Although Rip Newton's mind had survived the transferral process into Mister Boodle's grey matter completely intact, he’d quickly become accustomed to his new role as a hamster and had no intention of returning to the stresses and trials of being the smartest person on board The Frontier.
And he'd found that hamster poo tasted surprisingly good to his rodent tongue.
“Yes. That's what I thought,” September snapped, the only human with a hand raised. She surveyed her understudies with distaste. “You have the next ten years of this voyage to surpass and embarrass me with your expertise, but until that happens, you must do your best to be like the best: me.”
The most galling part of her bragging was that September was right beyond a doubt. She was in a class all of her own, a genius among geniuses, and only the head of Games & Theory (or Military Intelligence, as most civilians from The Unison would know it) was capable of beating her at ten-level three-dimensional chess. Even the ship's computer had refused to compete with her at anything except raw data mining and other tasks that were tilted in its synthetic favour, and the AI had threatened to wipe itself clean if it was beaten at Scrabble just one more time.
September spent another minute or so hovering, making sure that the “idiots” - who had thirty-three black-belts and two Order of Sol medals between them – weren’t going to cause some end-of-the-Universe-type cataclysm fuelled by nothing more than their ignorance and stupidity. After being disappointed by a distinct lack of catastrophes, September grumbled and left the room.
She wasn't quite sure, but September could have sworn that she heard cheering once she'd turned into the next corridor...
Glancing at her reflection as she passed a wall mirror for the first time in days, September frowned at her crumpled white uniform with its gold-and-purple piping, and buffed her sigils of command. Brushing at her ebony hair with her fingers and rubbing at her bloodshot, almond-shaped eyes – hints of her Ugandan and East Korean heritage, respectively – September's brain experienced the unpleasant sensation of not doing anything constructive. She didn't like it one bit. After all, September had spent her entire life travelling non-stop around the galaxy in search of new challenges, and the idea of staying still, of merely hovering, was worse than death. No amount of accomplishment had managed to satiate September's lust for learning up to this point, but seeing as though she was about to pass beyond the very boundary of known space and witness things that no other human had ever been privileged enough to see, hopefully this craving would finally be satisfied.
It took September a couple of minutes to get back to her sprawling, deluxe cabin. Although she'd already been on-board The Frontier for three months prior to its launch, all of September's furniture (except for the bed) was still covered in shrink-wrap. She'd spent ten times as long in the toilet than she had in her own quarters. There were some decorations, though, such as the fifteen silken black-belts hanging from the far wall. Each of the jet sashes were embossed with the golden logos of the best universities The Unison had to offer. September had easily earned her fourth-dan qualifications in stellar engineering, advanced physics, pure mathematics, macro-string theory, psychotic calculus, dimensional crossing and many other subjects that somebody like Jack Spasm couldn’t even pronounce, let alone define. In total, September had more than one-hundred and ninety seven letters after her name, not counting vowels or commas.
The only other personal touch to this mint-condition cabin was September’s impressive collection of one of the rarest things in the galaxy: actual books made from old-fashioned paper, the sort that always had the same thing written inside of them. A tight spiral of red-carpeted staircase snaked its way up the guts of a four-storied wooden cylinder that was filled to bursting by thousands of hermetically-sealed volumes. However, this was only a fraction of September's library. Her storerooms were so extensive that they required their own computerised filing system. As most of her collection pre-dated the dark years of the 22nd Century when any books that weren't able to automatically update themselves were publicly burned, a high percentage of them were fiction novels. Why would she want to collect ancient non-fiction, anyway? Pretty much every single thing that people believed prior to the 22nd Century had been proven wrong ten times over, so the non-fiction from that era was basically worthless. She might as well collect books about voodoo recipes.
Laying down on her Emperor-sized bed fully clothed, September set her Omni implant to go off in two-and-a-half hours and mentally chose a tricky mathematical formula to work on while she was asleep. Utilising a skill she’d learned during the six months she'd dabbled in being a Jedi, she turned off the conscious part of her brain like a flicked switch.
