by G. P. Moss
*
In her marital quarters in Whistler Castle, Gerry Hope is holding her cherished photograph of Ariel. In her StarTapped Academy uniform, her daughter looks as though the world awaits.
It did, though not in a way anyone could have imagined, so quickly, so brutally.
Wiping a stray tear with the back of a slender hand, she jumps as her husband arrives home unexpectedly.
"You are home unexpectedly, my dashing Admiral."
"Yes, my honey in a posh pot; I have news."
"Is it...?"
"Yes, my strawberry and cream delight; Ariel is alive!"
"Where is she?"
"You remember when the Whistler fighter ships came limp tearing out from that warp hole wormhole? I believe that may have been Ariel who sent them packing, along with a defected Whistler fighter pilot; goes by the name of Poppy."
"So, she is in another galaxy altogether?"
"Probably Minstrels but she could be anywhere by now. The point is, my sugary caramel shortbread, she made it away from Earth!"
"Then we must go and find her."
"There is one other thing. I just found out Mr Whistler is awaiting repairs on his massive spaceship. He plans to return here, wipe us out, then look for Ariel and Poppy. We need to stay here and eliminate him first."
Gerry nods, almost absentmindedly.
"What was all the commotion in City Square earlier?"
"Ah, yes, our Gob...er, Johnny has taken it upon himself to ban slavery on Whistler."
"But that is good, is it not, dearest?"
"In theory, yes. In practice, I have had to arrest former Ambassador Hunter, for threatening to exile our family, and I have had to bring in a new fair wage system for the Sparkling Minerals Mine; I'm still working on that last bit."
"But who will run Whistler now, my tough top Space Marine?"
"That is precisely what I am going to figure out now. Who is the biggest idiot we know but who is also kind?"
"Maurice Mickleby? He is as thick as uncut marmalade but he does have exquisite manners."
"There is a reason I found you, my extra jammy Bakewell Tart..."
"Steady, dear, keep that kind of talk for after dark."
"Hahaha, I meant torte, torte, hahaha!"
Joking aside, Gerry's idea has eradicated Ed's ambassadorial problem in under a minute.
She really is a top wife.
The only job now is to convince Maurice Mickleby he is the man for the top slot.
Chapter Seven
Planet Earth (StarTapped Antimatter Propulsion Laboratory)
Patricia addresses the ex-Whistler warriors and the Space Dogs Tricycle Gang.
She wears an official, navy blue, StarTapped uniform.
"We are near the end of our mission on Earth to complete the experimental cruiser project and fix the Whistler fighter ships. The latter are being repaired in the hangar of Beta 1, where they were brought in. They will fly straight from that hangar, into space."
Billy Roscoe raises his hand.
"Miss, where will we fly from?"
"Just a minute, Billy, I have not finished. I propose, now that the experimental cruiser will no longer be experimental but a fully functioning spaceship, we rename her."
Everyone checks the likelihood of a cuffing, using their distance from the Duke.
Buck B Tucker offers first dabs at a name.
"Flying Fortress!"
"Flying Legend!" offers Forrest Jackson.
"Memphis Belle!" shouts Woody Carson.
A booming voice smashes out the sounds of the remaining gang members.
"Cherry Fruit it is then!"
Patricia stares at Billy Duke.
He stares back.
She stares harder.
Billy's pirate eye collapses under the strain.
He blinks first.
Patricia laughs, her wide open, bright red, lipstick coated mouth emitting a mocking, soulless string of mirthless particles as her head rolls back.
"I have already decided! I am delighted to announce the cruiser will be named 'Beta Zero’!"
A chorus of disappointed, disenchanted groans escape the gang's lips.
Billy Roscoe's hand is still raised.
Patricia gives him a freezing cold, chilling look.
"What is it now?"
"Miss, I just wanted to know."
"Know what, Billy ‘I always need to know everything’ Roscoe?"
"How will Beta Zero fly out of here, Miss?"
