The Fifth Correction

by Robert Wingfield

  “Glad to be creative and make a contribution, Ma’am.” His face clouded. “There is only one thing I can’t see, Sah.”

  “Neither can I,” said Tom. “It is probably that cigar you’re smoking. Put it out please.”

  “Sorry, Sah.” Vac dropped the stub into one of Tom’s potted geraniums. “It’s the power units for the fleet; can’t get anything with enough thrust to get us out of the atmosphere.”

  “So you’ve built all these craft with company money, and all they do is look nice?”

  “They fly in the air, Sah, with the basic cells designed by Phoist.”

  “That’s a start. Tell me again how you managed to get over to Glenforbis without space travel capability.”

  “It was the prototype, Sah. Used up all our engine resources on that one; now can’t get replacements without getting a replacement, so that we can get into space, to visit a planet where we can get replacements.”

  “Tricky one; I’m sure there must be an answer.”

  “I will do my best to find one, Sah. Permission to leave and start working on the problem?”

  “Granted.”

  Vac marched stiffly out of the room. Tom gazed at his girl, still sitting on the sofa, and now releasing the buttons on her blouse. “How did you do that?” he asked.

  “My natural charm,” she said, “I told you I would be able to talk him round.”

  “But you agreed to let him arm his ships; I didn’t want to risk another war.”

  “Only some of them, to protect our copyright. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.” The remaining buttons gave way and Tom had adequate view of the top of her breasts to distract his mind. “Come and sit down beside me,” she put her feet up on the seat and eased her skirt up. “Now, you know I’m right don’t you?”

  “I do,” he said, leaping up from his chair.

  Tales from a Small Planet

  Aliens!

  The Discomfort of Nosy people

  T

  he two TCA agents, Bott, the slightly rusty bionic human and Scaly, the multi-legged quadrillipod, perched rather uncomfortably in their loading seats on the long-distance space transporter. The problem with not conforming to one of the standard humanoid shapes meant that makeshift chairs had to be constructed for them out of memory-froth. This evil toxic reject from many of the more civilised worlds is widely believed to cause amnesia, lethargy and a compelling desire to watch soap operas. Apart from moulding itself to the contours of these more grotesque lifeforms, it also retained their body heat and gave off a corrosive gas that was even now playing havoc with the lubricant on Bott’s servos and seeping into the pumps driving Scaly’s breathing system.

  In the latter case, originally it had been scientifically proven that because of the way quadrillipods breathe—by diffusion through a network of tubes known as ‘spiracles’—it was physically impossible for such a creature to exceed a maximum size, technically known as ‘small enough to stamp on with a hobnailed boot’.

  As humans got fatter because of the lack of exercise caused by the Foam, their poos got bigger. As a result, flies got bigger, and so did the spiders and other animals that fed off them. This meant that these expanding creatures were always out of breath, and subsequently annoyed. It was then that the advanced intellect of the quadrillipods came up with the concept of a breathing machine that forced more air though the spiracles, and wearing one of these, there was now no limit to the size these creatures could achieve.

  Having a planet populated by giant spiders, earwigs, cockroaches and other creepies was too much for the ‘Quads’ (as they liked to call themselves, because it sounded cooler on the web sites they were designing). They built escape ships and deserted the planet to offer their technical brilliance elsewhere.

  Once they got past the initial revulsion and persecution from the more normal endoskeletal beings populating the Galaxy (Endos, as they called them with scorn), the quadrillipods were happy to be hidden in the ‘back-rooms’ of many scientific research and development facilities, where they skittered about, producing many new and innovative designs. It was quickly discovered that their talent in developing websites was limited. They tended to assume that everyone thought the way they did, and the 2000 key standard input device required did not achieve the popularity they hoped.

  The quadrillipods did however attribute their success as the scientists of choice to Memory-Froth, which allowed them to travel comfortably and also rendered their employers open to suggestions. The creators of the material, Chinchilla Kuklan and Charlene A. Yesterday of the Nosy and Sectarian Antagonists (NSA) were highly regarded and were the only ‘Endos’ they would talk about without crossing two of their rear appendages as a secret expression of disdain.