September woke up precisely three seconds before the alarm was due to erupt, and her finger darted out like a snake to hit her Omni implant in time. September mentally noted that she'd solved most of the Morisset Algorithm, a problem that Hemming had been tormented by for well over a month, and decided that her findings would serve as an ideal cutting implement for a verbal emasculation. September smiled as she recalled that it was Hemming's birthday next Fursday, and decided that his surprise party would be the ideal time to bring the pain. First, though, she'd have to find out how it was possible that she still hadn't been sent a formal invitation yet. Feeble-brained sots...
For some reason, September spared more than a single moment to think about Jack Spasm's offer from ninety-eight-and-a-half hours ago. The answer, of course, was an obvious no. Willingly choose to spend her precious few minutes of private time with Jack Spasm, easily one of the most unbalanced men aboard The Frontier? Actually volunteer to go to his quarters - her, one of the most desirable women on board and him, a man with the breeding, charisma and intelligence of an untreated yeast infection?
Then again, this was the first time in years that anybody had actually expressed an interest in sharing September's presence without a formal obligation. And besides, Spasm was certainly more pleasant than that lunatic Eulogy, he didn't mouth off at her like those imbeciles on the alternate shift, and as September had always loved hamsters, she found Spasm's rodent-like mannerisms fascinating. She still had another half an hour until her next shift, so what was there to lose?
September decided. She would have a drink with Spasm.
Peeling away her clammy uniform until she was clad in nothing but her highly unflattering granny knickers, September sprayed a good dose of Shower-In-A-Bottle all over her body and waited for the aggressive enzymes to eat away at the grease, sweat and general stink of a ridiculously long shift. Slipping into a sexy cocktail dress that rated at least an 8.4 on Latham’s Scale of Sexual Allure, September misted some straightener into her black hair and applied a few jets of conditioner.
Now for something she didn't wear very often: make up.
September switched on the PhotoShop function of her Omni. A holographic mirror popped up into midair, showing a perfect representation of her face surrounded by a thousand floating symbols. Tapping and stroking at the buttons, September applied a holographic layer of makeup that started with foundation and finished with blush, eyeliner, rouge and lipstick. She smacked a green tick to confirm the spruce-up, and set the holographic layer to last precisely two hours. After that, as programmed, it would vanish without the need for anything as crude as wipes or chemicals.
Putting on a pair of black pumps from her amazingly small collection of shoes, she marched out of her cabin, and began wondering exactly why the hell she was about to have a drink with Jack Bloody Spasm.
In truth, it was lonely being so intelligent and attractive. Most men were immediately crippled with feelings of inadequacy and didn't even bother trying, and the few that survived longer than a couple of minutes would be driven away by September's toxic personality way before any Omni numbers were exchanged. As nobody ever wanted to be around her, September spent all of her free time with her ancient books. Unfortunately, September was able to read at such a fast pace that she occasionally suffered
from a rare condition known as “explosive stress-induced eyeball cramps,” and she'd been told in no uncertain terms that the medical staff had no intention of using their Repler Units to brew up a new pair of peepers every time she decided to have a Harry Potter binge. So it was time to mix things up a bit. And anyway, September was under the impression that doing naughty things could provide some sort of a thrill that couldn't be replicated in a legal way. As she’d never been in trouble, September thought it was about time to learn what all the fuss was about.
Swiping at air, September checked the crew directory as she walked out of her cabin. She found that Jack Spasm's slot was a tiny space three kilometres down, just above the deafening urine reclamation system, and was situated between two disabled toilets. Even though there were no disabled people on board (yet), regulations were regulations. It went without saying that he lived on Alpha Deck, which meant he had zero operational worth. Her hamster, Mister Boodle, outranked Spasm by six levels. Alpha Deckers were designated as only being useful as cannon fodder, as a source of emergency organs for more important crew members, as crash-test dummies for dangerous situations, or were scheduled to be a part of some sort of unsavoury science experiment. In theory, they may also be worth trading as a living form of currency with an unmet intelligent species, but that was yet to be proven.