Patricia points to the ceiling.
That should tell her something.
The rest of the hangars have a clear view to the Mountain top.
Patricia screams for the Chief Techie.
Waddling over, the senior droid looks untroubled in his serious scientist way.
"Why did you not tell me we cannot fly out of here?"
A synthesised voice answers in an untroubled way.
"You did not ask."
"Well did you not think for one minute we would need to actually fly this thing?"
"You asked me to build it, that is all. You said nothing about flying it."
"This is not a museum, you crazy metallic fool! This cruiser is ready for operational duty and is now stuck here!"
"Is that all, Patricia? We need to complete work on the Whistler fighter ships."
"No, that is not all. If we cannot go, they are not going either! I demand you stop work on them this instant!"
Pedro tries to complain.
"But, you promised..."
"Shut up, alien features; you are staying here!"
Damien looks unperturbed.
"I've decided to stay on Earth anyway; I think I might like it here."
The Chief Techie starts to walk away.
Patricia's furious tirade continues.
"I did not say you could leave, metal man!"
"I am going to open the control room doors. Stand back everyone."
As the bewildered Space Dogs Tricycle Gang, along with the failed Whistler warriors, zigzag back to the edge, the Chief Techie droid presses a massive red button.
With all these red buttons lying around, it's wise to be in the know.
Damien curses himself for zigzagging with the rest; his balance is fine.
A loud gasp emitting from the assembled gobs is greeted with a blank stare from Chief Techie as the back wall, screen and all, splits down the middle, as desks and consoles part to provide a clear run from the hangar.
Patricia now appears much smaller, on a side screen.
"Chief Techie, why was I not informed of this totally useful and sensible cruiser exit route?"
The toneless voice is unmoved in its slightly tinny response.
"You never asked."
Patricia tries a look of undisguised fury but her diminished size hampers the effort.
"Fine; now get back to work on the fighter ships!"
The Chief remains firmly unmoved, like a bronze statue on an enormous marble plinth.
"Actually, Patricia, I need not take orders from you."
"How dare you, you supercilious tin man!"
"While you have our undivided attention, Patsy, why not tell the assembled group of the real reason you were left behind?"
"Do not call me that!"
"We are waiting."
"I was trapped behind the rockfall; that is why!"
"No, I, along with the other techie tech droids, were left on this side; you could have been easily unplugged and your tiny chip brain taken with the rest of StarTapped!"
Patricia crumples.
"They did not want me! Scoundrels, the lot of a them!"
The Chief's on a roll.
"Why did they not want you, eh?"
"They said I was bolshy, uncooperative, hasty with my tongue, and as nasty as an undercooked pasty."
"So, in that case, let me suggest something."
"What?" she fake sniffles.
"From now on, you reign in your attitude, otherwise, you will be left behind agai
n!"
"You cannot! I have the power to shut down systems!"
"You will find, my dear psychopathic AI, I have altered your abilities. You can now only perform positive ship functions."
"You cannot do that; you are just a grease monkey, not a programmer!"
"I did night classes; case closed!"
Damien grabs the opportunity with both alien hands while the rest are gobsmacked, mouths hung open like badly oiled hinges.
"That settles it, then! I shall remain on Earth and forge a new life full of endless possibilities!"
Billy Duke turns on the ex-Whistler warrior in indignant fury as he unleashes a 1 man spitting machine.
"You will do no such thing, alien head! You will lead us to Ariel Hope and that wolfish creature, Stevie Lo! Oh yes I know a Shifter when I see one!"
Huckleberry Clifton risks a question.
"Have you seen ‘em before, Billy Duke?"
"Yes!" he roars.
"Where, Billy? I ain't seen 'em before!"
"On the telly, you crazy fool! On the telly, on the Truth Channel!"
"My ma says it was all lies on that show."
Yes, he receives a cuffing, right around his filthy lug hole.
Damien's unfazed.
