The Autumn Engagement

Mid-flick, Janus' attention turned to the brochure resting on the molded plastic end table next to his couch. He knew what it was without reading it, and having had no interest in its content, had let the brochure soak in his misery rather than reading it or tearing it up and using it for ammunition. Printed mail was very unusual and generally preserved for the wealthy. And the brochure was from nothing less. Now, he picked it up and followed the rich lettering with slightly blurred vision: Summer Festival. Although he was no longer a part of the elite social class, he still received invitations from one family.

After his last game, all contact with the socialites had ceased, except from the Welch family. Though he would have preferred to discard it as he had done with the others, the timing of the party, especially the invitation, was uncanny.

The Chateau lost more than a game because of his errant pitch. At stake had been fourteen of the most productive diamond mines on the Luxemburg flats of Mars. Diamonds had become a valuable commodity since the recent introduction of diamond-carbide bonding, a technique used to manufacture synthetic brains and super computer processors. As with any game dealing in extraterrestrial property, especially one of such lucrative value, a period of reckoning was required before the exchange became final.

The date of the party marked the last day before the transfer became final.

Janus contemplated the date of the party and felt a growing sense of dread. He was forced to admit his failure in forgetting his lost life, and this date. The party was in two days, and on the following day, his failure would be sealed.

He tried to push the fantastic thoughts of recovering his status from his mind by shaking his head. Getting invited to a party was not the only step required for attendance. A large contribution to a political or non-profit organization was typically requested, or, in this particularly eccentric engagement, a particular type of date was required; a synthetic. Therefore, he rationalized he could not attend and could return to the tedious task of wallowing in his failure.

On his return trip into the depths of his angst, his phone chimed and interrupted his thoughts. He touched >open on the communication panel, and waited for the caller to identify their self.

"Franko," a grizzled voice promptly stated.

"I already paid," he said, assuming the voice belonged to a collection agent. The voice had a familiar sound and he tried to put it to a face. He waited for an introduction, and when nothing was said, he continued. "Who is this?"

"Franko," the voice droned in the exact same timbre and time.

"Synthetic," Janus muttered angrily, and immediately thought of a typical marketing slogan for diamond-carbide laized synthetic brains: "Synthetics now have feelings, too."

"Franko," it repeated.

"Yes, I'm Franko," he said feverishly.

"I have been," the voice started, but was interrupted by a chime-in from the media company that provided his free service.

"Please stand by for a commercial interruption." The voice was sweet, bright, and possessed every loathsome quality of a corporate propaganda spokesperson.

"Din ji!" Janus swore, using the most vile profanity ever invented by space-faring cargo pilots. There had been a time when he would have shied away from using those words, words that were wicked and acidic, but he had managed to use them more often in the last eight months. He pounded the wall with his fist, forced to listen to an advertisement for a deodorant engineered for the athlete living in high G.