It went without saying that the Alpha Deckers had no idea that they were the exact definition of expendable.
September transferred Spasm's file to the wall of the turbolift with a twitch of her fingers as she decided to misuse her authority. She discovered that Spasm's file contained dozens of angry outbursts about the low quality of urinal cakes he was being forced to use, along with numerous instances of antisocial behaviour and several requests from Eulogy to fire him out of an airlock. These requests had all been denied by Fleet Admiral Aslan for some mysterious reason.
September discovered a much bigger problem when she glanced at a file image of Jack Spasm that had been taken two weeks ago. Comparing the holo from a dozen angles with her own eidetic memory, September came to the disturbing conclusion that the man she was about to visit was not the real Jack Spasm. He was a near-perfect match, true, but unless Spasm had discovered some way to suddenly remove approximately seven and a half years from his appearance, he was an imposter.
Was he an infiltrator? A spy? A saboteur? Perhaps he was even a Buddhist extremist! The whole ship could be in danger!
Physically shaking, September checked Spasm's file thoroughly to see if there was anything to explain the difference in appearance, but there was no history of cosmetic surgery, firecracker-related dental mishaps, disfiguring accidents with acid or anything else that made sense. Being a busybody by nature, like most virgins pushing thirty, September decided to find out exactly what the Green Hell was going on.
*
September stepped out of the turbolift on Alpha Deck to the ear-shattering noise of an alleged “song” from a torture metal band. It sounded similar to a cat being thrown repeatedly against an electric guitar, and September was pretty sure all of the lyrics were classed as unforgivable by most religions. Every flat surface was covered in obscene graffiti, and the floor was ankle-deep in garbage all the way up the corridor. Janitors wearing the same type of overalls as Spasm the Impostor either wolf-whistled or silently leered, as though they immediately knew at a cellular level that she was out of their league and that any serious attempt at picking her up was a waste of time. After all, how many wolf whistles throughout history have actually led to an erotic encounter? Statistically, a bout of pity sex with a Viagra rep after at an erection dysfunction seminar would be more likely.
An apprentice chef in a floppy hat and a full-body apron that may have once been white bumped into September. He was so hugely fat that it took a couple of seconds for many segments of his body to agree to stop wobbling. These negotiations went on for some time.
“Sorry,” the huge chef said lamely. He seemed like the kind of guy that spent a lot of his time apologising. “Didn't see you there. I was sort of...well, I’m sure you don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”
“Great,” September said sarcastically. Biting back a comment about the bristly hair poking out around this fat chef's neckline, she nodded up the hallway. “Where's Spasm? Have you seen him?”
“Spasm? Jack Spasm?” the chef clarified in disbelief, his jowls wobbling. A dark look clouded his eyes. “Why? What did he take?”
“Take? Nothing! I'm just here to…to see him.”
“Yeah, right. How much does he owe you?” the chef slapped at a deposit of cellulite in his forehead, sending it wriggling. “Oh, I'm Slummer, by the way, Jimmy Slummer. Apprentice chef extraordinary. Or summing. I live here,” he ended inanely.
September's eidetic memory produced a few relevant facts: James Slummer, aged twenty-eight, currently an unknowing participant in a long-term study of excessive ultrasweet addiction. Life expectancy: three months.
“Yes, James, I gathered that. I really must find-”
“Look, if he got out of line, don't confront him. He bites,” Jimmy said under his breath, showing September some purple marks on his hand. “We try to keep him away from actual money, but somehow he keeps finding patsies. Not that you're a patsies. Or a patsy. You're too beautiful,” Jimmy went red, which took a while to crawl all the way over so much surface space. “Look, just stay away from Spasm. He's trouble. And his room smells like alcohol and cigarettes.”
