by Mark Roman
After flicking a switch, Zak motioned towards a wall-mounted screen which now displayed a close-up of Lieutenant Willie Warner’s greasy face. He was adjusting the cockpit-cam while trying to control the cricket bat that kept floating away from him. He angled the microphone too close to his mouth and his wheezy breathing boomed through the loudspeakers. “Ah, there you are. Is the commander with you?”
Zak winced and turned the volume control down. “We’re alone in a Dug-free zone, man. Say what yer gotta say.”
Warner took a deep breath to steady himself. “I have something very important to tell you all.”
In the background a voice could be heard asking, “Are you talking to me?”
“No, HarOld. Please be quiet.”
“Sorry for living,” said the voice.
Willie cleared his throat. “Now, what I have to tell you concerns the death of Penny Smith ...”
“She was murdered,” said Zak.
A loud gasp of horror issued from around the table, and one of annoyance from Willie. “Thank you, Zak, but can you let me speak?”
“Soz, dude.”
Willie scowled before continuing. “The commander shushed it up. And it appears that Commander Lionheart ...”
“Murdered, too,” jumped in Zak.
Another gasp from the table, as Willie huffed in frustration. “Will you stop interrupting me, Lieutenant Johnston?”
“A thousand apologies, space-boy. Won’t happen again.” He held up his hands.
Willie paused as he watched the colonists in various stages of shock.
“So it means ...” He lowered his voice, “... there’s a ...”
“Murderer amongst us!”
Willie’s eyes narrowed and his mouth twitched. His breathing became heavier.
Zak turned to the screen. “Well, come on, sleuth in the booth. Aren’t you goin’ to tell us who dunnit?”
Still Willie breathed heavily, but gradually calmed down. He plucked the cricket bat out of the air and positioned it for the camera. “I found this in Commander Dugdale’s cabin. It has a bloodstain here ...” He pointed it out. “So I believe it to be ...”
“The murder weapon!” announced Zak, clapping his hands together and miming the swing of a powerful hook shot.
As Willie threw up his arms and fumed in the cockpit, Brian Brush leaned across the table and said, “I think I see where this is leading, Lieutenant Johnston. And straight away I can spot a Big Problem.”
“Wait,” Willie was saying. “I haven’t finished ...”
But Zak cut the sound to Willie’s picture and turned to Brian. “Speak, science-man. Pitch the hitch.”
Brian pushed his cracked glasses up his nose. “Well, if it’s true that we have a murderer amongst us, mentioning no names, there are one or two practical issues we should consider before we go any further.” Behind him, the screen showed Willie yelling and waving his arms before finally realizing he had been muted. In anger he shook the cricket bat at them, his ‘big Poirot moment’ seemingly imperilled.
“What’s to consider?” snarled Harry Fortune. “Name him, then lock the bastard up and throw away the key.”
“Thank you, Harry,” continued Brian. “I sense you make a point that might find favour within the group. But, I fear, it might not be quite such a simple process. You see, if we confront him – arrest him, even – he’s likely to be very, very angry indeed. And he’ll probably become violent.”
Miss Emily Leach was holding up her hand to speak. “Surely you don’t think our valiant mission commander is responsible?”
“Well, that would have to be determined by a fair trial, of course,” said Brian. “It is a fundamental rule of British Law and Fair Play that a murder suspect be tried before a jury of his peers: twelve randomly selected people of voting age. We need to include Brokk and Willie Warner and the Germans to get twelve jurors.”
Up on the screen, Willie Warner suddenly stopped his gesticulations as though an idea had struck him. He rose and floated out of shot.
“And even if Dugdale were to be found guilty,” started Brian, and then gave a cough before backtracking. “Er, sorry, what I meant to say was, even if the defendant were found guilty, someone would need to restrain and jail him.”
“I is not going to be involved in restraining no madman who is the size of a London bus,” said Gavin. “No way.”
