“Spasm,” she said simply.
Tuesday smiled with his gross brown teeth and stood his lanky frame upright like a rusty, unfolding lawn chair. Buttoning up an overall strap that had popped loose, he gestured at a seat covered in MacDeath crusty bacon slab burger wrappers. Some of them had been used as ashtrays.
“Sit.”
“I'd prefer to avoid even considering that, if you don’t mind.”
For a moment, Tuesday looked almost as awkward as Jimmy, if that was even possible. Snorting grossly, the imposter gestured at a bottle of caramel schnapps, which September politely refused.
“I prefer the chocolate-hazelnut one, thanks.”
“No, no – that's the liquor, the hooch, the booze-”
“Your first euphemism was succinct, Spasm.”
There was a painful silence. Although she still needed a little more evidence to be certain that this guy was an imposter, September couldn't help but glare daggers at Tuesday. He examined her expression for a while before speaking again.
“Anything wrong?” Tuesday asked innocently.
“Ran into a friend of yours. James Slummer.”
“Oh,” Tuesday tried not to grimace. “You know, admitting to being Jimmy Slummer's friend is classed as a disability on most planets. So is he still a large moon, or has he finally decided to upgrade to a planet?”
“That's not nice, Spasm.”
A little too blasted to keep up the ruse right now, Tuesday shrugged.
“Call me Tuesday.”
September squinted. “Why?”
“Because that's my name.”
“Ah HA!” September boomed. Snatching a tiny spray bottle from her pocket, September pointed the nozzle at Tuesday's face. “Who are you, and what have you done with Jack Spasm?”
Tuesday eyed the bottle. “What’s in that? Mace?”
“Hydrofluoric acid mist. It's so caustic that it will burn your freaking eyes out in one pump, and I have three tonnes of the stuff compressed into this little bottle. Answer me!”
Tuesday put his hands up.
“It's not what you think. Jack Spasm is a future version of me. Technically, I am Jack Spasm.” Tuesday took a large swig out of the caramel schnapps bottle, keeping his hands in clear view to avoid any acid-related blinding incidents. Spilling some of the moonshine on his bed sheets, a few drops quietly smoked. He offered a sip to September, and was refused. He shrugged.
“You lied!” September accused.
“Yeah. I tend to do that. But it was for a good reason! You see, I woke up one morning, and it turns out I'd written a message to myself on my own arm with a lasertip pen.”
September glanced at the RUNNN OR DY burns on Tuesday's forearm. Keeping the nozzle pointed at him, she raised an eyebrow at the atrocious spelling.
“Is that some sort of code?”
Tuesday shrugged again.
“I can barely read or write, so it was the best I could do at short notice.”
September lowered the acid spray bottle a few inches. Her face twisted in pity.
“You can't read?”
Tuesday shrugged. “They tried to put me through AutoEducation back on Seven Suns, but I've got the Raffle Gene. One in a wossaname, a billion. Totally allergic to it.”
September felt a stab of pity. No wonder this guy was so hopeless: he couldn’t read the multitudes of cleaning notes she’d thoughtfully left for him, which were mostly along the lines of “go somewhere else” and other pearls of wisdom. September couldn’t imagine a world where she was shut off from the written word, trapped in a dark corner away from greats like Hemmingway, Yeats, King and Rowling. Goodness, she loved Harry Potter.
September lowered the acid bottle.
“How far did you go in school?” September asked.
“Managed a week in first grade.”
“And when was this?”
Tuesday counted on his fingers.
“About a month ago.”
September had completed primary school before her mother had hit the third trimester, thanks to an in utero learning adapter implanted in her unborn skull. September had gotten it cut out years ago when invasive cybernetic modifications went out of fashion.
“How old are you?” September asked in horror.
This time, Tuesday had to count on his toes as well as his fingers.
“Twenty-two.”
September felt faint and had to sit down. Moving aside a pile of pizza boxes, she sat on a stool and thought deeply about the situation. It must be noted that whenever September concentrated on the greatest mysteries of the Universe it was only a matter of time until she tore them apart at the seams to reveal their deepest secrets. When September dedicated her mind to something, the galaxy took note. Once, while she was at a Jedi meditation retreat, September had concentrated too deeply on the possibility, however slim it was, that she might not actually exist. To her great surprise, September had actually felt herself start to disappear into the ether, fading from reality like an alcoholic blackout. September had been forced to stab herself in the hand with a salad fork in order to reinforce her own existence. This had surprised one of the Jedi Knights no end, as he’d been eating a fried chicken Caesar with that particular fork at the time.
Looking down at Tuesday, she felt something twist within her: this man could be the challenge of her career, a chance to prove that she could change a totally defective human being from a nothing into an accomplished professional. He could be her Everest. If she could turn this total thickie into somebody useful, it would be her most impressive feat.
Yes, Tuesday would be her project. She said so.
“Hmm?” Tuesday ummed, now well and truly plastered.
