by G. P. Moss
They object in varying degrees of nasally restricted distress.
Patricia just takes it in her AI stride, whirling around like the wicked witch of Minstrels Gate.
Don’t get me wrong though, she is not loving this at all.
Damien and Pedro are suffering too, their only saving grace being the sleek shapes of their fighter ships, able to some extent to dodge the ice balls.
Damien calls through to Beta Zero.
"How are you holding together? Are you still operational?"
Patricia howls a demented, vicious laugh, a cosmic cackle sending shivers down the Whistler pilots' battered spines.
"Well what does it look like, alien face? We are in free fall nightmare mode, unable to reignite engines or the brains of the useless crew!"
"Just asking, Patricia; we are all in the same mouldy soup."
"Yes, and this giant crouton is about to become cosmic crumb!"
Pedro shouts, excitement clear in his high-pitched effort.
"We are heading for a patch of water. Level out if you can, just like gliding!"
Damien's voice rises to a panic, throaty warble.
"I can't, the angle of attack is too steep, I'm heading nose down..."
Patricia conveys the same, grim message.
“We are heading straight down; we will break up in the water...”
Miraculously, and if Damien does survive this, he will tell the story of how he levels at the last minute, skimming the water like a child throwing very flat stones.
Perhaps he will.
A massive blast of sand and ice has lifted the ships, allowing them to escape disintegration by a couple of cosmic seconds.
All 3 have survived, skimming themselves across a short beach, landing in a grassy, wooded area, surrounded by ominous looking caves.
6 flat noses are pressed against Beta Zero’s cockpit glass as some very strange looking creatures emerge from the surrounding cave mouths.
The other 3 members of the Space Dogs Tricycle Gang sit on a tricycle trike each, voice-revving the mean machines.
“Vrum, vrum, vrum, vrum.”
Their manky thumbs hover over the start buttons, enormous self-control etched hard upon their lined, straggly faces.
Billy Duke calls from the front tricycle trike.
“Who is out there? Are they alien faces?”
Earl Yorke unsticks his flat nose from the screen.
“They’re a funny shade of green, so must be, Billy.”
“Let me at ‘em then. I will show them!”
Patricia is more interested than vexed.
“Show them what, Billy Duke?”
“I’ll show ‘em and shoe ‘em, I will, for getting in our way, stupid idiot aliens!”
“Billy Duke, they are not in our way, and they would argue that it is us who are the aliens, not them.”
A sandy haired Sandy Hoare waves and smiles from a cave mouth.
Wayne Duane returns the wave.
“Look, they’re friendly, like. Green and friendly, like proper aliens!”
Damien’s voice blasts through Beta Zero’s cockpit.
“They’re friendly by default. What you see in front of you is a colony of Jelly Heads, addicted to the jelly leaf and slowly turning green.”
Billy Duke roars with laughter.
“Hahaha, can’t take their drugs, eh? Eh?! Hahaha, easy planet takeover this is!”
Patricia doesn’t join in with the Duke’s histrionics.
“You mean like you lot cannot take your beer and sausages? Hahaha! One little Earth rumble and you all fall down, forever to walk in a zigzag!”
Wayne Duane sticks up for his gang leader.
“It was world’s end, not just a little rumble. And, we were on our first jug of grog, too. Inconvenient time to end the world if you ask me.”
Pedro shouts through the intercom.
“Look! They’re all moving away, back into their caves!”
Billy Duke’s had enough.
He is proper bored with this already.
“Okay, gang, hop on the tricycle trikes; we’re off exploring! Patricia, open the side door please!”
Damien and Pedro are going nowhere.
They know that not only Jelly Heads reside on this planet.
They will wait and carefully consider their next move.
As the door falls open, the 3 biggest red buttons are pressed in a flurry of excitement, the mean machines blasting into life as the tricycle trikes speed off into the distance, the 6 gang members on the backs, holding on for dear life as Billy Duke, Billy Roscoe, and Forrest Jackson, holler and whoop and shout and scream as they’re reminded of the weather, as dust and ice pelts and batters their leather clad bodies.