“Nor would anyone expect you to, son. That duty would fall to a representative from NAFA. And who do we have here who fits the bill? Why, Lieutenant Johnston, of course.”
Zak, who had been rocking back and forth on his chair, gazing at the ceiling, nearly toppled over. “Negatory, Brian Brains, man. Old Zakkie’s strictly a non-restraining kinda lieutenant. Peace and Love, man. Peace and Love.”
“And, of course, once Dugd ... the murderer is jailed, he’ll need to be fed three times a day, allowed visitors and given regular exercise, all in accordance with his basic human rights.”
On screen, Willie had returned and seemed to be scribbling something on a piece of paper.
“Wouldn’t it be easier if we just sent him back to Earth to face justice?” asked Delphinia. “He could go back with Willie and the Germans.”
On hearing Delphinia’s suggestion, the image of Willie froze in mid-scribble. He looked up with a wild look in his eyes and started shaking his head and flapping his arms.
Brian was stroking his chin. “Interesting idea, my love. But I fear that would be putting the lives of all on board Mayflower III at risk.”
Willie’s vigorous head-shaking turned to vigorous head-nodding.
“My worry is, of course, that if we confront him as the murderer, the first thing he’ll do is kill the lot of us.”
The gasp that followed was so loud that even Tarquin heard it through his blablet earphones and looked up.
At that moment, the door burst open and Flint Dugdale filled the opening. There was a collective cowering back in seats while eyebrows shot upwards like leaping salmon.
“What the chuff is up wi’ you lot?” demanded Flint. “’Appen I’ve been ‘avin’ to make small-talk with Fritz and his gang for t’past half hour. Where the frig is t’big send-off party?”
All eyes were bulging, mouths open and speechless, torsos straining backwards. Even Willie seemed frozen up on the screen.
As Flint took a step into the room there was a sudden squeaking of chairs as the occupants got to their feet and stepped back. Flint looked baffled and took another step nearer. More chairs squeaking, more hurried retreating.
“What’s goin’ on? Yer not all still narked at me over that business with t’lift, are yer? It were an accident, I tell yer. The downdraught from the helibot. Nowt I could do.”
The others shook their heads and pulled back another step.
“What’s up with yer, then? ‘Appen it were t’missed penalty? Even t’best players in t’world miss ‘em.”
Still the retreat continued.
“Stay back, you beast,” cried Emily, brandishing a pair of knitting needles.
Dugdale looked more baffled than ever.
Brian cleared his throat. “Er, Commander Dugdale, we’ve, er, been discussing, er, the unexplained ...”
On screen Willie gave a look of horror and started waving his hands in desperation. He held up his sheet of paper, but the words were out of focus, and no one was looking at him anyway.
Tarquin, finding himself hemmed in by retreating adults, took his earphones out and looked up. “What’s up, Daddy?”
His father put a finger to his lips. “Nothing to concern you, son. It’s about the people who sadly passed away on the ship.”
Dugdale put his hands on his hips. “Don’t tell me you think I ‘ad owt to do wi’ that!”
Brian let out a fake laugh through tight vocal chords. Willie was still waving and pointing to his note, now slightly more in focus.
“Commander Dugdale didn’t murder those people,” said Tarquin in a matter-of-fact manner.
“Shush, son,” urged Brian.
“No, really, Dad. Because I know who did it.”
“Gung!”
Heads turned towards Tarquin.
On screen Willie’s message was now sharply in focus. “Dugdale’s not the killer. It was ...” He prepared to flip the paper to the message’s continuation on the other side just as soon as anyone read the first part. But all eyes were now focused on the little boy.
“There yer go, yer dozy kippers,” said Dugdale. “‘Appen kid’s the only one wi’ any gumption round ‘ere.”
“So, who was it, son?” Brian Brush asked, crouching down to the boy’s level as all the others crowded round him. Behind them, Willie had flipped the sheet and was waving and mouthing wildly, pointing to the name scrawled there – the result of his brilliant detective work.
