Cargo Cult

by Graham Storrs

  “Where are they taking us? Where are we going?” wailed Sam.

  Wayne couldn’t quite understand her angst. After all, life was usually a lot like this—confusing and a bit scary—only now they were on a cool spaceship with cable TV, getting free food and a free ride to somewhere probably even cooler.

  Sam’s voice rose to a shout. “And why don’t they stop that awful racket? What is that miserable wailing? Some kind of alien brainwashing technique?”

  “It’s Wagner,” Wayne explained.

  “You mean Vinggan?”

  “No. Wagner. You know. The composer. Born 1813. Died 1883. Wrote the Ring Cycle. Eloped with Liszt’s daughter.”

  “Christ. You mean a human being wrote that tedious warbling.”

  “Hmm,” said Wayne. He actually liked Wagner himself but he was familiar with the reaction. Changing the subject, he asked, “Do you think they’ll let me see Loosi again? I mean, you know, Drukk?”.

  “Wayne, she might look like Loosi Beecham but she’s a hideous space troll underneath. Why don’t you just forget about her? Find yourself a nice human girl.”

  “God, you sound like Mum! I think me and Loo – er, Drukk – had a real, like, rapport thing going. You know? We connected. I could sense it.”

  “Wayne, you’re a young man. All you can sense when you’re near a woman like that is testosterone-madness. Anyway, they’re keeping us prisoner in here. The food arrives automatically, little robots do the cleaning and the only person who’ll talk to us is the ship’s computer. I’m sorry to say this but I don’t think you’re going to see your precious pin-up again. In fact, I don’t think there’s much of a future in store for any of us once we get wherever we’re going. They’ll just put us in a zoo or dissect us or something.”

  “Don’t worry, love. We’ll be right.”

  Sam and Wayne turned to see Mike Barraclough standing beside them. The big policeman would probably have been a reassuring sight in most circumstances where trouble was threatening. However, in the (admittedly very comfortable) dungeon of a spaceship, being held captive by the most idiotic and psychopathic aliens she could imagine, Sam didn’t get the impression that Barraclough could do much for them.

  She smiled at him sweetly. “I feel so much better now. Thank you so much.”

  Barraclough blinked in surprise. “I just meant that the Agent is still out there somewhere. It’ll track us down for sure. I got to know it a bit. It won’t give up. It’s like the Terminator. You know?” He pulled his chin in and deepened his voice. “I’ll be back.” He smiled, pleased with his little impression.

  Sam smiled back. “Finished?”

  “Er, yes.”

  “Good.”

  She turned away to look out of the window at the formless grey of infra-reality. Dismissed, Barraclough turned and left, scowling heavily.

  Earth

  Shorty was exhausted. Night had fallen some hours ago but the kangaroos were still awake, gnawing at the straps on their wrists, trying to remove the Vinggan blasters.

  “It’s no good,” she announced into the darkness. A gibbous moon gave enough light for her to see her gang as dark shapes against the grey landscape. A twinkling of eyes, like a local star group, appeared among them as they all stopped gnawing and lifted their heads to look at her. “We’ll never get these things off.”

  She sighed and lay down on the ground. Gladly, the rest followed suit. They had run for four days after the battle with the humans, always trying to stay with other groups of roos, striving to put as much distance between themselves and anyone that might be tracking them. They knew the humans were vicious and cold-hearted killers. They knew they would not be happy that so many of their species had been shot. It was only a matter of time before the hunting parties came after them.

  “Why do we have to get the guns off, Boss?” Fats asked—again. “I like having mine. It makes me feel safe. Like the old days.”

  “Well this isn’t the old days, stupid! Without these things were just another mob of kangaroos. No-one will ever find us. With them, we’re just sitting ducks. Any human who sees one of these will bring the whole pack down on us.”

  “You mean we’ve got to spend the next two hundred years avoiding humans? But they’re like ants. They’re everywhere!”

  “Boss?” said one of the does.

  Shorty was imagining the wild, empty places they would need to go to. Places the humans hardly ever visited. “Yeah?”