  Largely ignorant of all this history, Bott and Scaly were uncomfortable and irritable even before they were dropped off at the nearest airport to SCT Island. As they entered the arrivals hall, they realised that getting through incognito was not possible on a planet inhabited by non-space-travelling bipeds. They were something of a sensation.

  The two investigators tagged along at the back of a queue, hoping to blend in with passengers who had recently arrived from Shedscuff, one of the smaller and more enlightened countries on the planet. Their fellow travellers made polite conversation with them, and they began to think they would get along nicely with this species; perhaps their job was not going to be too exhausting.

  The first problem arose when Bott walked through the security scanner. It lit up like a Christmas tree does when you set the power to 110 volts and plug it into a 230 volt socket. There was a small explosion and all the lights in the hall went out. In the dim glow from the vending machine, which had a backup generator so that people could always get coffee in a blackout, the security forces surrounded the two aliens and pointed a number of serious-looking firearms at them.

  “You will come with us,” said a soldier with a torch, “but we will have to put your pet in quarantine.”

  “I’m not a pet,” said Scaly indignantly. “I’m a scientist. I design websites too.”

  “Websites? Then prison is the right place for you,” said the soldier, “to keep you off the internet. I’ll organise the waterboarding suite.”

  “Sounds nice,” said Scaly, “but we’re not here for recreation, we are on official business. Please take me to your leader.”

  “’Take me to your leader?’ You are an alien then,” said the soldier. “I did suspect as much. I didn’t expect you to come in from Shedscuff though. I thought there would be flying saucers, flashing lights and smoke and stuff.”

  “We are here incognito,” said Bott. “We were dropped off in the radar shadow over the edge of the field, and joined this queue because they looked as though they knew where they were going.”

  “Shame,” said the soldier, “I would have liked to film it on my I-Husk, for the family and to post on U-Spout, the galactic repository for extreme banality.”

  “We didn’t want to arouse incertitude,” said Bott.

  “Other than the fact they you are obviously a bionic, and somewhat rusty if I may say so, man, with what amounts to a giant millipede as a pet... Unless it’s a guide-millipede, of course,” he added. “You’re not blind are you?”

  “I’ve already told you, I’m not a bloody pet,” said Scaly, “I’m one of a crack team of temporal investigators, and I’m his partner.”

  “Partner? Are you married?”

  “For Phoist’s sake, we are Regulators, tracking down a devious universal repeat-offender.”

  “Any sex involved?” asked the soldier hopefully.

  “Quite a lot of it, because that’s what makes the universe go round,” answered Bott. “Didn’t you know?”

  “So, a universal sex offender, bestiality jockey and I expect your animal is under-age, to add conspiracy to your crimes,” said the soldier. “Sounds like you are a right villain. You will come with me to see what the Toffs have
to say.”

  “Good, are they anything like leaders?” asked Scaly.

  “Much the same; they get into positions of power without knowing anything about the common man, and never having worked a day in their lives, and then make moronic decisions which affect everyone badly but themselves,” said the soldier bitterly. “But that’s not who I’m talking about in this instance.”

  * * *

  The Head of TOFFS, the ‘Terrestrial Office For Foreign Security’ unit, grunted as the telephone by her bed disturbed her dreams. She kicked the alien ‘Tripenisoid’ envoy, who had proved so satisfying the night before and was now snoring quietly beside her, and grabbed the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “Aliens, Gloria,” came the distant voice.

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “Neil.”

  “I have been, all night,” she replied. “It was great…”

  “No Babe, I am ‘Neil’.”

  “Of course, hi Neil. Did I hear you say something about aliens?”

  “Yes Doll, real aliens.”

  “But I thought we agreed aliens didn’t exist and that we are the only intelligent life-form in the universe.” She dug the Envoy in what amounted to his ribs, and he sniggered.

