by G. P. Moss
"It is half his ship, too, as you well know. He probably just wants to show us he can make some money out there. He will be back, I know it."
Percy's lip curls in indignant rage as his father refuses to condemn the prodigal nephew.
“Okay, pending approval by the Council, you may undertake the project for the refit of Mr Whistler's spaceship."
Percy beams as he tries to prevent his eyes from resembling a crazed kaleidoscope.
This time, Ronald notices.
"Negotiate wisely and this project should give you a deposit towards your own Explorer; you 2 cousins are too old to be squabbling and sharing. And one other thing. Mr Whistler will want weapons systems. Give him minimum defence chips, that is all. I absolutely forbid anything that can give that tyrant an aggressive advantage. Understood?"
"Yes, father."
Ronald's eyes narrow.
"Promise me!"
Percy stands tall, hands behind his back, fingers crossed.
"I swear on Alex's life, father!"
"I am trusting you on this; go and get the workshops ready and prepare the droids. I will personally supervise the welcome for Mr Whistler."
Percy does a half spin before marching out smartly, his mouth aching from a grin that threatens to permanently widen his face.
Alex didn't take all the weapons chips.
The top-notch stuff, ones he's been squirreling away, are hidden in Percy's winter sock drawer.
No one ever goes in there; it’s usually very warm on Bump Minor.
He will give the so-called unfairly named tyrant what he wants, for a price.
Supply and demand.
If Mr Whistler is desperate enough, he'll surely pay him enough Sparkling Minerals to buy his own Explorer.
Not just a deposit.
Top of the range.
In his mind’s eye, he sees the stencil on the side.
‘Percy Bump, Intergalactic Arms Dealer.’
*
As Mr Whistler's spaceship limps in to land, Percy watches from a cautious distance.
He has heard the rumours but...
Money trumps all other considerations.
Percy expects a 7 and a half feet metal clad, muscle bound, machine-like space warrior.
What he gets is slightly different.
At a little over 5 feet tall, Mr Whistler plods down his exit ramp.
Twiddling the ends of his wide, curling moustache, spreading across his mouse-like face like a wide, curling moustache, he walks with the nonchalant air of someone in no hurry at all.
The unremarkable walk is a rotten stinking lie.
Underneath the unassuming weak exterior is a man of psychopathic greatness, ready to unleash his tyrannical brutishness at the touch of a button.
Once he has his weapons back.
He knows, however, that this will require great skill and diplomacy with the elders of Bump Minor and a load of Sparkling Minerals for the first dishonest toe rag, nicely lacking in integrity and morals, he can find.
He won't have to look far.
And when he has what he needs, he will plan the destruction of Admiral Edward Hope and his stroppy upstart daughter, Captain Ariel Hope.
As for that traitorous space witch, Poppy, he will force her to work in the Sparkling Minerals Mine for the rest of her miserable days, on half rations and mucky water.
Mr Whistler is a proper tyrant.
*
Though Percy is disappointed by Mr Whistler's physical qualities, the same cannot be said of his ship.
Apart from dents and battle scars, this artistic hexagonal beauty must reach out a hundred yards in each direction from its centre.
If this black piece of engineering purity is what he thinks it is, Percy thinks it's a Raven Blue Class 1, named for its 2-toned reflection when hit by light.
This can mean only 1 thing.
Percy needs to programme the droids with a new manual.
These ships are rare.
Whoever inflicted these battle scars must be a fearsome foe indeed.
The story of the Whistler weapons engineer, sitting down to eat his carrot kebab instead of replacing the weapons chips has not yet reached Bump Minor.
*
Ronald greets the odd-looking visitor with a courteous handshake, bending at the waist like a stiff coiled spring.
Thankfully, the snap back isn't severe.
"Welcome, Mr Whistler. And what calamity, may I ask, has forced you and your glorious equipment through a warp hole wormhole into our humble galaxy today?"
Mr Whistler peers up, licking a stray dangling hair from his luxuriant top lip.