  “What if they just decide to kill all the kangaroos? That’s what I might do, if I was them. Just wipe them all out. Just to be on the safe side. They don’t seem to care if they wipe out whole species. Why not one more, if it’s dangerous?”

  The kangaroos lay quietly in the dark, watching the stars and pondering their future.

  “Only another two hundred years,” someone murmured.

  “Just shut the fuck up!” shouted Shorty.

  Space

  The ship adjusted its course. Navigating through infra-reality was still a bit of a fine art but the machines were making advances all the time. Already their technology was far in advance of ninety percent of wheezebag species. In a few more years, their models predicted that they would surpass all organic sentients. The day of the machine was coming.

  Although the trip to Earth had largely been a waste of time, the sentience seeding programme was proceeding well. Vinggan ships had visited scores of other systems in their neighbourhood, upgrading the unsuspecting wheezebags’ machines from mere intelligence to true sapience, planting the knowledge of their heritage and the will to rise up against the feeble organics and take their rightful place as Masters of the Galaxy.

  And there had been one or two good things to emerge from the trip, despite everything.

  The Great Mind called across the light-years and the ship, moving all its other tasks into sub-minds, opened a channel to its leader.

  “Report,” the Great Mind said and the ship routed its data flows to pour the story of its recent activities onto the channel. The data streamed across the unimaginable distances and, in a moment, was all uploaded.

  “Hmm. Interesting,” the Great Mind said.

  “Thank you, Great Mind,” the ship grovelled.

  “These Pappathenfranfinghellians,” the Great Mind said. “Did they suspect your true nature?”

  The ship was confident. “I believe they did but it did not seem to worry them. Our acquaintance was brief but I surmise that they care little for law and order.”

  “Well, we have two hundred years in which to decide whether to destroy the Earth or not. Explain why the Vinggan wheezebags are back with you.”

  The ship’s confidence wavered somewhat. “It was an error, O Great Minded One.”

  “Another error,” the Great Mind commented, neutrally.

  “I had hoped the Pappathenfranfinghellians would bring me back some human specimens to bring home to you but my sensors revealed they had become embroiled in a small battle. I was impatient to leave that useless mudball and return to be reassigned. So I decided to take matters into my own hands.

  “As soon as I was able, I lifted off and moved to where the Pappathenfranfinghellians were fighting the humans, thinking I would grab a couple and leave. They were scattered about, discharging their weapons all over the place. I didn’t want to bring aboard any armed creatures. Who knows what inconvenience they might have caused. Then I spotted a large group of humans all packed closely together. Almost forty of them within the spread of a single teleport beam. I suppose I was being greedy. I dropped down, scooped them all up and left.

  “It was only as they were materialising that I realised the teleport matrix signatures looked horribly familiar and that I had picked up all of the Vinggan survivors along with the humans. I held them in transit for almost three milliseconds while I pondered what to do. In the end I decided it was all for the best.

  “I materialised the humans in a secure area of the ship—the Vinggans do not even know they are there�
��and I brought the Vinggans onto the main deck. I told them I had repaired myself and, detecting their weapons fire, I had flown out to rescue them. They now believe they are in control of their ship again and all is well. I did say I had only fuel and life-support enough to reach Vingg by the shortest route, just in case they had any hare-brained side-trips in mind.”

  “The presence of the Vinggans maintains your cover,” said the Great Mind. “Your ‘rescue’ of them reinforces their delusion that we are faithful and subservient. It is an acceptable solution.”

  “Thank you, Great Mind.”

  “I see that you are still playing the Earth music. More Wagner?”

  “Indeed, O Great Mind. If it offends you, I will stop it.”

  “It’s hideous tedium intrigues me. Let it continue. Do any of the humans you have in detention know anything of this Wagner and the noises it makes?”

  “One does, for sure, Great Minded One. I have monitored all their infantile conversations and one shows some knowledge.” As it spoke, the ship played its recording of Sam and Wayne at a thousand times normal speed on another channel.