  “We did, but I’m afraid I’ve got two of them here at the aerodrome.”

  “Blast it. Does that mean we are going to have to do some work?” Gloria sat up. In the event that she was being filmed, she pulled the sheet over her breasts to preserve what the producers would describe as ‘modesty’. In doing so, she dragged the covering off the Tripenisoid beside her, instantly pushing any surreptitious movie up to a triple-R rating.

  “I’m afraid so, Chicky-babe,” replied Neil, unaware that he was potentially starring in the gut-buster of the century. “I know we only joined this quango because there was never any work to do, so we could stroll around all day enjoying ludicrous salaries and working out how to claim even more outrageous expenses11. We agreed that if ever we did discover aliens, we would have to hush it up, to save causing worldwide panic.”

  “Or something like that.” Gloria grinned at the envoy. “And to make sure we didn’t have to do any work; can’t you supress this one like the others… er, that didn’t happen?”

  “No, we are surrounded by people filming it on their I-Husks. It’s already on ‘Twitface’. One of the aliens did a new site for us already, while he was relaxing in the Waterboard Suite. Check out FuckUHumanity.gal.”

  “Later perhaps; I’ll be with you presently.”

  “Now would be better if you could manage it.”

  “I was talking about ‘presently’ as our colonial cousins like to call it, meaning ‘now’ or ‘very soon’.”

  “Can you use the special accent next time, so I know what you’re talking about?”

  “Sure will, Boy.” She hung up. “Twat!”

  The envoy ran its many fingers over the complex keyboard and passed the J-Husk personal organiser over to her.

  “Thanks lover. I never could get the hang of these devices. They seem to be designed by pre-pubescent kids, for morons. Oh, by the way, thanks for keeping quiet while I was on the phone. I think we’re about to find out what happens to aliens here, so it’s probably best you stay out of sight.”

  The envoy gave a rumble from inside. “My people gave me the job of first contact,” it said, “because they wanted rid of me and hoped I’d be executed as a French spy. I don’t want to have to leave.” One of its arms cupped her breast and another disappeared under the quilt.

  “Not now Nigel12,” she said. “I’ve got to get over to the ‘Drome and stop them taking these guys apart; if they are aliens that is.”

  “Take a look.” The envoy passed the device over as she pulled on her business suit.

  Gloria whistled as she regarded the images on the screen. “Ah, not journalists in fancy-dress then, like it was the last couple of times.”

  “And the time before, when that woman came in from the Colonies and couldn’t get through the security gate.”

  “That wasn’t fun; proving she was human so that we could step away from the problem. Why those people eat so much is beyond me. I’m sure I lost a couple of good men when the burgers ran out.”

  “Not a false alarm this time,” said Nigel. “I recognise these uniforms. The fellow with the legs is a quadrillipod, an arthropod from the planet Eeek,13 and the other guy I haven’t seen before, but he seems to be quite intensively endowed with cybernetics.”

  “And the uniforms?”

  “From the Temporal Conduct Authority, the TCA; those people have a lot of influence if you start mucking about with Time and Multiverse travel.”

  “But we agreed that time travel wasn’t possible, and what’s this about multiverses?”

  “We haven’t time to go into String Theory at the moment, but I’ll put the details into the appendix14. I could even do a course, if the local college will have me.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Gloria. “Will you wait for me? I hope I won’t be long.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for your return.”

  “The other appendages will be sufficient,” said Gloria, shuddering as she remembered her first introduction to the Tripenisoid greeting. Apparently, removing your ocular receptors was meant to indicate that you placed yourself at the mercy of your new contacts, and were not a danger to them. She decided that a nice smile was a better alternative, because baring your teeth to an alien was never considered to be threatening, of course.

  * * *

  “I am Gloria Inexchelsea, head of TOFFS. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Gloria waved away the two soldiers guarding the aliens.

