Imagine a place where you can order anything you like from any corner of the known universe. Books, ranging from the present, all the way to the beginning of time. Clothing appropriate for all sentient races, ages and genders, Qabmelar jewelry, parts and equipment for any existing vehicle, vacuum cleaners or even a fez, teleported directly to your location.
The place is Kerblam. Their motto: "Don't just ship it, Kerblam it."
The delivery system at Kerblam is 90 percent automated, but its award winning customer service sector is not, and award winning services comes with a hefty price, paid by its employees.
That terrific 3D holographic video communication forces each employee to be television quality presentable for the duration of their one break, twelve hour shift. This means a mandatory dress code, make up, shaving, weight loss programs, disposable undergarments, daily etiquette/posture/charm lessons and reviews, and a ten point customer satisfaction scale that could mean the difference between a raise, being sent home without pay, or outright termination, including, but not limited to, being deposited on a small, desolate asteroid in the middle of nowhere.
The company has a sliding scale dependent on species, of course.
The average representative spends twelve hours a day, seven days a week, in a claustrophobic little movie studio the size of a closet, and is micromanaged for more than half that amount of time. In the interest of gender equality among all races and species, dress code literally calls for dresses, for men, women, and other sexes. Each rep also gets assigned generic names and number designations, such as Gozdora 3, Abrita 400...or Beota 171.
The day the incident occurred, the central customer service hub, Kerblam Prime, had been orbiting Jupiter, and Beota 171, a human expensively outsourced from the planet earth, had been called out of his cylindrical little studio for yet another performance review.
The view out the office window was spectacular, the massive angry eye of the Jovian giant surrounded by its multicolored swirling clouds. A pity he couldn't enjoy it from the interior of his booth.
Beota climbed the stairs to management's observation platform, staring into the miniature studios, watching with slight envy as a few of them left for breaks and lunches.
As an EOE compliant workplace, several major species had been represented at this location, individuals with blue skin, some with cat-like features, a tentacled thing with eyes all over its head, a half human half dinosaur man, a walking talking raccoon with one large cyclops-like eye, a creature that resembled those aliens you always hear about in UFO abduction stories...all clad in those ridiculous green dresses.
Beota straightened the awkwardly short skirt of his uniform, wondering what minor infraction he would get in trouble for this time.
With great hesitancy, he crept into the Supervisor's booth, a man, Beota noted with more than a little annoyance, who had the luxury of not being required to adhere to the thoroughly embarrassing dress code.
The boss's name: Denis Gaffney. With the heavy bulk, the glasses and the bald head, he resembled Robert Irvine, and was just as uncompassionate about weakness.
After showing Beota a recording of his work, the man said, "Your hair needs combing. You slouch too much. You need to stand straighter. Also, when's the last time you shaved?"
"This morning," Beota said. "Right before my makeup."
"I meant your legs. I've been getting comments about stubble. Also, I've caught multiple instances of you scratching yourself. Do you need facial cream?...Jock itch powder?"
Will this humiliation ever end? thought Beota. Can I please get back to my job now?
But no, that wasn't how reviews worked.
"Your delivery was good, you read the script the way you were supposed to, but you need to smile more, put more enthusiasm in your voice. You do want to get promoted, don't you?"
"I'd sooner win the lottery," Beota remarked in a sub-audible murmur.
Denis looked angry. "What's that?"
"Nothing. I-"
And that's when it happened. Right in the middle of Denis's complaint about how Beota didn't speak loudly enough.
One by one, Beota's coworkers all started screaming.
Manager Denis switched on his monitoring system and found a blue feline crying in a ball in the corner of her studio. Her customer, connected by holographic feed, stared in surprise.
"Abrita 300!" the boss shouted. "Stand back up! Stop crying and smile!"
He switched to the camera in the next drum. The one eyed raccoon lay on the floor, foaming at the mouth. "Beota 270! Stand up now!"
A half human dinosaur wailed as she crouched by the wall, shielding herself from an unseen attacker, tears rolling down her face.
The many eyed tentacled thing had become a drooping mass of quivering tentacles.
The saucer man was shrieking.
Denis tried to take control of the situation by barking orders, but no one was listening.
Seconds later, the door to the manager's booth slid open, and the occupants inside joined in the screaming.
[0000]
Thousands of light years away, a green skinned, four armed creature stood at the peak of an outcrop on a rocky red planet, watching a square blue meteor hurtling through her planet's atmosphere.
"It is a sign from Iss!" called a stockier female behind her. "A bountiful hunt this season!"
The first female stroked her tusk thoughtfully, cast bones upon the ground to divine the proper course of action.
"What does it say, Ibira?" her companion asked.
After studying it for a minute, the slender female stuffed the bones back into her leather harness. "We ride."
They mounted up on gray six legged beasts, tightening the reins as their rides growled and snapped their crocodile mouths in anticipation of the hunt.
They thundered across miles of desert, but saw no sign of game, or water.
"Are you certain you read the bones correctly, Ibira?" the thick limbed one moaned.
"The sign was very clear, Tawroka. The bones aligned on prosperity, treasure, or a good hunt. Besides, we have yet to reach the place which Iss has marked with her star."
The odd meteorite struck a hilltop in the distance, sending up a fireball, debris, and clouds of smoke. The two galloped closer.
They spotted game, but it proved to be Xiqdabo, feathery squirrel things too small and flighty to be worth their while, so they continued on.
Over the next rise, they reached the impact crater, a blackened dent in the ground strewn with rubble and dead animals.
At center, upside down and buried in a mound of dirt, stood a splintery old blue box with signs about the police on its front side.
"What do you make of that, Ibira?" Tawroka asked her associate.
"I am uncertain. Perhaps it is a totem of the gods."
A door on the object swung inward, and out billowed fire and smoke.
A female figure in a suit coat coughed and stumbled out onto the ground.
Ibira cautiously approached the woman, drawing a knife. "Who are you?"
"Doctor," the stranger coughed.