He taps the side of his nose with a stubby finger.
"Now, now, dear host, you know what they say!"
"And what do they say, dear visitor?"
"Luxurious lips do not sink ships. Therefore, my luxurious lips are sealed like a luxury yoghurt lid."
"Yes, yes, of course. Anyhow, I must just reiterate the terms of your welcome here. We shall, of course, provide a full refit of your ship and any repairs necessary."
The famous tyrant interrupts.
His eyes glint with roving menace.
"And weapons? You are arms dealers, after all."
"As I already discussed with you, we are happy to fit chips for defence weaponry. As arms dealers, we only sell advanced chips to Councils who promise not to use them in anger."
"Hahaha! What is the point in them then if you can't go around blasting everyone? Eh, eh?!"
"Mr Whistler, it is known as a deterrent arsenal. Do you agree to our Council terms or will you take your leave and look elsewhere?"
Mr Whistler spots Percy winking from the corner of his eye.
Not Percy's eye.
That would take months of practice.
And an understanding of the Oxford comma.
In that single moment, he knows he has found the dishonest toe rag he needs.
"Of course, Ronald; I agree to your terms!"
"Splendid. Let me introduce you to my son, Percy. He will supervise the refit, making sure the correct chips are fitted.”
Percy and Whistler's eyes glint before dancing a synchronized merry jig.
"A pleasure," they sing together.
Chapter Four
Minstrels galaxy (Off Minstrels Gate)
"Fond memories, Ariel?"
"Not really, Harry; we could have lost."
"Not with sharpshooter Poppy on the team!"
Ariel stares hard at Harriet.
"And you of course, Ariel.
A fine shot.
Shots.
Many, many of them."
"Harry, why are you wearing a hard hat?"
"Well, I thought, you know, with Ghost Blue nearby."
Alex's voice pings through to Beta 2.
“Ah, for sure that big blue beast will have skedaddled by now."
Ariel bristles.
"Do you listen to all of my conversations?"
"Ah come on now, Ariel; you left your frequency open. Anyway, I like to hear the girls talk!"
"Nosy man. How far off course must we go to avoid the remaining debris from Magnificent?"
"A long way, for sure. I would say, far enough away that we're clear of all particles."
"Particles? This cruiser has had mini asteroids chucked at it; surely a bit of peripheral planet mess won't damage us?"
"Ariel, this paintwork has already endured a fine spanking. Remember, I only own half of this fine piece of space junk!"
"Have you travelled this far out before?"
"Sure I have, a few times, avoiding certain people."
Stevie's anxious tones batter through their pleasantries.
"10 o'clock, object hurtling...whoa! What was that?!"
Alex changes course as the Betas follow.
"We're moving up and out. While we were busy chatting, it looks like we wandered into a freighter lane; best avoid those, for sure."
Ariel's stunned.
"They actually ha
ve traffic lanes in space?"
"Kind of. They're just wide routes used by supply ships. If you're in their way, they won't stop to ask the time of day; just blast you to oblivion instead. These are real aliens, Ariel; they don’t all look like you and me.”
“What do they look like?”
Harry pipes up, helpfully this time.
“Here is a screenshot of the passing freighter’s cockpit and its pilot.”
“Whoa! Take that thing away! What the burger in a bun on Earth is that?!”
Alex helpfully fills in the missing knowledge.
“That, Ariel, is a Longface; they’re a long way from home.”
“Why the long face?”
“It probably suits their environment.”
“Maybe they need to fit through narrow railings.”
“Yes, thank you, Harry; I’m sure that’s not the reason.”
She gives an involuntary shudder.
“Are they friendly, Alex?”
“Ah for sure they’re okay; they keep themselves to themselves mostly. Just don’t get in their way.”
“Thanks; worth remembering.”
“Same can’t be said for the Widenecks though.”
“Are you making these names up, Alex?”
“Naughty pirate.”
“Yes, thank you, Harry. Again.”
