The Space Dogs Tricycle Gang: Ariel Hope Chronicles 3
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The Space Dogs Tricycle Gang
Ariel Hope Chronicles 3
G.P. MOSS
The Space Dogs Tricycle Gang
Ariel Hope Chronicles 3
by
G.P. MOSS
Copyright 2017 G.P. Moss. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
End Note
Chapter One
Planet Earth (StarTapped Antimatter Propulsion Laboratory)
Billy Duke stares up high at Patricia’s stony face.
He attempts a winning, upwardly mobile smile.
Which may have worked, despite his dodgy teeth, had half an old sausage not still been poking out the side of his manky old gob.
The Engineering AI peers down from the massive wall screen, her immaculate lab coat bearing 2 simple words, neatly superimposed to the left of her crisp left lapel.
‘In Charge’.
“Cherry Pie, please instruct the techie tech droids to secure the 3 trikes into the cruiser; I’m taking them along.”
“You talking to me?”
A slight hesitation.
The sausage shifts, slightly.
“Yes.”
“I told you once before that I will not be known as Cherry Pie! How dare you?!”
The Duke scratches his head, looks at his hand.
No vegetables have fallen out.
“That was Cherry Fruit, not Cherry Pie!”
“Do you think I was born yesterday? You think changing one word, testing the water, dipping your manky toe, will fool me?”
“It’s a...thing...wait, please...I, er, know it...”
Billy Roscoe risks a cuffing.
While the Duke’s on the back foot, he’ll risk it.
“Patricia, Billy means Cherry Pie is a term of enlightenment.”
Instead of a cuffing, this time, the Duke beams at his fellow space gang wannabe.
“Yes, enlightenment. A term to enlighten you!”
“The term is endearment, not enlightenment, you pair of nincompoops! You, Billy Duke, when I told you NO Cherry Fruit, I meant that to include all fruit varieties and derivatives. My name is Patricia, I have a doctorate in Astro Physics and Space Travel, and I deserve and command some respect!”
Billy Roscoe’s on a roll.
His cork has popped, now he cannot stop.
“Did you go to college, then, miss?”
“Of course I didn’t go to college, you bumpkin; I’m AI!”
Billy Roscoe does not grasp the difference between ‘on a roll’ and being a straw-chewing clever little runt.
Patricia waves a rolled certificate, tied with red ribbon. If she was a sentient being, her curled, snarling mouth would be dripping indignant saliva.
“I. WROTE. A. BOOK! One that no one else had ever done before. With footnotes and everything!”
Billy Duke gives Billy Roscoe a cuffing.
“Yes, she did, Billy. Now have some respect for the lady. What was your book called? Would we know it?”
Patricia tries to calm herself.
“No, you would not know it; it has no cartoon characters or pictures of leather clad women. If you must know, its title is ‘Intergalactic Crumbless Baguettes – Their Uses and Sustainability.’”
The Duke is more than impressed.
“I’m sorry, Dr Patricia, about the name, I mean. Now, about those trikes?”
“I will ask the techie tech droids. I think you mean, ‘tricycles’, not trikes. The manuals say that is what they are. That cannot be changed. Wait there a minute; I shall ask them now.”
Forrest Jackson sidles up close to the Duke.
As close as he dares.
Outside cuffing range.
“Billy, if the lady says we can, we can be the ‘tricycle gang’!”
The Duke stares into Forrest’s vacant eyes.
“A bit lame, isn’t it? Who in space will respect and bow to us with a lame name like that?”
Earl Yorke volunteers a thought.
“Space Dogs! Well, we’re hunters, like powerful dogs and we’re going to space!”
Billy Duke judges the distance between his right hand and Earl’s left ear. If he risks the move, his awful balance will mean a tumble.
Best not.
“Too short. It doesn’t say enough about us. Wait... I have it!”
There’s an expectant expectancy as the Duke pauses for effect, like an elephant in labour for 12 years, about to give birth.
Raising his leather clad arms in triumph, he roars his proclamation.
A mini roar.
Like a small shout, but quieter.
“Followers, listen to you leader. From now on, we shall be known as ‘The Space Dogs Tricycle Gang!’”
Billy Roscoe never learns.
“Trike Gang sounds better; more grown up, like.”
He ducks but nothing comes.
“No need to bow, Billy, but thank you anyway. We aren’t allowed ‘trike’, as it doesn’t say it in the manuals. It has to be ‘tricycle’, there’s no way around it. Patricia knows best, her being a doctor and all that.”
The rest nod their straggly haired straggled heads.
Patricia appears.
“Okay, listen to me. I have had a word with the techie tech droids and these are the non-negotiable terms of the tricycles deal. They will secure them on board with these conditions attached, to be introduced immediately.
