The Fifth Correction

by Robert Wingfield

  “Not now Windy, pet, I think we may be in a spot of bother. I guess this is a private landing.”

  “Hah, three of you now.” Vac checked his j-Pad again. “What we have here is a ‘raid’.”

  “I’ve never seen them before in my life,” said Bott. “They must be stowaways.”

  “I say,” repeated Flux. “You are wrong, old bean. This is my boat, and you must be the hijackers.”

  “Ah,” said Vac, “Commandeering, theft and a raid. That would become an ‘offensive’.”

  “You’ve got us wrong,” said Bott. “This is only an ‘expedition’.”

  “Enough of the lexical semantics,” said Vac. “The posh twit said ‘hijackers’—plural. That means there must be another one. You men there, search the remains of the boat, before it dissolves completely and adds ‘pollution’ to the charges we are going to throw at this dissident.”

  Two of the men climbed aboard the melting vessel. There was a sound of splintering wood, shattering glass and stomping feet and then they reappeared, dragging the struggling quadrillipod with them. “We found him hiding beneath the sink, sir.”

  “Ah, an under-cupboard agent,” said Vac thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re with the TCA too?”

  “Agent Scaly,” said the quadrillipod, “Serial number…”

  “If I needed your serial number, I would have brought my barcode reader,” said Vac. “Take them back to the Detention Centre for interrogation and torture. I want to find out what’s behind this attempt on the life of my glorious leader.”

  “No need for that,” said Scaly. “I’ll tell you all that if you ask. I simply can’t tell you anything that is a secret, that’s all—galactic security don’t you know.”

  “No I don’t,” said Vac. “Take them to the ‘creepy room’. That will get them talking.”

  “But I’ll tell you everything; you only have to ask…”

  “Not enough fun,” muttered Vac. “At last we have some insurgents to try out our persuasion techniques on.”

  * * *

  “Did you say something about missiles?” asked the fit blonde in the red pirate shirt.

  “I thought you didn’t want to know,” replied the hairy man beside her. “You were hiding under your hat.”

  “I was checking the inside for head lice,” she lied. “There aren’t any, but we should do something about the missiles. How are you with the Shunt?”

  “The chemist gave me some cream that should sort it out.”

  “No, I meant the weapon we fitted to the ship, in case anyone should fire missiles at us, for example.”

  “Oh that,” said Neckbeard. “I doubt if I could hit them. It would require a precision not possible in biological life-forms, especially after imbibing from this barrel the freighter sent over.”

  “You’ve been drinking when our very lives are in danger?” Ruth’s internal controls added a 60% level of incredulity to her voice.

  “It is ‘Old Grunter’s Fart’. How could I not sample it when we only have a few more minutes to live?”

  “I shudder to think.” She added 25% disgust to the incredulity. “Where’s that name come from?”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds. It says here that Old Grunter was actually the head brewer with the ‘Netheregion’ brewery, and he liked to do all the shovelling of the hops himself. As he got older, it was hard work, hence the grunting. He named the beer after his dear old dad.”

  “I think part of the label must have rubbed off. It is probably called ‘Old Grunter’s Father’, spelt wrong,” said Ruth, changing her tone to 45% resignation and 78% sarcasm.

  “I think I liked you better when you didn’t try to control your emotions,” slurred Neckbeard.

  “Fair enough,” said Ruth. “Argh, we’re going to die; there’s no way out; we’ll go to Hell and spend the rest of our lives drinking Foresters Lager (85% panic)—even the Antipodes won’t drink that, and they are strictly opposed to creatures with legs.” (Panic reduced to 60%; subtlety increased to 90%).

  “For Phoist’s sake, shut it, woman. Give me the Shunt controls. I’ll use a wide spread.”

  “Make it sunflower oil then,” said Ruth, “It’s not so fattening.” She pulled her hat down over her eyes again. “I can’t look.”

  “That way,” said Neckbeard, pointing at the approaching missiles and drunkenly spinning the firing wheel. “Cop a load of that, fart faces.” He operated the switch. The interior light came on. “What moron put the light switch next to the ‘fire’ button?”