But no one turned round.
Tarquin looked downcast. “It was Dr Faerydae. She killed both Penny Smith and Commander Lionheart.”
Everyone gasped and a horrified silence filled the room.
“But why?” Emily Leach asked after what seemed like minutes.
“Jealousy. Revenge. She suspected Mr Faerydae of playing the hufflepuff game with both of them. She was really angry, Daddy.”
Delphinia enveloped the little boy in her arms, almost overbalancing and toppling on top of him. “Oh, my brave, brave little soldier.”
Tarquin’s words had not just stunned the people in the room; onscreen, Willie Warner’s face had undergone a marked transformation: from the frustrated look of a man having his big moment taken away from him to a puzzled, uncomprehending look at what he was hearing. At first he had shaken his head in vehement disagreement, but as Tarquin had continued, Willie’s head-shaking had ceased. By the end of Tarquin’s testimony, Willie had scrunched up his sheet of paper and, with eyes looking shiftily left and right, had smuggled it into a pocket. From that moment, he acted as though the piece of paper had never existed.
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” asked Brian.
“I was scared, Daddy.”
This made Delphinia hug him ever more tightly, preventing any further conversation with the boy.
“So, where is the doctor?” Harry Fortune asked. “We need to apprehend her and bring her to justice.”
“Hear, hear,” agreed several voices.
Everyone turned their heads this way and that, apart from Zak Johnston who was staring out of the window. “The lady in the news is standin’ by a fuse. No time to lose.”
“What’s that?” asked Emily.
“Cripes,” said Gavin, joining Zak by the window. “She’s, like, got this big bastard box of explosives. And, like, there’s this plunger detonator thingy. Looks like she is going to blow up the lift. And the base. And all of us wiv it!”
In a mass panic, there was a rush of bodies to the window.
“Hold yer ‘orses,” roared Dugdale, silencing the frenzied screaming and crying, but not the whimpering terror. “No need to panic. The Flintster’ll sort this out.”
“Oh, Commander!” squeaked Emily. “You’re so courageous.”
“Dude, I’d come with you, but ...” started Zak.
Dugdale turned to him. “Dude, you are comin’ with me. And no buts.”
“But my verruca ...”
Dugdale grabbed him by the ear and pulled him towards the door.
“Not me, man,” squealed Zak. “I ain’t no use against no crazy goose.”
“Exactly,” said Dugdale, twisting Zak’s ear more and making him squeal again. “You’ll be perfect if she decides to take an ‘ostage, seein’ as you’re totally useless.”
At the door Flint turned back. “Zakkie’n’me’ll get suited up. You lot stay ‘ere.”
10. Doctor, No!
A grim-faced Dugdale, fully-suited, helmet under one arm, poked his head into the reception area. The room was alive with German chatter as they milled around, enjoying farewell drinks while studiously avoiding Little Urn’s offers of glazing-putty iced fondants.
Dugdale’s eyes swung to Brokk. “You,” he growled. “Yer comin’ wi’ me.”
Helmut turned. “Zer is a problem, Herr Kapitan?”
“A ‘domestic’.” Flint gave a backward flick of the thumb to Brokk.
Brokk was shaking his head. “Not if it’s about Adorabella.”
Dugdale’s eyes narrowed. “Dr Fairybrain has one very large crate of dynamite by t’space elevator. You, son, are goin’ to sort her out.”
Helmut put his drink down. “That will be causing a very big exploding which will kill everyone. But she is a doctor. For sure she will not be doing it.”
“Alternative therapist,” put in Brokk.
“And she has previous,” added Dugdale.
“I beg pardon?” asked Helmut.
“Form.”
“I am still not understanding.”
“She’s killed before.”
A deathly hush stilled the room, leaving Little Urn looking about, wondering why everything had gone quiet. Maybe it was time for the bacon rolls.
“We must stop her,” said Helmut as though the first to think of this. “I will join you, Herr Kapitan, in this difficult moment.”
