The Fifth Correction

by Robert Wingfield

  “Yes sir.”

  “Hi,” said the remote voice. “I believe you are threatening to destroy one of our vessels. We can’t let you do that.”

  “No, we’re not,” said the Admiral. “Not until they’ve finished shagging anyway.”

  “You might have to wait,” said the voice. “I believe that is the Skagan ‘death hump’ you are watching. It goes on for days until they are too tired to care that they are going to be killed.”

  “So are you saying we should fire now and then get off home with the recordings we already have?”

  “No, I’m saying that you should get off home now and forget about the firing. You’ve probably got enough video to keep your porn industry going for a few weeks. Have you thought about offering them a contract?”

  “Thought about it,” said the Admiral, “but orders are orders, and they did destroy our tax system and bring down the Government.”

  “I’d have thought you’d be grateful,” said the voice.

  “Everyone keeps saying that,” said the Admiral, “but we have to do what we are ordered to.”

  “Who gave you the directive?”

  “It came straight from the head of the government before they fell apart.”

  “Does that mean your government has been dissolved?” said the voice, “Wouldn’t that also mean that your orders are no longer valid? Why don’t you pop off home and assume control in the ensuing chaos? There are bound to be celebrations and street parties you could interrupt with water cannon and rubber bullets.”

  “It’s a thought,” mused the Admiral, “but we still have a job to do here first though.” There was a flash of light and one of the ships in the DSO fleet disappeared, leaving only a cloud of dust. “Did you do that?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Of course, we needed to test out the new Skagan ‘Enhanced Focused Annihilator Dokuon Molecular Reorganiser Ordnance’, didn’t we? I think it worked rather splendidly.”

  “Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue does it,” said the Admiral.”

  “The name was thought up by committee,” replied the voice. “Would you like another demonstration? It will only take a minute to say ‘Fire the Enhanced Focused…’”

  “I can’t be bothered to wait,” said the Admiral. “Hasn’t anyone thought up an acronym for it? What about rearranging the words and call it a DEFORMA, because you can’t think up a proper name?”

  “I’ll have to get my dictionary out for that one,” said the voice from the Skagan ship.

  “Good, we can wait until they’ve finished down there while you are checking it.”

  “Sorry, no, I’ll look that up later. We have to get back for tea, or Mrs Tuesday will be angry and we won’t get any bedtime cocoa.”

  * * *

  “Why’s it gone dark,” asked Vac, stopping in mid thrust. Tanda took her fingers out of his nose and stiffly tried to straighten up.

  “Seems we’re inside the hold of a ship,” she said. “I never noticed, but it looks like a Skagan ship; fantastic. It must be the Fukedds Belle. They’ve got it working at last.”

  “Nice name,” said Vac, “Got a kind of ring to it.”

  “You’d better get your trousers back on. Have they pressurised the loading bay yet?”

  “Wind down the window and find out.”

  * * *

  “Vac, Tanda, lovely to see you. Welcome to my ship.”

  “Kara, what are you doing aboard a Skagan vessel,” asked Tanda, giving her a hug.

  “We’re pirates now,” said Kara. “Didn’t you notice the hat?”

  “I did wonder.” She looked around and the posse of desperadoes behind Kara. “Who are all these people?”

  “The usual collection of cutthroats, ne’er-do-wells, murderers, parking attendants and fictional African leaders you might find on any pirate ship.”

  “Are they hard to control?”

  “Not really.” The gynoid laughed. “I’ve got help from a few of the Skagans as my officers. It’s a big crew, but we expect to get casualties in the skirmishes I’ve got planned. Until then, we’re one big ‘Happy’.”

  “Family?”

  “I can’t have babies,” said Kara sadly, “Not without a soldering iron that is.”

  “Appreciate the rescue,” said Tanda, letting her go. “Vac, leave the Romariastan Ladies’ Football Team alone.” She did a double-take. “Er, what are those very attractive women doing here amongst the crew?”

