatherby to be gentlesentients, did we not? Gentlesentients rarely tend to manual labor, so who are these people in my fields?
Naturally, I could not bring myself to ask them. I bid them good-day, but the thought lingered. Were they slaves? Surely not, I thought - I learned at Madame Scallopini’s that slavery was banned ages ago. Yet, we did tell stories as girls…
I was suddenly reminded of something else vaguely remembered from my youth - robot. What is this word? My co-processor indicated that it is of ancient Czech origin, meaning, roughly, “slave, forced labor, drudgery”.
Ah, of course - “bot” derives from “robot” - how silly to have missed that connection. But bots are obvious. The workers appeared to be as human as I, if not more so - my co-processor suggests that being human or not is a binary state, but I never did catch on in comp sci at Madame Scallopini’s.
Is this a simulation? Perhaps there is some greater meaning after all… my word, this hat is rather unsightly on me. I’m looking forward to the blue stockings one may acquire at University, apparently, though, and one must don a hat to attend…
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Igor. Igor. Dammit, man. I feel like I’m coming down with something. Bring me a hot tea with Piraxian honey in it. And fetch my comfy slippers.
Yes Master.
Get on with it Igor. You are a perfect pusillanimous poltroon, Igor.
Thank you, Master. Right away, Master.
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