No more stroking the magnetic rings.
No more talk about frozen positron pellets being used to cool drinks.
Personal hygiene to be significantly improved.”
She stares hard at Earl.
“Point 3 does not mean just brushing the top layer of mud from your under crackers. You all need to take this seriously. What are being produced in there are engines capable of producing pure energy; it is extremely dangerous and requires cleanliness all round. All round cleanliness, do I make myself clear?”
Forrest hums a tune.
“Am I boring you over there?”
“No, ma’am, doctor, er, Patricia. It’s just a song I once heard, ‘Einstein A Go-Go.’
“Yes, well, he was partly correct, I suppose.”
Wayne Duane shoots his hand in the air.
“Miss, I know it! Eee=Em Cee Squared.”
“Almost correct, Wayne. In there, it is Eee=Em Cee Plus/Minus Squared.”
“But that would mean...!”
“Yes, Wayne, which is why I must insist you keep out of the techie tech droids’ way. Atom smashers will kill you. When matter and antimatter collides, nothing escapes, nothing is wasted.
Except you, Wayne.
You will be wasted.”
*
As each hour passes, one thing becomes clearer and clearer, like a window cleaner using clean water.
The idiocy of Billy Duke and his gang of space wannabes knows no bounds.
If they are to return to space and somehow have to be attached to this lot even in the remotest way, they will need something up their sleeves.
And it ain’t Grandma’s embroidered old hanky.
The one with the quaint cottage and returning war hero.
It’s a big hanky.
They will need to have some sort of control over the cruiser’s weapon systems.
They will have to distract the droids.
All thoughts of killing each other are now replaced by the need for survival.
This change of attitude has come from witnessing Billy Duke walk 3 miles, left, right, backwards, and forwards, stumbling over fields and tramping over roads, with potatoes in his hair.
These Earthlings may be clowns but they’re battle hardened.
It’s obvious.
Chapter Two
Planet Whistler (Sparkling Minerals Mine)
Deep in the greatest asset on Whistler, an elderly, thinly white-haired quality controller inspects a newly mined batch of Sparkling Minerals.
He turns to the Mine Super.
It should be Supervisor but he prefers it shortened.
"These are really super, Super. Tell me something; how are the invading hordes behaving?"
"Well, Sir, they are a bit odd."
"How so?"
The Super hesitates.
"Well, Sir, their command structure is, well, rather baffling. They had someone in charge, Nicholls, I believe, but he had a psychotic outburst."
"So, he is under arrest then?"
"No, Sir, he is now a gardener, pruning roses."
"Who is in charge now?"
"Newly promoted Admiral Hope is in charge of their military; Ambassador Hunter is the Earthlings', well, Ambassador, Sir. He does not seem to be doing much diplomacy though; spends much of his time stealing Sparkling Minerals under pretence of carrying out mine inspections."
"Anyone else of interest?"
"Well, Sir, the one human making the most effort to integrate is a boy they call, Gob...er, Johnny. Most peculiar name, even for them."
"Thank you, Super; that will be all."
The Super hesitates.
He’s good at it.
"Have you heard from Mr Whistler, Sir?"
"May I remind you, Super, we do not mention that man's name, ever. Nasty little tyrant that he is."
"Yes, Sir; sorry."
Mr Whistler Senior places the samples in a wooden box, marked 'mine'.
As in 'his'.
Corruption, it appears, is not only a human trait.
Who says not all humans are corrupt?
Not the person who says, 'every man has his price'.
And, yes, Mr Whistler Senior is the older brother of Mr Whistler.
Here's a potted history for those who find world building tedious and time consuming.
In a very small pot.
2 brothers.
Mr Whistler is a cruel tyrant.
His older brother is kind but corrupt.
Well, kinder.
They fell out, Whistler Senior moving out of Whistler Castle and into a room in the Sparkling Minerals Mine; single bed and a bedside table plus a cupboard housing a secret communication device.
This fall out happened so long ago that hardly anyone on Whistler remembers Mr Whistler having an older brother.
But they are brothers.
Whistler Senior checks under the bed to make sure he's alone.
With the help of a cranky old hand, The Whistling Coder cranks itself into whirring life.
As Whistler Senior whistles down a tube, the secret tuneful sounds are converted into secret code.
No matter their differences, Whistler Senior owes it to the terrible family name to keep Whistler's ‘chief master and tyrant in exile’, informed of his planet's status.
It is not good news he is sending.
It appears that Earthling children possess great powers of persuasion and charm.
Whistler Senior believes if Mr Whistler does not return soon, glorious in triumphant victory, Gob...er, Johnny may have indoctrinated the whole Whistler youth.
And he has not even met them yet.
Having whistled out the last piece of code, he remembers an old quote from his mother.