She didn't have time for this. She had to speed things up. Generally, September found that speaking louder and slower made it easier for the mentally subnormal (see: 99.99% of humanity) to understand her, and so she tried to get across her very simple question for what must have been the fourth time in half a minute. Number five may involve a kick in the face.
“James: where is Jack Spasm?”
Jimmy looked blank, as though his brain had just experienced a hard reset. He blinked a couple of times.
“I like cooking,” Jimmy said awkwardly. “Do you like cooking?”
September sighed in exasperation. It was like nudging away a pathetic little stray mongrel puppy that just kept whimpering and coming back for yet another unkind boot, simply because it was the closest it could come to a loving pat and a scratch behind the ears.
“I mostly heat up my meals in a nuker between shifts, but I did three months with a Michelin star chef when I was twelve. My speciality is a a stone-cold vichyssoise followed by a perfectly-executed steak tartare, even though neither of those dishes are really cooked, per se.”
“Per what?” Jimmy waved away his own question and whispered his next words with a little menace. September was pretty sure he was just whispering as an excuse to get physically close to her. “Hey, have you noticed that Spasm seems to have gotten younger lately? Eulogy said that he's sick of me complaining about people being mean to me, so I went all the way to the Fleet Admiral - he's really nice, by the way - and he said his eyesight is so bad he can't tell. Isn't that weird?”
Jimmy got out a chocolate-coated Caligula Bar from a half-melted stash in his apron, sucked out the flowing caramel and crunched a high-carb sugar crust, and gestured around at the other inhabitants of Alpha Deck.
“Been here for a while, now. Cooked all the meals for the construction crew, you see, mostly Shake & Bake chicken, which is easy enough. I like making Shake & Bake. It's fun. See, you shake it, then-”
“I get the idea.”
Jimmy went silent. Puffing up his chest, which was apparently made up of two bags of cottage cheese, he nodded in a resigned way.
“I'll protect you from Spasm. If he tries anything, call me, and I'll yell real loud. I can yell good, you see. I've had a lot of practice around here.”
Another chef snuck up behind Jimmy and gave him an atomic wedgie before September could voice a warning. The bully must have been a master at this, as he managed to get Jimmy’s massive underpants all the way to his armpits. Jimmy shrieked as the elastic lining got caught
on his lumpy back fat. Dancing around, trying to regain the barest fraction of the dignity and self-respect that he’d gradually dribbled away for his whole life, Jimmy waved awkwardly to September.
“Well, Miss, he's in the room between those two disabled toilets. Just holler if you need help. I hear the guards have wanted to bust Spasm for a while now, and I need the extra points.”
“Will do. Bye, James.”
“Bye, Miss.”
September shuddered as Jimmy Slummer walked down the corridor like a croquet hoop. He really was a gross lump, and if September thought that Spasm smelled bad, then this guy must have a skunk somewhere in his family tree.
Wandering down the blaring, grimy corridor, ignoring the janitors, chefs, technicians and other assorted “special” cases, September quickly looked away from the disabled toilets that hedged Spasm's room, as lumpy, nicotine-coloured water was gushing out underneath the doors.
Best not to think about it.
Next to this hygiene atrocity was a room unlike any other on the ship: crudely painted jet black instead of The Frontier’s standard beige, September was sure that some of the posters on the walls were against regulations, as well as being outlawed by the Catholic Church under threat of immolation. There was no sign of the dolphin pillows or scenes of infuriating tranquillity, and “Spasm” was lying against the wall with his legs pointing towards the ceiling. Whistling as he threw bent coins at a mug full of moonshine on the other side of the room (the ones that he got in sizzled and smoked alarmingly), Bob Tuesday looked up to see September and collapsed backwards in an untidy pile.
Scum of the Universe Page 39