“No, no, these are the names we know them by anyway. They don’t use speech as such. Well, for sure it’s speech to them, but to us, it’s more like grunts.”
“So how do you know if they’re angry?”
“Ah, that’s really easy.”
“And?”
“They’ll be pointing a gun at you.”
“I shall make a point of staying out of their way.”
“They’re not native to Minstrels, Ariel but travel through sometimes. They’re from a galaxy called Bounty; far, far away.”
Ariel rolls her eyes.
Once.
“I won’t ask.”
*
"I think we should head back; outer space is a frightening, dangerous place."
"We're not heading back, Harry."
Ariel stares at the screen.
"And anyway, I thought a cruiser's AI was supposed to be the backbone of the operation. You use emotive words, when we need reassurance, or at least cold, hard facts."
"Sorry, Ariel; it's my empathy chip. I get a bit teary sometimes, too. I can give you cold, hard facts why outer space is frightening and dangerous. For example..."
"Harry, are you actually flying this cruiser; I mean, right now?"
"I have control."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, watch this."
The cruiser spins a 360, almost knocking Ariel and Poppy from their seats.
"HARRY!"
"You needed convincing."
"You could have just said, 'yes, Ariel, I am sure.'"
Poppy’s heard something unusual.
“Harry, has anything been dislodged back there; I mean during your spaceobatics?"
"Hold on please, Poppy; checking all areas now."
“Side cargo bay, next to side ramp. 3 loose boxes, next to Ariel's mountain bike."
Ariel's intrigued.
"Harry, were the engineers on Frelsh working in there?"
"Negative. Wait, please; checking internal cameras."
"Harry, search back to when we were on Magnificent."
"Found it! It is Magnificent Spiky Mike, sliding boxes into the hold as he tried to steal the ships."
"Zoom in, Harry; see what's in them."
Harry's taking ages.
"You might not like this, Ariel."
Ariel sighs. What now?
There's a twinkle in Harry's right eye.
Yes, it's actually sparkling, like a proper, non-back street, non-fake diamond.
"Well, Harry?"
"You may just love it!"
"Harry, tell me; what's in the boxes?!"
"Magitech droids, by the look of it; 3 of them."
Poppy fills her in.
In the informative way, not the aggressive.
"They are top of the range, technical 'helpers'. They can cope in most environments, including repairing external damage, while the ship is flying. Extremely rare, and expensive. I will go and check them, make sure they are not damaged after Harry's stunt."
Ariel stares hard at the side screen.
"Harry, if these Magitechs are damaged, I swear, I will personally remove that empathy chip of yours."
Harry's unrepentant.
"You will have a job on your hands there, Ariel. My chips are tamper proof."
"Trust me, I'll use my eyebrow tweezers if I have to. I mean it, Harry; no more stunts!"
"Sorry, Ariel."
"Yeah, you keep saying that. Stevie, have Pierre talk to Harriet, please. Let her know her responsibilities. Harry, be like Pierre, please. Just helpful, not sarky, snarky or otherwise annoying."
Alex's voice hurtles through the cockpit.
"What's this I hear about Magitechs? You really have some?"
"Ah, trust the fleet's resident pirate to show an interest in the treasure; do you know about these droids?”
"Ah, for sure but of course I've never seen one up close. Spiky Mike's creation; probably getting on for the price of an Explorer!"
"If you help us find somewhere safe to live, I may let you have one!"
"Ah, no Ariel; I couldn't do that. Keep them; they're the ultimate bargaining chip!"
"So, Alex; you're not all gab and grab, then?!"
"Ah, Ariel, splendid Captain of our fine little fleet; do you really think I'd be flying space junk if I was?"
"Just kidding, Alex. You got us safely back to Frelsh though; I won't ever forget that."
*
Planet Frelsh
Captain Francoise DuPont of French-Welsh Alliance stares at the darkening sky and hopes Ariel's mini fleet is staying out of trouble.
He is in love.