“Tuesday, I don't care if you have the Raffle Gene. I guarantee that I can find a way to mould your mind and shape you into the man you are meant to be.” At his blank expression, September clarified further. “I am qualified to teach the greatest minds in the galaxy in a whole spectrum of subjects. With that logic, I should be able to find a way to get around your allergy.”
Tuesday closed one eye and squinted with the other.
“You're selling what?”
September sighed.
“I'm going to make you smart.”
Tuesday didn’t think much of this offer, as all that time he'd wasted with Ms Humple hadn’t taught him much of anything…but then again, Ms Humple was a generic primary school teacher whose qualifications made her the professional equivalent of a junior cashier at MacDeaths.
But then there was a realisation about the true plus to this offer: if he said yes, that meant September would actually be sharing his company in a totally voluntary manner on a regular basis. If he played his cards right, things might develop from there. Tuesday’s doubts instantly withered.
“I'm in.”
*
Tuesday’s lessons would not begin for another ninety-three hours, which is when The Frontier was due to pass beyond Known Space. This invisible border of The Unison was known by such names as The Dark Zone, The Rancid Abyss, The Crotch of Space, and The Devil’s Armpit. The imaginary line was a major source of stress for everybody aboard The Frontier, as no human ships had gone within five light years of this segment of the galaxy since the Squealing Death was discovered (and subsequently unleashed) over a century ago.
Easily the most virulent pandemic known to mankind, the Squealing Death was brought back to The Unison by a randy sailor known as Deekin Shanker. Shanker, a serial xenophile who claimed to have sexually conquered every species of intelligent mammal encountered by mankind, had foolishly gotten it into his head that he should be the first human to seduce and have sex with an insectoid species mankind had just made contact with last Friday. This ménage a trois with identical hermaphroditic twins was meant to be his crowning achievement. But when Shanker sobered up, covered in royal jelly and bite marks, it soon became apparent that he was infected with parasites. After all, human skin doesn’t usually wriggle about unless someth
ing is very, very wrong.
Keeping his affliction a secret all the way back into The Unison, fearful of agonising quarantine procedures (and even worse, paperwork) Shanker decided, hey, what’s the worst that could happen, and went out for a beer the next time his hauler dropped anchor. Shanker was attempting to chat up a six-legged bovine chick with a hot set of udders when he coughed, sneezed three times, and exploded. A plague of winged mites erupted from the meat volcano once known as Deekin Shanker and spread throughout the pub, infecting every living thing on the backwater planet in short order. Over the next six months, the Squealing Death spread across much of The Unison and eventually claimed more victims galaxy-wide than every other parasite in human history put together.
On-board The Frontier, nothing actually happened as they passed the Dark Zone border; there were no syringe-shaped missiles loaded with a mankind-ending plague, no invincible alien warships with energy weapons and cloaking capabilities, or even so much as a deadly meteor shower. This was a terrible anticlimax after decades of impenetrable quarantine by Unison bureaucracy, and no time was wasted in sending back a message that was the intellectual equivalent of “ha ha, you suck-hole idiots got it wrong for a hundred years” to the dwindling dot in the background that was Earth. The closest thing to trouble that the ship encountered was a cloud of weird radiation (the fallout from a failed doomsday machine some aliens had detonated millions of years ago), but the hull of The Frontier had been built with advanced alloys that easily blocked such lethal rays. Beyond giving everybody on board a slight tan, this dose of rad proved to be harmless. The crew celebrated by eating crispy biscuits with cheese on them and sipping sparkling water.
*
“I have a solution,” September announced to Tuesday's wet snoring.
Snuffling in a gross way, Tuesday did his best to open his eyes. Thanks to the amount of moonshine he'd put away the previous morning, it took a few seconds for him to remember how to coordinate his eyelids, let alone how to focus with both eyes at once. When his sight returned it was to behold something terrifying less than five inches from his face: a fat invertebrate striped with neon yellow, blood red and black segments. She was extending a dozen long, prehensile tendrils towards Tuesday's face, wriggling in the hopes of laying a colony of eggs inside his brain meat.
Tuesday scampered backwards until he hit the head of his bedframe. It took a couple of seconds to register that September had the Hiver Queen safely restrained by her bulging insectoid thorax. September was smiling in victory.
“What the hell?” Tuesday demanded.
September placed the Hiver Queen back in a familiar little lead box.
“Like I just said, I have a solution.” September repeated. “I've run some tests, and it seems that the neural gel that all Hiver Queens use to control their brood definitely has applications in treating the Raffle Gene in humans. Yes, you still wouldn't be able to have the usual suite of AutoEducation programs uploaded in the normal number of sessions without horrible side-effects, but I estimate that with great care - and the liberal use of neural gel from Her Majesty here - it should be possible to gently code you with a full Seven Suns education in a matter of weeks.”
September held out an ancient hearing aid. It had dozens of hair-thin spikes protruding from one side, and a single button on the other. It had obviously been modified in a major way.