  “I think we’ve already discussed the people who design control panels,” murmured Ruth. “Goodbye; it’s been nice thinking that for the last 1500 years I haven’t known you.”

  Neckbeard found the correct switch and thumped it. The Shunt propelled the latest load of diamond fragments and old Biros out towards the missiles, at a velocity too excessive to be described here. There was a flash and there would have been a bang except for the fact that in space, no-one can hear you discharge, and the missiles vanished in a shower of metal fragments. The Pig-Ugly’s Shunt-sucker greedily and literally vacuumed them up, and reloaded ready for the next shot, should it be required.

  “There.” Neckbeard clapped his hands. “That’s dokued the lot of them. We’re safe.”

  “Dokued?” Ruth pulled her hat off and started brushing her hair.

  “I made it up,” said Neckbeard. “It means ‘really fucked’, but is a lot more polite than having to use the word, ‘fuck’ in conversation.”

  “I’m glad,” said Ruth. “Fuck is not a nice word to read in a book, or even a poem about books.”

  “Yes, it would have to be a Haiku or blank verse,” said Neckbeard, “although it does rhyme with quite a lot of other words. I’ll see what I can come up with while we are landing.”

  “In fact,” continued Ruth, “it is thought that it originally stood for ‘For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge’.”

  “I thought it was ‘Fornication Under Consent of the King’; it lost its impact after we got an emperor. Should I land?” he added.

  “Still keen on stopping here then?” said Ruth. “Even after the reception we got?”

  “No problem,” said Neckbeard. “Once they see what we’ve got to offer, we’ll all be chums, and the missiles will be forgotten. I suspect it was a mistake anyway. That’s what you get for putting Skagans in charge and labelling the missile controls correctly.”

  “I remember,” agreed Ruth. “Trigger-happy lot; they took on the whole of the Galaxy once because some idiot was given a hidden fleet of powerful ships.24”

  “And nearly succeeded,” said Neckbeard.

  “So they did,” mused Ruth. “Let’s hope the survivors have learned to be a little more tolerant. Is that the island, approaching very fast?”

  “Looks like it. We’re bang on target for the front of the main building.”

  “Do you think you should deploy the parachutes?”

  “I knew there was something. Oh.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “Oh, the sky-anchors must have been damaged in the missile explosion.”

  “Oh, that’s not a good ‘oh’.”

  “Hold on, I think even the superb and advanced suspension on the Pig-Ugly is going to be challenged by this landing.”

  * * *

  Now in the Games Room after the attempt on his life, Tom was discussing enhanced security arrangements with Tanda, Caryl was playing Goolie-Crush Saga on her G-Pad and Errorcode had been retained to explain how the only two Changes his people had made had ended in disaster.

  “It goes to show that without a proper process, simulations and trial runs, Changes are going to fail,” he blustered. “Thank Phoist we checked the others before implementing them.”

  “That’s all splendid, Monty,” said Tom, “but what are you going to do to stop it happening again?”

  “I’ve found out who was responsible, and sacked them, as a lesson to
the others… oh and I’ve put in some more processes.”

  “I thought you were going to talk to me first as Head of IC,” said Caryl. “Sacking those people is only going to put the fear of Oilflig into the rest of the team, and make them even less likely to do anything. If you had any misgivings, I could have helped.”

  “Yes, like I would talk to a favourite concubine of the boss who thinks she knows anything about HR,” spat Errorcode.

  “Thank you on two counts,” said Tom calmly.

  “For what?” Errorcode stuck out his bottom lip. Tanda resisted the temptation to knock out the ash from her cigar on it.

  “Firstly for acknowledging me as your ‘boss’; that’s the first time you’ve officially recognised my authority…”

  “I’m taking notes,” said Caryl.

  Errorcode scowled.

  “And secondly,” Tom continued, “For saving my life. If it wasn't for the fountain bursting, I’d have been killed by those guys currently being humanely tortured by Security.”