  “They lost a couple of games back home,” said Kara, “and you know how severe the punishments for failure are over there. I rescued them from a Stalag when one of the crew suggested that for equal opportunities we should have females on board. Odd how most criminals are men, but understandable if they’re not getting their rocks off enough.”

  “That’s your theory about crime is it?” said Tanda.

  “It’s the most fun answer to solving the problem of overcrowded jails. I’ve got plans to traffic a load more Romariastan women as a solution to any area with a crime problem.”

  “So are you saying all criminals are only criminals because they don’t get enough sex?”

  “Would you be able to go out murdering and thieving if you were shagged out all the time?”

  “I’m not sure I could even stand,” said Tanda, her legs giving way. “It’s hard work doing bump-fuzzies in the cabin of a Pig-Ugly. Thanks for keeping the lights down by the way.”

  “I didn’t want the crew seeing your ship properly,” said Kara, steadying her. “Vac doesn’t seem bothered with the darkness, and the women have taken a shine to him. Luckily, I thought to rescue the reserves and the under-twenty-ones and the second team and the second team reserves, to boot.”

  “Lucky they have 21 a side,” said Tanda. “What I’d like to know is how you managed to do all that in the short time between us leaving to visit GUTS and now?”

  “I don’t let the grass grow under my feet,” said Kara, lifting her pixie-boot to make sure. “It was easy really. Groat and Spigot stole the ship and collected the TCA people from the detention centre. They then came to pick me up because I was the only one who knew how to fly the Belle.”

  “I’d already collected a good crew from a passing forest on that wet planet, so we hopped aboard. The Skagans weren’t really happy in command, so they asked me to take over. We went off for a bit of derring-do and happened to be investigating the delivery of my latest book when we passed you lot. Of course I recognised Vac’s bottom immediately, and as the fleet was too busy watching you, we got into position (not that one) and took them unawares.”

  “I know the feeling,” said Tanda uncomfortably.

  Centre Court

  Extradition

  Tom is tried to death

  T

  he long-range Pig-Ugly touched down neatly on its parachutes and the Magus hitched it to the docking rail at the main docks of Basilopolis. He pulled his coat up around his neck and ignored the pattering of the rain on his bald head. “Now what was the first rule of being a private dick?” he mused. “I know, ‘never take your hat off’. Damn, I thought this was going to be an easy pick-up.”

  He dodged a number of muggers wielding stout sticks and wished he had his gun with him. Luckily his skull was a lot thicker than the normal humanoid, and the blows did him little harm. Before long, he was in the back-street hotel. The owner smiled gratefully; it had been a quiet season so far, and here was another potential customer.

  “Good morning, sir, lovely day, I am Lloyd Cole, your maître-D. Would it be the Amsterdam Suite you’ll be wanting?”

  “I’m searching for one of your residents, Tom $mith (sic). I believe he’s staying here.”

  “Yes, sir, he went out with Miss Zeta Thecooking, early on. I heard they were going to Hiya Gloria; it was really glistening earlier with all the water running down it.”

  “Thank you, I’ll get straight there.”

  “You won’t be staying then,
sir?” The Maître’s face fell. “Perhaps a drink in the bar with our resident ‘dame’?”

  “I won’t,” said the Magus, thinking on a previous time he had accepted a drink. “First rule of Investigators,” he explained.

  “You’re a private dick then?”

  “Er, no,” he said, remembering the other first rule, ‘Never tell anyone who you are’, “He’s an old friend, and I wanted to see the cathedral anyway.”

  * * *

  Hiya Gloria was resplendent in glittering dampness as the Magus approached up the main hill. He had refused the magnetic Wellingtons and was now regretting it as he continuously lost his footing and crashed to the cobbles. Eventually, a few locals took pity on him and offered to push him up to the gate in exchange for a few Drachma. They even helped to lighten his load by relieving him of his wallet, but he didn’t realise that until the bar-bill came a few hours later.

  After the usual devotions at the Unruffled Wall, he entered the cathedral and started to ask around. The guards were very talkative, there having been no crime for them to attend to in Basilopolis for a thousand years.