With a combination of Francoise's patience and a little magic from his Magnificent lady, they have managed to communicate. It has been established her name is Titania.
Though he loves her dearly, the name is too long.
They settle on Tania.
His raven-haired Magnificent beauty on his arm, Francoise strolls along a newly formed path, imagining it is the Champs Elysées in Paris. Who knows? With these peoples' magical building prowess, one day it could be recreated on Frelsh.
Imagine; a new Paris, right here.
An Eiffel Tower might be a bit tricky.
"Tania, my dear raven-haired beauty, how is it you had to live on the beaches when you all can build so well?"
"Ah, my dashing Captain; Magnificent Mike was jealous of our abilities so used his more powerful abilities to render us totally powerless, reducing us to raggedy clothes and beach dwelling."
"You are truly a clever beauty, my dear."
"Your gallantry makes me quiver with happiness, my bold and glorious soldier."
Yes, the communication is not bad at all.
A little flowery but then it’s early days in the relationship.
Francoise knows he is a very lucky man; luckier than the time he found out before it was too late that the internet girl of his dreams was in fact an extremely hairy man in Azerbaijan.
But that was long ago.
In a galaxy far, far, much further away.
Tania was worth the wait.
And the extra travel.
Chapter Five
Planet Earth (StarTapped Antimatter Propulsion Laboratory)
Patricia, last remaining StarTapped AI on Earth, calls Billy Duke and his Space Dogs Tricycle Gang to an impromptu, unexpected, random meeting.
Damien and Pedro are excused.
"The techie tech droids are at a crucial stage in the fusion antimatter propulsion cycle. As you lot insist on peering in and generally being nosy, the Chief Techie has asked for a personal hygiene update."
Buck B Tucker ra
ises a grimy hand.
"What is it, Buck?"
"Well, Miss, I, er, what do you mean 'personal hygiene'? I thought that was for the lasses, like."
"Bear with me Buck. I will explain once I have an idea where we are at. All of you, drop your pants. NOW!"
There is some confusion amongst the fiddling with belts, zips, and buttons.
Patricia's face turns a bright red shade of the brightest red, like an embarrassed Mars.
"Not those pants, Rocky Hoggreaser! Outers, trousers, pantity pants. Keep your under crackers on, please!"
"Oh, sorry Miss."
"Never mind. Okay, and what colour are your under crackers meant to be?"
A chorus of "white, Miss!" reverberates around the walls.
"Then why are the ones before my poor eyes, grey, black, brown and green? I shall tell you why. You have not been washing them and for a fusion antimatter propulsion laboratory, that is unacceptable!"
Billy Duke turns an indignant, angry purple.
"I beg your blinking pardon, Miss! These crackers were freshly clean on in February."
Patricia is unmoved.
"And what month are we in now, Billy Duke?"
"Just a minute, Miss Smarty Pants."
"At least they are clean! Do you want to go to space or not?!"
"Sorry, I'm still thinking."
“Well hurry up!”
The Duke holds up a grimy fist, reciting the months as each finger is released.
"The hares chase the bears."
1 finger.
"A fool is not cool. As a rule."
2 fingers.
"Dancing around the pole is not for collectors of coal. My da made that one up."
3 fingers.
Patricia's getting impatient.
"Surely that is all?"
"The later the moon, the longer the days. I made that one up. There, finished; told you it wasn't that long ago."
4 fingers.
"4 months? Is that for everyone else too?!"
Wayne Duane answers for them.
He checks to see if he's in cuffing range.
"We all washed them together at 'The Wary Sheep' bar pub, Miss. The barmaid, Rusty Dawn, she insisted we take our crackers off and wash 'em in the tub outside. Said we were turning the beer funny."
"There is a huge washing machine in the corner. Put all your clothes on 'turbo grime wash' for an hour. Meanwhile, use coveralls and overalls from the tech lockers."
The gang do as they’re told.
Of course they do.
"Not your leathers, you blithering fools! You will have to scrub them by hand!"
