In Store
Reginald found the office jostling with staff around foreign product-laden tables. Adding his own, Reginald saw others—sea-kelp extract shampoo, scented fish-liver massage oil, sea-cucumber personal deodorant, crayfish shell earrings, bath towels with sea-sponge fibers, whale-milk moisturizer…
“Could they be real?” someone behind Reginald, Penny perhaps, asked. “Who could make them?”
Store Manager McKinley’s surgery-confused face struggled, twitching under his left eye, twice next to his chin, then in a short series across his cheek. It wouldn’t be very ‘customer-pleasing’ if they could see it right now, thought Reginald, ignoring the facial tics.
“They’re not real,” said McKinley. “I have an important announcement to make. We received a recorded message ten minutes ago. The Post-Utopian Radicals are targeting the store.”
Around the room everyone murmured and looked for Radicals.
“Stay calm,” said McKinley. “Undercover police are searching the crowds for Radical observers. These fake products are the Radicals’ first attack, the rogue fish the second, which means we can expect three more.”
Everyone knew how the Radicals worked. Always five events, never anyone found responsible, and always incredibly well orchestrated, progressively more technically impressive attacks.
The store’s aquarist, presumably soaked from extracting the aquarium’s intruder, rushed in.
“It’s a coral polyp grazer!” he announced. “Do you understand? It’s been eating it!”
“Much damage?” prompted McKinley.
“It could be unquarantined! Have parasites! The ecosystem could be destabilized!”
Reginald hated seeing the man, whose little monitoring chamber he often visited for its privileged aquarium views, so distressed.
“Why today? Sally’s due any moment!” Rushing out, the aquarist called back, “I need to check the water. They have all types of experts. They could do anything!”
“I’m addressing the media now,” McKinley told the staff. “Whatever happens, do your best to keep everything under control.”
Easier said than done, thought Reginald, who had watched the ingenuity of other Radical demonstrations with interest. But why were they attacking a J.F. Retail Outlet?
Back in his department Reginald switched a monitor to the live broadcast as Veronica introduced McKinley to the camera. Veronica wore a pink blouse and a black puffy tie arranged sailor fashion.
McKinley was wearing his face, now behaving, and the current season’s business apparel. Reginald noticed he had tucked the tags away. No—they weren’t just tucked away; they were completely cut off. Reginald fingered his own tags as he listened.
“What kind of damage is this rogue fish likely to have caused the aquarium?” Veronica began.
“The damage was contained to three coral colonies on the northern side of the aquarium. Thankfully the intruder was found quickly.”
“Have you been contacted by the Radicals?” Veronica said.
“Not directly.”
“But you are undoubtedly aware of the mass recruitment the Radicals are achieving. How do you think this reflects on what we’re seeing in-store today?”
“It’s a confusing situation given the contribution that J.F. makes towards native species rehabilitation. However, it will not affect our ability to provide the most competitive customer service experience. At this point, J.F. Retail Outlets would like to reconfirm its commitment to combining the enhancement and conservation of our native biodiversity with the modern retail experience.” His face excelled in what it was designed to do.
The camera swayed towards Veronica. “For those viewers only now joining us, I am broadcasting live from J.F. Retail Outlet, the target of the Post-Utopian Radicals’ latest demonstration….”
Reginald scanned his department, the perfect lurk for a Radical observer. Not so close to the aquarium to be obvious, but close enough to see everything. Identifying a Radical would cut six months off his time to reach the glass, he was sure.
After one full sweep of his department, Reginald’s eyes backtracked to a previously discounted suspect. The young woman carried a pair of bright yellow underpants. Most women buying underwear either collected the article last or carried them in a semi-concealed fashion. This woman left no doubt she carried a pair of size twelve yellow cotton underpants. Her knee-length lime skirt, thin plastic belt and cherry red open-sleeved blouse were none of them J.F. apparel or accessories, nor did she seem interested in the several monitors that customers had changed to view the broadcast.
Reginald moved into her path to test if she would divert. She didn’t. “Can I help you at all?” he asked.
The woman crumpled the underpants into a tight ball. “Actually, I think maybe you can,” she said. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you a personal question?”