  “Oh, yeah, he was like a hardened criminal,” said the spokesman. “Took ten of us to bring him down, and stop him stealing all the holy silver and the revered jewels. He stood there with his ‘Brendan Fittipaldi’, spraying bullets and throwing bombs. If there hadn't have been twenty of us, we would never have prevented any serious loss of life. As it was, we saved the day, didn’t we lads?”

  “Right, it would have been a blood-bath, but for our bravery,” said one of the men.

  “I thought you said there were only ten of you?”

  “Er, we had to call in reinforcements…”

  “So what happened to him?”

  “Once we had subdued him, we dragged him off to the cells for a severe telling off.”

  “Telling off?” The Magus raised what would have been an eyebrow had the doku-cure not removed all hair in the process.

  “We haven’t had any crime here for hundreds of years. There are no courts or police to carry out punishment.”

  “What about you lot then; aren’t you the security forces?”

  The man drew himself up proudly. “We are the elite Taurean Guard, first assembled by Basil the Second for his wars against the Burglars. We have been guarding the City ever since, and eradicated all crime.”

  “Until $mith (sic) came here,” said another man. “He is a crime-wave all by himself. We won’t get any more trouble from him though.”

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?” The Magus’ right-side heart sank; the left-side heart dropped it an oxygen mask.

  “Of course not,” said the spokesman, sounding offended, “We are employed to guard the cathedral and the City, not to solve crimes. We deported him.”

  “That’s a relief. Where to?”

  “First of all, we thought of sending him for a quick break in the sun.”

  “That is kind.”

  “Not really, I was talking about firing him in a capsule into our own sun, reputed to be responsible for the light, the warmth and the joy that we don’t have here, but unfortunately all our solar rockets are away being painted with rust inhibiter…”

  “That’s when we got a call from the TCA,” put in another man. “We apparently have an extradition treaty with them.”

  “I hadn't heard of it,” said the spokesman, “but they assured us there was one, so we passed the villain over to them. Someone called Third-hand Bad Looter I think.”

  “Ferdinand Badloser?” prompted the Magus, both his hearts now knotted together.

  “That was him. Do you know the man?”

  “By reputation,” said the Magus. “Where did they take the ‘criminal’?”

  “TCA main offices, they said; something about a trial. You’ll have to be quick, because I got the impression that it was a mere formality, and they have capital punishment out there.”

  “Capital,” said the Magus. “That sounds as though it’s going to cost him. I’ll take my cheque-book.”

  * * *

  “All rise, Judge Ferdinand Badloser presiding,” shouted an umpire, “And that ball was out.”

  There were sniggers around the stadium, and the odd cry of ‘Greedy Wanker’.

  “Silence on the court please.”

  Badloser surveyed the arena from his desk in the VIP box. Under his breath, he cursed the man in the dock. It was because of Tom that all but one of his staff had resigned, the TCA was in tatters, and he couldn’t afford to pay himself the huge bonus that he felt he deserved. In fact, after paying himself the last of the TCA cash reserves, he was forced to rent out TCA properties for other activities simply to keep on top of his bar-bill, and use the officials from them to run what was left of his organisation.

  He peered over the top of his hairy glasses. The Centre Court of the Temporal Conduct Authority Justice Division was packed with people. “Sorry about having to stop the tennis,” he said once the hubbub had died down, “but we have here a criminal of the worst kind. I’m sure you will agree with me when we find him guilty of all charges, and you are all welcome to come to the execution—tickets available in the foyer.”

  In the makeshift dock near the net, Tom glanced around. He recognised some of the many people he had upset on his various travels. They made rude gestures with their fingers and mimed the hangman’s rope at him.

  Badloser continued, ignoring the heckling. “You are Thomas Oliver, also known as Two-Dan $mith (sic)?”

  “Without the sick I hope,” replied Tom, “unless I was travelling by Pig-Ugly”.

  “We will come to that,” said the judge. “How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty, whatever the charges are. I still haven’t heard why I’m here… hang on...”

  “What?” said Badloser, tiredly.