“All you have to do to install the pump is put it over your left ear and push the electrodes in all the way – don't worry, I've applied a numbing coating on them – and then press the button once and once only before you upload a fraction of the standard AutoEducation program. I've got your timetable right here.” Tuesday accepted the plastic sheet and the little crescent-shaped pump. September checked her Omni. “Okay. I have work. If you have a stroke or something, let me know.”
“Wait,” Tuesday snapped. “If the Queens use this neural gel to create hiveminds, isn't it a bit dangerous to pump it into my head?”
“Dangerous and illegal.” September said simply. She inched towards the door. “But as long as you're the only person on board with Hiver gel in your brain and as long as the Queen's mental commands are blocked by her lead-lined box, you'll be reasonably safe. I've replicated enough neural gel for the entire course of AutoEducation, so there's no reason to bring the Queen out again while you have any chance of being dominated. Once your AutoEducation lessons have been completed, this box is going straight into an incinerator, and you'll become one of the highlights of my career.”
“Dominated.” Tuesday repeated, bothered by that one word most of all. He felt a faint headache, and realised it was the sensation of a thought forming. “Wait. If neural gel from Hiver Queens can make dumb people smart, why aren't they already using it? Surely somebody else has figured this out?”
September huffed. At this rate, she'd only be an hour early for her shift.
“Okay, Tuesday, look. Mankind has discovered Hiver Queens on more than two dozen separate worlds. Some of these planets are located ten or even fifteen star systems apart. Obviously these bugs aren't capable of interstellar travel on their own, so the most popular theory is that some ancient spacefaring civilisation grossly underestimated the danger that Hivers represent, and were completely wiped from history as a result of their foolishness. As you'd expect, The Unison tends to be more than a little hostile towards anything that possesses the capacity to reduce our species to a terminated footnote in the history of the Milky Way, and so they've spent the last two hundred years doing everything in their power to exterminate the Hiver species. As I have already told you, Hivers are dangerous. I'm not downplaying that statement one bit. Most of the classified documents I've seen on the subject of Hiver Queens are so damned scary that most people would think we're better off nuking every planet we find them on. But this Queen is the key to making you more than a trained monkey, Robert. She is the key. Are you going to bitch out on me?”
Tuesday touched the tiny electrodes, avoiding eye contact.
“Where did you get that thing, anyway?” Tuesday asked, glancing at the lead-lined box.
September smiled darkly.
“Have you noticed that Eulogy seems more pissed off than usual?”
*
Tuesday learned all thirty-five letters of the Unglish alphabet that day. Thanks to his first dose of neural gel, the symbols didn't fade away and disappear from his memory like they usually did. It was like his brain had developed some sort of traction that the short bursts of AutoEducation could grab onto. Tuesday was also surprised by the fact that he now understood the exact definition of the word “traction,” too.
That afternoon, he began to write freehand. His letters were scratchy and mostly illegible, and Tuesday's penmanship was truly horrible to behold. His words resembled the fallout from an exploding pen than intentional language. Within an hour, though, Tuesday’s handwriting had become legible. After a further ninety minutes, Tuesday could write the entire alphabet without a single letter facing the wrong direction. Excited, Tuesday stole a bundle of lasertip pens from stores and stashed them under his unmade bed.
On day two of his studies, though, Tuesday decided to to give up on AutoEducation altogether and just stick to what he knew: nothing. He'd discovered that learning was effort multiplied by boredom multiplied by a lack of naps multiplied by headaches, and he already hated it. September dealt with Tuesday's rebellion by stealing his pillows and hooking him up to an intravenous drip of the energy drink Red Vee, which, as the ads say, Wires You For Life. Although Tuesday was making odd little twitches with his face and his pupils had tripled their normal size, he learned all about basic mathematics and was soon smart enough to fill out a tax return without an accountant.
Of course, this wasn't the only time he tried to get out of his deal with September. All of these instances followed a basic pattern. The latest one on day five was no different.
“You're disabled, Robert! You needed help!” September pleaded.
“Don't n
eed your help. Was surviving just fine before you,” Tuesday snapped, brickwalling her.
“Like a cockroach on festering garbage, Robert! Look what you’re capable of! Since the implant, your grades have soared well above what I'd projected...you're reading at a seventh-grade level now, did I tell you that?”
Tuesday was stunned by this. It felt like just yesterday he’d misspelled his own name on most attempts, but now the language centres of his brain had become so refined that he was capable of reading JK Rowling’s shocking autobiography. The record-breaking best-seller revealed how Rowling had sold her soul to an evil voodoo spirit called Sakhan Ixilis in exchange for literary success, and the index of her autobiography even included the precise blood diagrams she'd used and a list of the best black magic stockists in the UK just in case anyone else was interested in fame and fortune. Of course, it was three hundred years out of date, so you'd need to source your voodoo sacrifice equipment elsewhere.
Scum of the Universe Page 40