They are not bothered in the slightest. This is the most fun they’ve had since Rocky Hoggreaser got a huge sausage, freshly forked and double ketchup dipped, stuck up his left nostril in The Wary Sheep.
Now that was a proper laugh.
Planet Fresh
Captain Francoise DuPont of French-Welsh Alliance, surveys the rapidly expanding structures, built by those magnificent Magnificents.
He never would have believed a village could appear so quickly, without question or complaint.
From the large mouth of a huge, cavernous cave, he watches as these magical builders of beauty rush inside completed buildings, sheltering from the vicious driving onslaught of biting, stinging sand, and freezing, battering ice.
He shakes his head, thinking of the recent unfortunate new turn of debris direction, thought to be the remnants of Ghost Blue's terrible, brutal sacking of his new residents' former home.
The giant sheets and balls of ice are an unexpected addition to the dust and rock, like an unforgiving cleaning machine, chasing the cosmic debris until it either settles into firm ground or is driven back up, thrashing into the atmosphere like a nuclear sand blaster.
Tania stands beside him, his welcome companion and advisor.
A different roar assaults his ears now. Less natural, machine-like in its whirr and growl.
Tania has heard it too.
Her raven black hair flying around her face, she grips Francoise's hand as the strange new sounds finally stop.
"Something has landed, across the way, my love."
"I think so too; can we be sure?"
"The vibrations I feel are different; these are unnatural, unwelcome forces. I shall warn everyone to retreat to the caves."
Francoise knows she is right. Magnificents may be great magical builders of structures and systems, but they have no notion of military defence.
"Yes, my petit queen, get them all to safety while I prepare our military."
His military.
4 cruisers and a handful of pilots and engineers.
Total number of Space Marines equals a small fat zero.
They have had a sudden career change with no prospect of early retirement; Jelly Heads.
Yes, 4 measly cruisers, that is all he has at his disposal. It will have to do.
Perhaps he should have had more built, trained more pilots, but who? Half of the planet sadly recognise only the jelly leaf as food and saviour and the other half, a peace-loving people used to being bullied and told to stay put.
He will change that.
But, for now, they will have to stay hidden.
His vow to Tania is to protect.
He will honour it always.
In the French tradition.
Without the foie gras.
*
Billy Duke flies through the treacherous air, his straggly straggled head taking a battering from icy bombs and sandy clumps, turning him into a brown and white scruffy mottled monster.
Billy Roscoe and Forrest Jackson follow, their whoops and hollas drowned out by the ultra-powerful hydrogen blasters.
Their passengers wish they had bicycle trouser clips, or at least remembered to tuck their trouser pants into their socks.
Constantly putting out ankle fires
is driving them insane.
They hang on, unwilling to be left alone in the frozen, brutal wastes.
This is a joyride without direction.
There is likely to be only one outcome for the Space Dogs Tricycle Gang and it is further likely to happen very soon.
*
The 4 French-Welsh Alliance cruisers slowly and gently skim the cave system’s floors as they head to their purpose-built exit.
From his cockpit, Francoise sees Tania blow him a kiss.
He taught her to do that.
All he needs to teach her now is to blow on the palm of her hand, not the top; it looks like she’s blowing away a crawling little insect.
The thought is there and it gives him battle strength, like a Legionnaire trapped in a desert fort, surrounded by a thousand marauding tribesmen complaining about the sudden price rise of garlic bulbs.
He waves briefly before addressing his troops.
“Men and women of French-Welsh. On this glorious day, we shall be fearless and strong, noble and totally not scared at all.”
Gethin, the back marker at present, has a valid question.
“Captain DuPont, where are we going, Sir?”
“Ah, my noble Welsh Captain, a great question indeed.”