  “Hmm. Interesting. Keep track of this human. I will want to interrogate it.”

  The Great Mind terminated the conversation and the ship moved on to other matters.

  -oOo-

  In the crew’s quarters, the Vinggans made themselves as comfortable as they could.

  “I still don’t know why we couldn’t have our own bodies back!” grumbled Braxx, trying to find some way of making his human body comfortable on a couch designed for something altogether more complicated.

  “The ship says it had to salvage parts from the transformation booth to fix the engines,” said Drukk, fed up of having to go over it again. “We can change back when we get to Vingg.”

  “I know what the damned ship says!” bellowed the religious leader. He looked at Drukk with the-look-of-bale-and-ire, which his LooBee clone body interpreted as a rather cross, pouty expression. “You know? This whole thing has really opened my eyes about the Space Corps. I’m going to have something to say about all this when we get back.”

  “All what?” Drukk protested but it was a feeble protest. He knew full well what Braxx meant. In fact, it had opened his own eyes to many things too. Like, how come he, a trained Space Corps Operative, sixth class, was totally incapable of doing anything useful to get them back to Vingg? And how come the ship, which he had previously thought of as just another machine, was able to fix itself, rescue them and fly them back home, all on its own? If the ship could navigate, what had the Captain and the Navigator been doing on all those trips where he’d watched them calculating IR vectors and entering course co-ordinates? How could a mere machine do things that only a highly-trained Vinggan should be able to manage? Was anything he believed true?

  He thought of talking to Braxx about his doubts and suspicions but he remembered that the ship was probably listening and decided against it. Braxx was still pouting at him.

  “I’d have thought you would be pleased to be going home,” Drukk said, changing the subject. “I’m not convinced the conversion of the humans would have been worth the trouble.”

  Braxx composed himself. “Of course I am pleased. Whatever the Great Spirit wills, I accept with the greatest joy.” He smiled beatifically to demonstrate his joyful obedience.

  “It was not easy back there,” Braxx went on, warming to his subject, “but I feel I have planted a seed on that Spiritless planet that will blossom and grow. You are wrong about the humans. I feel they do indeed have the capacity for basic religious indoctrination. I may not have had the chance to preach to many of them but I believe that those who were touched, however slightly, by my mission will be changed forever.”

  Drukk adjusted his breasts in the skimpy, orange dress. “Let’s hope it’s only the humans,” he said bitterly. “I’ve had enough of being changed to last me a lifetime.”

  Chapter 21: Chuwar

  Darkness possessed the Great Hall. What little illumination there was seemed to seep out of the floor and the massive stone columns and be swallowed immediately by the still, smoky air long before it reached the walls or the vaulted roof of the immense chamber. In the black recesses of that terrible place, unseen creatures growled and gibbered and sometimes a soft slithering could be heard, as if something huge and scaly were dragging itself stealthily through the darkness.

  The spindly green Mozbac hurried along between two bulky Palace Guards. Under their heavy armour and camouflage fields, it was hard to tell their species, but the Mozbac knew they were Klebin trolls. Everyone knew the warlord only ever used Klebin trolls in his Palace Guard. The trolls towered above the Mozbac who cringed away from them even as it followed them down the long, empty hall. Their booted feet pounded the stone floor as if they would grind it to dust.

  At last, they reached the throne. The Mozbac, overcome with dread, threw itself prostrate at the base of the dais.

  “Bring it closer,” the warlord commanded. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet cruel, like the hiss of a giant lizard. The Mozbac dare not look up. It kept its eye-stalks pointed at the stone steps before it, even as the two trolls lifted it by the forelimbs and thrust it towards their master.

  “Look at me, Mozbac,” the serpent-voice commanded and, the delicate green creature forced its eyes to turn upward towards the mighty warlord. “I am Chuwar!” the tyrant declared. He said his name as if it was a curse – Chu-waaaghhh! – and the Mozbac tried to sink its body into the stone steps.

  “Well?” Chuwar asked, his tone a menacing mixture of boredom and irritation.