Dugdale grimaced, but said, “Alright, Fritz. But leave all t’talking to me.”
*
Outside, a large crowd of robots had gathered to bid farewell to the departing humans and HarVard.
signalled Tude to his companions.
Tude swivelled his head.
Dura pointed a trowel-hand.
Tude chuckled.
A moment later Dugdale, Zak, Brokk and finally Helmut emerged through the airlock. A wild electronic cheering greeted the German, albeit inaudible to humans, as the robots surged forward.
Helmut raised a hand to acknowledge his adoring fans as they crowded around him. “Thank you for your touching support, mein robonautens. You will live forever in Uncle Helmut’s heart. I am loving you all.”
Dugdale was flapping his arms. “Shhh! She’s behind t’rock over there. She can’t see us, so if we creep up all quiet, like, we can catch her off-guard.”
“Good plan,” whispered Helmut. The others nodded and gave thumbs-up signs.
So, creeping at a snail’s pace, holding their breaths, the four men set off towards the space elevator, barely making a sound, the crunching of the sand beneath their footsteps unheard above the whistling of the wind. As they made their careful, deliberate way the robots shuffled back, wondering what this part of the show would be about.
*
On another day. On another planet. And if they had been using another, less mouthy space elevator, their plan might have worked.
“Welcome back, shoppers!” it cried in a cheery, fully recharged voice. “We hope you enjoyed your time in Penge World of Shopping.” The lift doors opened with a grating screech.
The men froze, hurling silent curses at the device. They were still about 20 yards (old metres) away from the rock.
“Typical British humour, ja?” whispered Helmut, referring to the lift.
“Yeah, that’s right, Fritz. Ha, ha.”
Alerted by the noise, Adorabella’s space-helmeted head popped up from behind the boulder. “Stop right there, all of you!” she screamed. “Not a single step closer!”
The men exchanged resigned glances and then gulped when they saw her thumping the detonator down on top of the boulder and gripping the plunger handles, ready to push down. A crazed look lit
her eyes.
Zak raised his hands in surrender. “That dame aims to maim, dudes.”
Flint took a step forward with the look of a reasonable man about to make a reasonable proposition. “Now, now, let’s not be ‘asty, Doc. What’s this all about, then?”
Adorabella pointed a gloved finger at her husband. “Him! That man! Either he stays here with me, or I blow us all to kingdom come. End of.”
“Ah yes, about that,” started Brokk.
“Well?”
“Sorry, Hotlips, the answer has to be No.”
Adorabella’s eyes blazed. “Very well. I’ll give you ten seconds to change your mind. A life with me, or no life at all.”
“Come on, honey-pie. It’s me, The Brokkster. Remember all the folk songs we used to sing together? And that time on the Isle of Avalon in the Volkswagen Campavan? Bruce we called him. Oh, what laughs we had. Remember the saga with the grey-water waste tank and how we said we’d laugh about it one day? We could try laughing about it now. Why don’t you take your hands from the plunger and cast your mind back to those groovy, funky days?”
Adorabella took a deep breath, fighting back the tears. “Ten ...” she started.
“Hey, sugar-plum …”
“I think perhaps we should be stopping her,” suggested Helmut. “She vill damage the lift.”
“Space elevator,” said Dugdale.
“... Nine ...”
At that moment all attention was caught by a fierce gust of wind that nearly toppled the men to the ground, followed by a vortex that came at them first from one side and then another. Next, from around the curved wall of the building swept a ferocious breeze carrying a barrage of cardboard boxes, rolling and tumbling and jumping in the air. Faster and faster they came, careering into the four men, bumping into shins, bouncing off thighs, and glancing off helmets. The men dodged the boxes as best they could, fending them off with flailing arms. The last of the boxes slapped Brokk square in the midriff, winding him and knocking him to one knee.
But it was far from over. The swirling gale turned through 180 degrees and brought the boxes thundering back for a second assault.