“Sir?”
“We will travel the freezing wastes to intercept an enemy so ferocious as to drive the bears deep into their caves, shivering in their furry coats.”
“We have bears here?”
“Worry not, my fearless warrior! It is just a petit metaphor to show us what we are dealing with.”
“Which is what, Sir?”
“I do not know. It was a pre-flight motivational speech, inspired by my brave line of ancestors, particularly on my great aunt’s mother’s cousin’s side.”
“It was really great. Thank you, Captain DuPont.”
“Okay, my great and proud mini but mighty military, let us defeat the inglorious nincompoops!”
*
It does not take them long to discover the source of the suspected invasion.
Through the battering sheets of dust and ice, Francoise rubs his eyes in disbelief at the sight of the 3 tricycle trikes flying across a rapidly freezing tundra, whooping, and hollering their demented chanting screams as their bodies are given the full whipping treatment of a trillion, jagged whirling ice and dust arrowheads.
Francoise orders an air strike.
“Soft lasers; aim at the wheels. I want these clowns on their knees on the frozen tundra.”
Gethin wants clarification.
“Roger that, Captain DuPont. We can neutralise them easily if you like.”
“Negative, Geth. I want them alive. I want to reach the grimy bottom of this cheeky and unannounced invasion!”
“Roger, Sir; firing soft lasers into wheels now.”
*
Ping! Ping! Ping! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Billy Duke manages only 2 words before his tricycle trike somersaults through the air.
“What the...?!”
The others follow his unplanned acrobatics as French-Welsh score direct hits on the wheels of all 3 machines.
As the hydrogen burners fizzle, pop and expire, the shattered wheels decrease their spin until only the vicious sound of the storm can be heard.
Initially, for Billy Duke and his gang, the winds are so brutal in their intensity, their sound is all they hear.
Looking to the sky, however, it soon becomes clear their sudden accident is no accident at all.
The Duke shouts to his men, above the roar of the winds.
“Pretend we’re on holiday. Sightseeing. Ultra-sporting. Act like we’re dumb tourists, then we’ll be friendly and find out where that dastardly duo, Ariel Hope and Stevie Lo are hiding out!”
A chorus of approval batters its way back to the Duke’s freezing ears.
“Yes, Billy Duke; we’re the ultra-sport athletes on holiday, dumb as they come, doing some sightseeing!”
That shouldn’t be too difficult to pull off.
The Duke relaxes.
Everything will be fine.
Chapter Seventeen
Planet Frelsh (Still)
Everything is not fine.
Captain DuPont orders the suspected invaders to be taken into custody at once.
Billy Duke struggles against the snap locks securing his manky wrists.
“You can’t just go around shooting at innocent tourists lost in a freezing tundra!”
As Francoise looks casually down from his cockpit window, he sees Geth is not prepared to take hanky cranky from these imbeciles.
“We can, and we did, old scruffy boyo, yes indeed.”
“Then I claim political asylum!”
“And who are you running from?”
“You!”
“Then you do not understand how asylum works.”
“I demand to see a lawyer!”
“On Frelsh, as at this time, I am afraid we do not have such people.”
“Then fly one in from the...from the...ah, yes, from the Intergalactic Space Legal Department!”
“No such thing exists and you know it.”
Wayne Duane looks suitably frightened, a laser gun pointing at his chest, increasing his anxiety.
“Billy Duke, you said if we pretended to be ultra-sporting dumb tourists, we’d be okay!”
The Duke senses Geth may have heard his gang member’s outburst.
“Shut up, you crazy fool! It’s a secret ploy we need to keep between us!”
Geth smirks the smirk of a thousand condescending smirks.
“Ha! I already heard your outrageous plan! You came here for a reason and we shall find out the truth in good time. Now, you lot, who wants to tell me the truth?”
The Duke mouths for them all to be quiet.