  Errorcode’s scowl deepened; his nose disappeared inside his mouth.

  “And,” the door opened and Vac entered, with Neckbeard under one arm and Ruth under the other, “from what I’ve been told,” said the pirate, “we owe you our lives too, Mr Errorcode. The force of water from the fountain cushioned our landing, and the Flying Pig-Ugly is still in one piece, although we may need to redo the paintwork.”

  “Found these two skulking in the fountain, Sah,” said Vac. “Shall I send them to be killed in an environmentally friendly way?”

  “Hang on,” said Neckbeard. “Don’t we get a say?”

  “I know that voice,” said Tom. “And I’d know that vagina anywhere. I see you’re still challenged in the undergarment area then, Lady. Put them down gently please Vac. They are friends.”

  “Friends, Sah? I was unaware you had any friends. The whole of the world is baying for your life.”

  “These are off-world friends, thank you Vac. They don’t know the new me.”

  “That would explain it, Sah.”

  “You can remove the metal restraints, and please stop applauding.”

  “I always like to clap a prisoner in irons, Sah.”

  “Thank you Vac; that will be all for the moment. Monty, are you being sick? Would you like a bucket?”

  “After that last comment, I’m going to need something.”

  “Vac, when you go, please would you accompany Mr Errorcode back to the Change Management Villa.”

  “Shall I use the Company strait-jacket, Sah?”

  “Leave his feet free. You won’t run off, will you Monty?”

  Errorcode’s scowl now had extended to his chest, but he got up to follow the hulk of the security chief out of the room. “Oh, Monty?” Tom called him back. “Would you mind switching off the water to the fountain? I’ve had a letter from the Fordanglian Money Authority, saying that because we are a low water user and not making them any cash, they are going to put our prices up.” He waved it for effect.

  “Was there a reason for that?” asked Caryl, trying to see the paperwork.

  “Yes, it says here that it is because they are greedy overpaid bastards, and that we have to have water so they can charge us what they like, so there.”

  “So there?”

  “That’s what it says here. It also says that secretarial has been outsourced to Nishant Dictation Services, ‘Your word’s (sic) are our transcription’.”

  “Does anyone speak English anymore?”

  “I fear not,” said Tom sadly. “It’s a dying language being largely replaced by bollocks and corruption.”

  “Bollocks and Corruption? Who are they?”

  “The leaders of the New Glenodure Dictionary Company. Mr Bollocks and Mrs Corruption started the global repository of language, vowing to add all the modern phrases and chimera. Apparently it’s a fulltime job keeping pace with the way people are working with words these days.”

  “Yes,” said Caryl, “I’ve looked them up on the M-Pad. Those aren’t their real appellations of course, which are virtually unpronounceable, even by people in their own country because of the dialect. They adopted the names because they liked the sound of them. Much like the fact that my family used to have servants called ‘Wellington’ and ‘Blossom’ out in ‘Deesha’25.”

  “You had servants?” Tom gave her a shocked glance. “I thought you had forgotten your early life.”

  “I thought I had,” said Caryl. “How weird.”

  “Perhaps they were from your time in Atalaya; you know the family who adopted you in that amazing place between realities, and where I met you a couple of universes ago?”

  “No, I feel it was from before that,” mused Caryl. “My childhood I think it may be.”

  “You’ve never spoken about it,” said Tom.

  “I couldn’t remember. Enough of that though; shouldn’t we be talking to our guests?”

  “Of course. Sorry people.” Tom regarded the two pirates struggling to peel off the remains of their bindings. “Do you need any help?”

  “Don’t mind us,” muttered Neckbeard. “We’re nearly free; only the last two clamps to wriggle out of.”

  “Good, shall I have some tea sent in?” said Tom.

  “Tea, you say tea. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to help me finish the rather good barrel of Ale I’ve got in the Pig-Ugly?”

  “Ale?” Tom felt his lips slapping together in a strange fashion. “Ale, let me think. Hmmmm, I’ve heard good things about it; why not?”

