Alien Landscapes 2 by Kevin J. Anderson Read Free Book Online Page A

slopped extravagant nostalgic breakfasts onto warm plates and set them on a shelf. Low-carb pancakes and waffles, minimal-cholesterol eggs, reduced-fat bacon and sausage: Such dietary innovations had made the traditional American breakfast into something the trendy customers could once again consume with great gusto.
    The Retro Diner, modeled after popular eating establishments of the mid-Twentieth Century, had silver and chrome fittings, stools and booths upholstered with red naugahyde, table surfaces covered with speckled Formica. The menu featured re-creations of classic products. Many patrons got into the spirit by dressing up in old-fashioned costumes and smoking non-carcinogenic cigarettes. The place had a neighborly feel to it, a celebration of more innocent times. Berthold 6 felt right at home. He wouldn’t have wanted any other job.
    Carrying his loaded tray, Berthold 6 made a slight detour to snag the pot of coffee—weak, bitter, regular coffee, not one of the dramatically potent gourmet blends. “Here comes some morning cheer for you and your family, Eddie.”
    “Hey, Bert,” said the jolly old man lounging back in his usual booth. “The waitresses around here are getting uglier every day.”
    “Yeah, but the waiters are certainly looking fine.”
    As the man grinned at the good-natured response, Berthold 6 delivered a stack of strawberry pancakes topped with a swirl of whipped cream, which looked like the eruption of a fruity volcano. He gave a cherry cola to the freckle-faced boy who sat next to his grandfather, refilled coffee cups around the room, then scooped dirty dishes from an unoccupied table into a bus tub.
    Berthold 6 enjoyed working with regular folks. He liked serving people. He didn’t earn much money, but enough to get by (though he wished some of his customers wouldn’t tip like it was still 1953). He’d had a busy shift today, and tomorrow was his day off. Since he had no major plans, he thought he’d spend time with a few friends, talking, drinking beer, maybe watching sports or playing a game or two. Berthold 6 wasn’t unduly stressed with the nonsense of unattainable goals or unrealistic ambitions. He was just an everyday guy, working an everyday job. A simple life.
    “Order up!” the cook called with a clatter of dishes as he set the next breakfast under the heat lamps.
    #
    Before he was escorted off to a glamorous banquet, Candidate Berthold received Mr. Rana in his dressing chambers. The chief advisor brought documents for him to approve and sign. “This will take only a few moments, sir.”
    Berthold glanced down at the papers, shuffling from document to document. “Each one needs a signature?”
    “Yes.”
    “Have they all been read for me?”
    “Yes. And all necessary changes have been made.”
    “And do I agree with everything they say?”
    “The statements are very much in line with your platform, sir.” Rana formed a paternal smile. “You are, however, welcome to read any of them you like—in fact, I encourage it. The experience would be valuable for you.”
    Candidate Berthold gave a dismissive wave. “That won’t be necessary. I’m already tired of the incessant paperwork, and I haven’t even been elected yet.” He laboriously began to sign each one. “I’ll have plenty of time to learn after I get into office.”
    #
    His head felt as if it would explode from so much information, but his passion for the material did not wane. His brain swelled with facts until all the bones of his skull—twenty-two bones in all, fourteen facial bones, eight cranial bones—seemed to pry apart.
    For years Berthold 17 had been studying all aspects of medicine, from surgery to physical therapy to microbiology to anti-aging research. Even with proven teaching aids and somatic memorization devices, he struggled to remember the components of the human body and all the diseases and maladies that could afflict it.
    He would be taking his exams in three days. His future depended