  “I thought you were dead; blown up in that unfortunate accident at the old headquarters building.”

  “Accident?” Badloser’s hairy face would have looked thoughtful had it been visible.

  “I didn’t think anyone would have escaped the carnage. How did you get away?”

  “Ejector throne,” said Badloser.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in technology.”

  “I don’t,” said Badloser. “Everything was controlled by mirrors and bits of spring.”

  “Go on.”

  Badloser fought the desire to condemn his prisoner as soon as possible, over the need to gloat and explain how clever he was. He settled for the latter as he knew he ought to do from reading his ‘Marionette’s Guide to being a Complete Arse’. “Simple,” he said. “A big spring with a sensitive interlock; the vibration of the explosion set it off and I was ejected safely from the building, to parachute into the doku-farm across the lake.”

  “A hair trigger?”

  “It was after I landed and took a severe licking from the beasts.”

  “I see; that explains your hirsute exterior, but didn’t you have problems with false ejections caused by unexpected vibrations?”

  “Occasionally; that was until I had Trumpeting Terry, Director of Corporate Cover-ups, taken out and shot.”

  “I suppose the Plank was quiet after that?”

  “It certainly helped, but enough of this flapdoodle, it’s not me on trial here. Do we have a council for the prosecution?” Badloser scanned the court.

  “Me, Your Lordship; Montague S Errorcode, (Barrister—Open University of Bangemall).” The weasel of a man stood up by his desk on the alley line.

  “Good to see you again, you grovelling little tick, and stand up when you are talking to me.”

  “I am standing, Your Worship. Would you like me to read out the offenses?”

  “If you would, although I already know them because I wrote the charge-sheet.”

  “We would be nowhere without your outstanding leadership,” said Errorcode, fervently.

  “Of course; how are you man
aging now I’m not around to work your jaws for you? You’ve lost weight?”

  “It’s this new ‘weasel’ diet I’m on, your honour. Eat nothing but rabbit meat and humble pie.”

  “Seems to be working; get on with it, you sycophantic toad.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Errorcode shuffled a few handheld devices around in front of him. Badloser looked interested.

  “What have you got there, worm?”

  “The charge sheets, M’god.”

  “That looks like ‘technology’ to me. Get rid of it, it’s too expensive. Where is the big brown folder of guilt?”

  “I will have to print out the notes, M’worship.”

  “Do it. Ten blip recess. Reconvene soon. All stand.” Badloser waited until the people in the stadium were reluctantly on their feet and then stood up himself. He was heard to mutter, “Any sherry in this damn place?” as he vanished into a back room.

  Tom gazed around the gallery, hoping for friendly faces in the audience. There were none. Nobody that liked him knew he was here, apart from Zeta, and he felt there was no chance she would be attending after betraying him so badly. She stood up in the crowd, and waved her ‘TCA Full Investigator’ shirt at him. “I got the promotion;” she mouthed, “nobody else here to help you now. Burn you bastard.”

  He felt alone and bereft. He was supposed to have a defence lawyer, but the man had not turned up.

  Errorcode sneered at him, guessing his thoughts. “Thought you were getting representation did you? You can think again. The lawyer you engaged has had a bit of an accident. You’re going down this time.” He rubbed his wiry hands together. “I owe you this for SCT, for the humiliation and the fountain.”

  “But you had completely screwed the company, and the water-garden. I saved the organisation.”

  “We were doing very nicely, thank you. Do you really think we were running the company for the benefit of the shareholders or customers or staff?”

  “Certainly didn’t seem like it.”

  “Of course not; people such as Ferdinand Badloser and me don’t run a business for that; we do it to milk every last drop of cash for ourselves. When it all goes wrong, we take our golden handshakes, negotiated when we joined, and simply move on to the next business, to repeat the process. Nobody complains because we get out before the melons are elevated, and the old company is never allowed to give us a bad reference. You screwed all that for us, and because you wouldn’t let me leave, I’ve had to sink to the level of prosecution lawyer, a course I might add, that I did by correspondence in my spare time away from the quarry.”