The Space Dogs Tricycle Gang looks straggly forlorn, freezing cold amongst the tricycle trikes, all 3 lying on their sides.
Gethin’s feeling a chill and needs to get the prisoners inside but tries a little trick. These clowns look like Earthling motorcycle gang wannabes.
“Who will trade the truth for beer and sausage?”
For Huckleberry Clifton, this torture is more than he can bear.
“How many sausages?”
Billy Duke is outraged.
“Shut your cake hole, now!”
Geth ignores him.
“As many sausages as you can eat!”
Before Huck has a chance to say anything more, the Duke boots him in his daily specials.
Without a confession, Geth looks to his Captain Commander, who nods resignedly.
“Okay, you lot, you are under arrest and will accompany us to our base for further interrogation!”
Billy Duke mutters a not so veiled warning to Huck as he passes.
“No more betrayals; any further unhelpful and traitorous utterances from your stupid gob and you will never, ever get the chance to be a glass collector when we open our own bar pub; okay?!”
The last word was really growled, like a fearsome gang leader giving the worst news possible.
The truth finally hits home, like a sausage-shaped baseball bat swinging tantalisingly close to his squishy squashy, sausage sensitive nose.
Bundled into Geth’s cruiser, Woody Carson inadvertently blurts out an unforgivable truth.
A bit too loudly.
“Hey, Billy Roscoe, it’s a bit like ours, the one we left across the way!”
Billy shushes Woody but it’s too late.
A passing French-Welsh engineer, Aled, has heard what he thinks could be vital information.
He hurries to tell Geth, just as they’re taking off.
“Captain, these suspects are not alone.”
“Why, did we miss some, hiding beneath the sheets of ice and sand?”
“No, Captain, I mean they have a cruiser, somewhere across the planet.”
Geth’s furious and a little apprehensive.
What if there are loads of them?
&n
bsp; What if this is just a scouting party and there are tons of hardened Space Marines just waiting to attack?
He begins to calm himself by taking long, deep breaths and sucking on a minty sweet candy.
“Captain DuPont? I bring unfortunate news, Sir.”
“The prisoners have escaped already?”
“No, Sir, they are secure in the cargo hold. I believe they came in at least 1 cruiser, could be more. It’s likely to be somewhere across the planet.”
“So, this lot are a scouting reconnaissance party then?”
Geth sighs.
“It looks that way, Sir.”
Francoise, being a kind, trusting soul of a man, feels affronted by the prisoners’ lies and overall deceitful behaviour. Ultra-sport tourists; absolute fiddlesticks, full of lies and overall deceitful behaviour. It is time to stop being Mr Nice Guy and show these clowns that Frelsh will be respected as French-Welsh territory and its laws respected and followed.
He makes a mentally powered note to write some laws.
There is something else that concerns him.
He has no prison or even cells in which to detain these people.
*
“Tania, darling, would you ask some of your beautiful people to fix some bars over one of the spare caves, please?”
Tania looks shocked.
“Of course, my dear Francoise. Your prisoners, are they very scary and dastardly in a mean and dangerous way?”
“Do not worry yourself, Tania. They are at present secure in a cruiser cargo hold and will be transferred as soon as the bars are fitted.”
Tania’s eyes glint a seriously beautiful ocean blue.
“And will you interrogate and by means of stealth and guile, extract their confessions in a bloodless way, my clever man?”
Her language skills are really coming on in giant leaps and astonishing bounds. Francoise briefly reflects on the alternative career path he could have chosen, if only he knew. Foreign language teacher, yes, definitely a much safer job than Commander of French-Welsh military forces.
As the tricycle trikes are unloaded from Geth’s cruiser, Francoise hears Billy Duke shout, his straggly hoarse fury elevating itself above the roar of the storm.
“And you better fix those, good and proper. Do you monstrously unfair capturers hear me? Eh? Eh? Fix ‘em up, sparkly crankly spankly, like new!”