  “It’s in the ship. Could you send a goon to go and get it for us?”

  “You called, Sah?”

  “Not really Vac, but there is a barrel…”

  “It says ‘Old Grunter’s Fart’ on it,” put in Neckbeard.

  “This one, Sah?” Vac held it gingerly above his head. “I was going to have it blown up, Sah. It could be a volatile secret weapon.”

  “It probably is, Vac, but set it on the table for me instead, would you, and get Mrs Tuesday to bring in some glasses.”

  * * *

  “So, my dear old drinking buddy,” said Tom, raising a glass of cloudy brown liquid to his nose and sniffing it with appreciation. “Where have you been all this time and universe? It was a completely different one I saw you in last time wasn’t it?”

  “Possibly,” said the Magus,26 “but there have been so many universes and so many time-shifts that I really have no clue which one this is and where I am in it. I hope someone’s keeping a tally.”

  “I used to have one, but the wheel fell off,” said Tom, “but do tell how you found me.” He smiled and took a sip of his drink. “Awesome,” he said, smacking his lips. “Naughty lips.”

  “It is rather good isn’t it,” said the Magus, downing his drink in a single draught. “Ah, another?”

  “No thank you. I want to savour this. It has been a long time since I last had a real real-ale.”

  “You don’t mind if I do?” asked the Magus. “It doesn’t keep once it’s opened... more than a week anyway.”

  “I don’t think this one will,” said Tom. “You were saying about how you found me.”

  “I was?”

  “Go on then. How did you find me?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t be far away from Skagans, so all I had to do was find them, gain their confidence and wait for you to turn up in time and space. I’m really pleased that you are here already because it saves a lot of blank space in the text.” The Magus paused, imagining a long blank piece of text, which he decided not to include here to save boring the reader.

  “So pure chance then?” said Tom after the blank space that wasn't there.

  “More or less,” nodded the Magus. “I’m pleased that I find you in charge because I have a mutually beneficial plan.”

  “Starting a brewery?” suggested Tom hopefully.

  “That’s a good idea,” said the Magus, “and would be mutually
beneficial to boot. I’m sure there was something else though.”

  “You wanted to get help with manufacturing the Doku-drive,” said Kara27, trying not to catch Tom’s eye. She glanced at Caryl, who was staring thoughtfully at her. “Sorry, I can’t look directly at him. It buggers up my systems.”

  Caryl relaxed. “I have the same problem but don’t worry. I know you two go back a very long way, and I also know that you are programmed to accept him as your creator. If I could turn it off, I would.”

  “So would I,” said Kara sadly, “I’ve tried, but the fail-safes are too good. It also includes a self-preservation over-ride, so I can’t even shut myself down.”

  “Good thing,” said Caryl generously, “You still have a major contribution to the fate of the universe. I don’t think we can do it without you.”

  “Not again.” Kara sighed tiredly.

  “Hang on,” said Tom. “What are you talking about, ‘the fate of the universe’; I thought we’d sorted all that out in previous volumes28.”

  “So did I,” said Caryl. “What am I talking about?”

  “You’re not becoming a psy-chick, are you?” said Tom. “I prefer you as a horny-chick.”

  “Go to the back of the room,” said Caryl, “and you can beat your head on the wall after that comment.”

  “So,” said Kara. “My colleague here has something you might be interested in, but he needs facilities and cash to develop it.”

  “I’m interested,” said Tom, placing a cushion to the partition to save his forehead from damage. “What have you got for us?”

  “The Doku-drive,” said the Magus. “It generates a force so powerful that any speed can be reached. I haven’t managed to work out if it has limits.”

  “And this could propel a space-craft?”

  “How do you think we got here?”

  “I thought you were hiding in the fountain—wrapped in Change Management processes for all eternity.”

  “We could have been,” said the Magus thoughtfully, “But we couldn’t afford Change Management in our enterprise, so we had to be creative and productive instead.”

  “A novel idea; and it works in practise?”