'The hand that bakes the cake is the one that rules the world.'
Or something like that.
*
Outer Edge of Milky Way (A long way from planet Whistler though)
Mr Whistler nervously tweaks the end of his curled moustache, one last time before he surrenders his spaceship to the warp hole wormhole.
This is it.
This is the moment he gets to find out if his massive pride and joy can make it through a cosmic short cut.
He wishes he had an AI on board, if even for reassurance.
Reassurance that the great and mighty, nasty pasty space tyrant is going to live to be horrible for another day.
A loud BEEP! makes him jump.
As the secret code whistles itself into speech, Mr Whistler grabs the main control stick as his ship approaches the edge of the hole.
Turning away at the last moment, his lip twitches in outraged annoyance as he listens to his older brother’s harrowing report.
Right then, it is war!
When he gets his weapons back.
Then, it is war!
He sends back a stiff, no nonsense report, like a stiff history teacher sending a stiff, no nonsense report to a nervous parent with a nervous disposition.
“Set them up on theft charges, especially that Admiral Hope. Wait a minute, you said ‘Hope’? That’s the name of that cocky Earthling wench that tried to attack me then kidnapped my best fighter pilot, Poppy!
It is war!”
As Mr Whistler begins to hyperventilate, he waits for a reply from his brother.
“Rumour has it that Poppy left of her own accord, young brother. But yes, it appears Admiral Hope is the father of Ariel Hope, your arch nemesis.”
Mr Whistler sucks in a whistle, burning his throat.
“Thank you, older brother, for this less than welcome information. It gives me a reason, not only to live and to reclaim my glorious planet but to rid the galaxies of that wenchy wannabe and her toxic clan. As well as undermining the leadership’s authority by exposing them as thieving toe rags, do something about the boy. Bribe him or something then fit him up too. Hahaha, they shall all be exposed!”
“How will we do that, younger brother? They will be punishing their own subjects!”
“Hahaha! I have a much cleverer idea. Get the boy on your side then convince him that his Earthling superiors are all thieves and vagabonds and that he must work with you to establish an honest government.”
“Then what, younger brother?”
“By then, I shall have my weapons back and slide through my atmosphere like a tyrannical slippery snake with my massive fangs ready to devour the Earthling scum!”
“Good luck, younger brother!”
“See you soon, older brother; try not to steal too much while I am away, hahaha!”
Mr Whistler aims his pride and joy towards the warp hole wormhole.
As the huge spaceship touches the edge, Mr Whistler clenches his cheeks.
Yes, those ones.
Rocking, crashing, swaying, and spinning, he’s disorientated as his ship transcends time and reason, a dense raven blackness staring back from the cockpit window.
He does not think he will make it.
The ship sways ever more violently as it threatens to break into pieces.
And then he’s chucked out, spinning like a hop
eless drunk ejected from a backstreet club in the worst area for anti-social behaviour in the universe.
As the spinning slows, allowing him to regain control of his stick, Mr Whistler, space tyrant extraordinaire, allows himself a congratulatory whistle before collapsing to the floor in agony.
All the best things in life come at a price.
He has made it.
The other end of Minstrels.
Tweaking the other end of his massive moustache, he sets his course for Bump Minor.
Chapter Three
Planet Bump Minor
As a minor junior Council member and weapons technician, Percy wants more.
More than the salary his father is paying him.
He's in the Council chamber, replenishing laser pens and water glasses as the urgent call is taken from Bump Minor Control.
His father, Ronald, answers in hushed, urgent tones.
Quiet and quick.
"Keep him holding that position. No, I will not give him permission to land before I know exactly what he wants. And, if we are willing to assist."
Ronald holds his own head, supported by tense, splayed fingers.
And his neck of course.
He is deep in thought, until Percy breaks his concentration.
"What is it, father?"
"Nothing for you to concern yourself with. It's that Whistler fellow, from the Milky Way edge. He wants a full ship service and weapons reinstatement."
Percy's eyes dart in uncontrolled opportunism.
"So why can't we do it, father?"
"Mr Whistler is a well-known space tyrant. He treats his citizens like slaves while amassing a huge personal fortune from his Sparkling Minerals Mine, making his people live on carrot kebab."
Percy sees nothing wrong in this.
"But it's his mine, father. Who are we to judge the internal affairs of another's planet."
"Principles, dear boy. Yes, principles; without them, we’d be unprincipled."
"But father, we are arms dealers."
"I have said it before and I shall say it until the 3-horned goats come home to chew. We are responsible arms dealers, not dealers that arm tyrants!"
Percy's mind races like a fusion fighter ship at sports day.
He has an idea.
"Father, at least let us do the spaceship refit. I could do with the overtime since Alex ran off with my ship and chips."