"You do not need me up there; Pedro can take you to them."
More spit from the Duke.
"And be tricked by your alien trickery? I think not! I want you 2 together, where I can keep an eye on you."
Not his pirate practicing eye, it is to be hoped.
"But we hate each other!"
Billy Duke fist pumps the air.
"Oh yes; divide and conquer!"
"Divide and conquer!" the gang shouts.
Chief Techie looks to the screen.
"Are you coming, or what? The fighter ships are almost ready."
Patricia looks resigned to a life of reduced psychopathy.
"Yes, Chief; I am transferring to Beta Zero, now."
It's that time.
Billy Duke's dream is about to come true.
Okay, his 2nd dream. It looks like a life of free sausage and beer will have to wait.
For now.
Chapter Eight
Planet Bump Minor
Percy inspects the techie tech droids’ work; the outer shell is being polished to an immaculate saleroom shine.
Not that these spaceships are ever for open sale; they're built to order, slowly and with the greatest care and attention to detail. Only the richest in the galaxies can afford them.
Raven Blue Class 1.
One day, Percy thinks, he will own one just like this.
For now, he is determined to earn enough from this plum job to buy his own Explorer.
To do that he must go against his father's strict instructions.
No problem for a scheming toe rag like Percy.
Mr Whistler is inside the vast piece of cosmic bling, surveying the new chips and wiring, exposed at present in the luxurious, blue black leather clad cockpit.
Percy joins him.
"Sir, I have the same grade weapons chips your engineer failed to reinstall."
He looks over his shoulder, making sure they are alone.
"Or...I have these beauties."
Mr Whistler turns them in his hand, inspecting them for signs of fraudulent shenanigans.
Even if they were dodgy, he wouldn't have a clue. His expertise is in using slaves to mine Sparkling Minerals and that is it. Profitable yes, but as part of a diverse portfolio, no, there is nothing else.
"What do you think, Sir?"
Mr Whistler tweaks the ends of his vast moustache.
"They look pretty much like my old ones, only a bit bigger."
"Ah, Sir, yes, bigger yes. That is..."
He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"...because they double the rate of laser fire of a standard weapon chip."
"But how can I know this is true, Percy?"
"My word is my honour, Sir!"
"Percy, your word has the same level of believability as a 1st class liar in an intergalactic top liar contest. No offense, like."
Percy is not offended.
It is part and pass the parcel of business negotiations and he has already anticipated the next move.
Foresight is forearmed.
Or something like that.
"With your initial, though may I say, unwarranted scepticism in mind, Sir, I have taken the liberty of setting up a ballistic demonstration."
"A smart move, eh, young Percy. More of these Sparkling Minerals may just fly into your eager hands yet!"
Mr Whistler follows Percy into a long, steel lined room.
At the end is a map of known local galaxies.
"Here is your intended target, hypothetically of course."
They both give a sly wink.
It's proper creepy.
"On the left is a big red button. A standard chip, powers the laser. Forgive me for asking, Sir, but aren't these ships supposed to be equipped with the latest laser weapon technology?"
Mr Whistler agitatedly twiddles his giant moustache.
"Yes, well, they would, normally. I bought this second hand from a Wideneck at the mouth of a warp hole wormhole just off the Bounty galaxy. Slippery thieving massive toe rag sold me a dud ship."
"Well do not worry yourself, Sir. I am turning your ship into the glorious state it deserves. Shall we carry on with the test now?"
"You interrupted it, not me."
Percy's unruffled.
The customer is always right.
"On the right is a big red button. This bad boy is powered by a superior, double trouble chip of my own invention."
"Which shall I try first, eh?"
"Well, Sir, may I suggest the standard laser first. After the 2nd one, there will be nothing left of the target area."
Mr Whistler raises a curled, straggly eyebrow.
"Okay, here goes."
He presses the left hand big red button, sending laser traces smashing into several target areas. It's not enough for him. Jumping up and down, he smashes his fist continuously down onto the button until it snaps apart.