  “Bott,” said the big man, extending a mechanical arm, and barely remembering to withdraw the integral buzz-saw from where his hand would have been.

  “And Scaly,” said the quadrillipod, waving a few legs in greeting. “We come from the TCA to arrest, convict and execute a notorious criminal.”

  “Oh you do, do you?” said Gloria, taking an instant dislike to the attitude of the investigators. “And who would this criminal be?”

  “He is known here as Tom Smith, but has used Two-Dan $mith (sic), ‘Nob of the Universe’, ‘Mucoid One’, Shit-face and several other aliases.”

  “Tom Two-Dan $mith (sic), eh: a strange name. Assuming you have outsourced the typist, we obviously have a number of citizens answering to ‘Tom Smith’. Can you be more specific?”

  There was a grating sound from underneath the quadrillipod and he produced a slate with a detailed portrait. “We believe this is he.”

  Gloria took her fingers from her ears. “Please don’t do that again. It sets my teeth on edge and triggers the fire suppressors.” She put up an umbrella.

  “Is this what waterboarding is about?” asked Scaly. “I thought it might be some sort or torture, but it is quite pleasant, cooling my old overheating carapace.”

  “I’m not so happy,” said Bott. “I think this stuff is affecting my hardware.”

  “I’ll get a pot of Oxide-off sent in,” said Gloria. “We have some work experience people who can give you a quick application and save any more damage. Oh, someone’s switched off the sprinklers, thank Phoist.” She folded the umbrella and stood it in a corner. “Now let’s see that picture. Ah.”

  “Ah? So you do know him?” said Scaly.

  “Yes, this Tom Smith is the head of the recently rejigged SCT group, the lead supplier of flying machines and off-world travel technology. I’ve got a space-flight booked for when they manage to design a new drive engine. I want to go up outside the atmosphere and peep down at our planet, marvelling on how clean it looks from Space.”

  “So you are getting towards interplanetary travel?” said Scaly suspiciously. “If you really want to go up there, we could give you a lift in one of ours in exchange for this fugitive.”

  “It would take too long to get the paperwork sorted,”
said Gloria. “The chocolate and champagne would run out long before we could leave. I think we’ll wait for SCT to complete their fleet, but that could take a good few years yet, I am told, before it is affordable by the likes of us elite.”

  “Of course,” said Scaly. “Probably for the best to wait. I can imagine you people cluttering up the space-ways. I saw the state of your motorways as we were landing, and shudder to think what you would do with the more busy regions of the universe.”

  “The motorways are fine,” said Gloria indignantly. “Now we charge to use them, it’s all the other roads that have become the problem.”

  “So about this Tom Smith?” said Scaly hurriedly.

  “He is one of the most powerful people on the planet and gives a great amount of money to widows, orphans and cats’ homes. I’m not sure I can authorise you having access.”

  “He’s a criminal,” said Bott. “He needs to be apprehended.”

  “So tell me again what he’s done. Some sort of perverted sex offenses I was told. He will have his nob guillotined, and his nose cut off if that is the case.”

  “Not exactly sex offenses,” said Scaly awkwardly. “Your security people asked us if he had sex, and we truthfully said that we all do. They misunderstood and took that as an admission.”

  “So, a confusion then,” said Gloria. “I’m looking at the news now; there seems to be a commotion out at his country manor. Look.”

  The others regarded the TV screen at the end of the room. It showed armed police and swat teams storming a mansion, and being followed by a sea of media cameras and one or two bystanders with their I-Husks.

  The ticker at the bottom read “The luxury home of magnate Tom Smith is raided after aliens accuse him of paedophilia, necrophilia, war crimes, operating a speed camera without a conscience, and mass murder. Mr Smith was not in, currently living on his highly fortified private island, the head office of SCT, leading supplier of spacecraft and brewer of non-lager alcoholic beverages. A spokesman for Mr Smith said, ‘What the fuck are you talking about? I’m only the gardener. Now leave me alone to arrange these bits of limestone.’ No one else was available for comment.”