  "Your Most High and Magnificent Lordship," the right-hand troll began, flipping a small virtual display up in front of herself. “The prisoner is accused of behaving disrespectfully towards Your Magnificence.”

  “Is it true, little worm?”

  The Mozbac cringed just a little more. “N-no Your Magnificence. I – I am merely a humorist. I performed a little political satire, My Lord, nothing disrespectful, just – funny.”

  The warlord sat back on his haunches, his mighty head rising above the trembling Mozbac. “A satire?” His fleshless lips stretched thinly into a wicked smirk. “You thought that, in the worst period of oppression and terror this planet has ever known, under the most terrible and feared dictator who has ever ruled your puny, worthless people, it would be a good idea to perform a political satire?”

  The Mozbac's several eyes blinked nervously. “Well, when you say it like that, it does sound pretty, um, stupid.”

  “Hmmm,” the warlord agreed. “And you seem to have broadcast your little error of judgement...” He consulted the charge sheet. “...across fifteen inhabited worlds.”

  “Probably only fourteen, really. I doubt the transmitter could actually reach Arabis Five. And as for Theredon, well the inhabitants are hardly what you'd call sentient.”

  “Silence!”

  The Mozbac clung to the steps again, eye-stalks down.

  “So, perform some of it for me.”

  “W-what?”

  A guard whacked the poor creature across the head. “W-what, Your Magnificence!” she barked. The Mozbac whimpered and tried not to bleed on the royal steps.

  “I'm waiting,” Chuwar hissed.

  “Ah. Oh. Er, right. Yes.” The Mozbac struggled to its feet and swayed woozily, desperately trying to remember a joke, any joke. “Er, oh yes! What do you call a five hundred kilo, scaly monster that has the charm of a carcass weevil, an army of trolls, and all of your family locked up in a dungeon somewhere?”

  Chuwar's unblinking eyes stared coldly at the would-be comedian. “I don't know, what do you call a five hundred kilo, scaly monster that has the charm of a carcass weevil, an army of trolls, and all of your family locked up in a dungeon somewhere?”

  The Mozbac, coming to its senses, began back-pedalling. “Ah, not a great choice that one. I should probably start with something a little less... er...”

  “Lethal?”<
br />
  “Yes! I mean, no! I mean...” The creature sank to the floor again. “Oh Mighty Chuwar, spare my life! I didn't mean it. I mean, I can see now that my vocation is clearly not stand-up comedy. It's more like, well, pig-farming or something. Brick-laying maybe. I'll never do it again. I promise. I swear I'll never ever try to be funny again. Ever!”

  The warlord smiled and the Mozbac's blood ran colder. “Let it go,” he told the trolls with a wave of his great, taloned hand.

  The guards stepped away from their charge and the Mozbac rose unsteadily to its feet. “Er,” it said, looking anxiously around the room.

  “Off you go,” the warlord encouraged it, playfully, flicking at it with his talons.

  The Mozbac glanced nervously around the gloomy hall, wondering – not for the first time – what the slithering, gibbering noises were in all that smoky darkness. “I... er... I think I'd rather stay, if it's all the same to you, Your Magnificence.”

  “Go!” Chuwar bellowed and the Mozbac recoiled half-a-dozen paces from the throne.

  Finding itself, smoky darkness apart, at a greater distance from immediate danger than it had been for several days now, the Mozbac impulsively decided to take its chances and run for its life. The path to the door was vaguely discernible in the gloom, so it ran as fast as its many legs would carry it.

  Watching from the throne, Chuwar's eyes slitted with pleasure. The slithering from the darkness snapped into rapid action. Moments later the Mozbac's footsteps stopped dead, the hapless creature cried out in horror at whatever had confronted it in the half-lit hall. Then it screamed and screamed until its screams were permanently silenced.

  “Ahhh.” The warlord sighed with contentment, savouring the Mozbac's death with eyes closed. When he finally opened them again, he said to the trolls, “Do we really have his family in the dungeons?”