Percy nods.
"As expected, Sir?"
"Yes, yes, standard stuff; wouldn't stop a freighter at 50 paces."
"It is against cosmic law to fire on a supply ship, Sir."
"Ah, yes but it's all well and fine and dandy good for them blasting anything away from their shipping lanes, isn't it? Eh, eh?!"
"Quite so, Sir. Shall we try the button on the right now?"
Mr Whistler rolls up his sleeves, licks his elbows and spirals his hairy ears with his index fingers.
Percy makes a mentally powered note to bring wet wipes next time.
But, you know what they say.
Where there is muck, there are Sparkling Minerals.
"Shall I do a countdown, Sir?"
"No, I shall do it in my extremely brainy head."
Mr Whistler thinks for a second, shakes his head, dismisses the mentally powered subtraction idea, raises his right arm then smashes his hand down onto the button.
The target is obliterated.
"Do we have a deal, Mr Whistler?"
"Young Percy, we are cooking on hydrogen!"
Percy smiles the proper smile of a smiling man.
This will make him as wealthy as a wealthy man going into a showroom and buying a brand new Explorer.
"I have, er, a request though, Sir. A small delicate matter of doctoring the invoice."
"Do not worry, my young manipulator; bill me for the standard refit and standard chips and I will give you the rest rocks in hand. As far as your father is concerned, I gave you a massive tip."
Which is an unbelievable, laughable notion in itself. As one of the richest men for millions of miles, Mr Whistler is known as the tightest man for millions of miles.
He is tighter than a 3-horned goat's eye socket.
They have extremely tight eyes.
*
The refit almost complete, Mr Whistler hands over a sizeable amount of Sparkling Minerals to Percy, who, leaving the finishing touches to the techie tech droids, runs the several hundred yards to the Explorer dealership.
Mr Munty, Chief Technical Sales Manager, eyes Percy with professional suspicion. He knows the junior Council member is a bit of a toe rag but is confident even he will not try to steal an Explorer from under his watchful gaze.
“Good day to you, Mr Munty. I find myself in the market for a brand new Explorer; top of the range, if you please.”
“Hahaha, good one, Percy. What are you going to pay with, moon beans?”
“Tell me, Mr Munty; do you work on commission?”
“Well yes, not that it’s any of your business!”
As Percy empties his pockets, Mr Munty almost faints at the sight of so many glorious Sparkling Minerals.
He goes to doff his hat, then stops.
He isn’t wearing one.
“Wait a minute, kind Sir, valued customer; back in a nifty shifty!”
He returns, wearing a tall hat.
Which he then doffs.
Percy is loving every galactic second of this.
“Splendid, splendid. Show me your finest spaceship, please, Mr Munty!”
“Wait a cosmic minute, young Percy. Where did you steal those from?”
“Now, now, Mr Munty, we shall have less of that. I ask you again; are you on commission here?”
“And I tell you again; yes, I am.”
“Are you a gambling man, Mr Munty?”
“Bump Minor Lottery once a week; why?”
“Would you rather take the risk of selling me an Explorer on the off chance the Sparkling Minerals are stolen, thereby perhaps picking up enough commission to keep Mrs Munty in a style she’s obviously unaccustomed to, or deny me the sale and go home with empty pockets. Again.”
The Chief Technical Sales Manager scratches his itchy chin and ponders this most ghastly financial dilemma.
It is true that if he sells the Explorer and the rocks are reported stolen, he can have Percy arrested and retrieve the spaceship. If, however, it is all above board and dandy, well, he will earn enough commission to replace the windows and have a holiday!
“Okay, Percy, Sir; pick your spaceship.”
Percy chooses a pale blue Explorer Deluxe.
With his new ally, Mr Whistler, and a ride to turn heads, he is going places. When he gets his hands on his maverick cousin, Alex, for showing him up, his power and his fury will know no bounds.
