Scum of the Universe

by Grant Everett

  Mercifully, Tuesday passed out.

  A construction grunt glanced over from his work on The Frontier just in time to see a bright corona of lightning through his transparent helmet. He instantly decided to stop dropping Blink tabs before work.

  *

  At precisely 1947 Hours shiptime – the exact minute that Tuesday, Jimmy and September had originally vanished from The Frontier - Commander Redmond Eulogy was enjoying a well-earned break by setting up hundreds of hand-painted tabletop strategy models in a display cabinet in his deluxe cabin. Like all the furniture in his off-limits private quarters, the cabinet was made from the extinct Earther wood known as mahogany.

  All up, Eulogy had spent around five thousand hours detailing his little soldiers – going so far as to give them distinct facial expressions and unique hand-mixed iris colours - with a hair-thin brush. If you included gluing them together, filing away any burrs with a pad the size of a pinky nail and mixing up microscopic amounts of epoxy resin to disguise the mould lines, you could easily triple the time investment. Of course, the little alien soldiers and exotic tanks had all been formed from a species of sentient plastic, and they silently threatened Eulogy with tiny bayonets and harmless puffs of cotton-wool smoke from tank turrets. Back in his teens, Eulogy had discovered the hard way that you couldn't keep models from opposing armies on the same shelf without deactivating them first, or you'd come back to a total abattoir. Since that first mistake, Eulogy hadn't so much as chipped the varnish on a single star marine.

  At 1948 Hours, precisely one minute after The Frontier's mind noticed that September, Tuesday and Jimmy had left the ship in an impossible way, Eulogy had finally finished setting up his prized possessions and carefully closing the glass-panelled doors. Just as he was about to click the latch into place, however, three balls of half-frozen meat suddenly appeared from nowhere like speeding comets. As Tuesday, September and Jimmy had been going a fair lick through the zero-gravity of deep vacuum, this meant that when they re-entered their original timeline it was with enough force to shatter ceramics. Everything in Eulogy's room exploded into mahogany splinters and glass chips, and by the time his unannounced visitors had finished pinballing about not so much as a coffee cup remained in one piece.

  There was some good news: once The Frontier's mind detected that all three missing crew members had returned as inexplicably as they'd vanished, it assumed there was a minor system glitch, and disregarded their absence entirely.

  Bellowing in apoplectic rage once he’d recovered enough to speak, the Commander raised his left foot to kick Tuesday, Jimmy and September into even smaller pieces than his busted room. Just as he was about to start breaking ribs, Eulogy noticed the severe freezer burns painted over every exposed inch of their pasty skin. Being no stranger to most of the sick and unusual punishments mankind had created over the years, Eulogy immediately knew what had happened. Choking and three-quarters dead, the time-jockeys didn't need to say a single word of explanation.

  Spacing was one of the worst punishments of all, something that even the iron-fisted Unison military discouraged, as the true horrors of having your blood expand into red mist in your veins was something that could not be adequately conveyed with mere words. Though reasonably fast for an execution method (at least compared to The Death of a Thousand Pigeons), spacing was reserved for terrorists who didn't arrange the correct permits for their bombs, people who cheated on their taxes, or - due to an archaic loophole from The Unison’s first-and-last schizophrenic High Autocrat - painting chickens blue with the intent of passing them off as genuine Smurfs.

  The Unison did not like blue chickens.

  Eulogy piled the three semi-defrosted crew members on a hovering stretcher lined with antigrav wafers and set off for the hospital level at top speed.

  *

  Back in Eulogy's ruined cabin, something was moving on the bottom of Jimmy Slummer's discarded flip-flop: it was a tiny slither of blue-green fungus that had become wedged in the tread at some point. It was a struggle, but after a good minute of violent wriggling it finally managed to wrestle free. The fungus chunk flipped end-over-end like a leech, searching for the quickest way to return to its master: The Spread. It could detect him, sure, but there was something strange about his neural signature...

  After a solid week of flipping about in The Frontier's tight ventilation system, the fungus slither finally found what it was looking for. Dropping from a ceiling vent and landing right in the middle of a convenient mushroom risotto without a sound, the blue-green shroom was almost immediately scooped up by a silver fork and jammed right into the unknowing mouth of Commander Redmond Eulogy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE ASLAN REVELATIONS

  Tuesday managed to wake himself up with his own emphysemic gasping. Before he could automatically reach for his cigarettes, an unfamiliar voice startled him from a quarter-awake to almost half-awake.

  “How are we feeling, Mister Spasm?”

  And then it all came back: decking the Head of Space-Time, fabricating a time machine, and hopping about in two horrifying futures. And, to top it all off, getting spaced into a human popsicle. Hardly a standard Wednesday.

  Tuesday grumbled in discomfort, crunching away the sleep crusted in his eyes. Glaring at the tall blob who was standing at the foot of his bed, Tuesday immediately registered that he was in some sort of hospital room. Like all modern hospitals, it was totally white: the floors, walls, beds, ceilings and sheets were the colour of fresh cream. The talking blob gradually resolved to become a medical technician. All the white made Tuesday feel as though he was floating in a reality that was made of nothing but light. It was painful.

  Rolling to the side a little (which hurt like hell, by the way), Tuesday saw the considerable spherical girth of Jimmy Slummer flopped in the room's only other bed. Snoring like a golf ball being sucked up a vacuum cleaner and glued to his pillow by thick drool, Jimmy chewed at the wet padding without much luck. Tuesday glanced away from the sight.

  “Mister Spasm?”

  “Mmm. Yup.” Tuesday finally managed, remembering that was meant to be his name. He squinted in pain. “Why do my eyes hurt so much?”

  “They're brand new,” the medical tech said, as though it was nothing. “We fabricated them on the fourth-dimensional organic printer less than three hours ago. It'll be another day or so until the microsurgical incisions finish sealing themselves properly, and then they should be, as the saying goes, good as new.”

  Tuesday blinked, trying to process what he'd just been told.

  “Wait...did you just say that you cut out my eyes?”

  The tech shrugged. “Of course we did. Your old ones had been frozen solid and smashed into meat sorbet. They were totally ruined. However, we liquefied what was left in order to use them as a source of compatible protein for your new eyes, so, in a way, you still have them.” The tech glanced up with an expression of hesitation. “Actually, while we're on the subject, you may be interested to know that your eyes weren't the only thing that we needed to replace. Your rebuild was...well, it was substantial.”

  Tuesday narrowed “his” eyes.

  “Substantial? How substantial?”

  Finally taking the hint, Tuesday slowly pulled up the neck of his hospital gown to see that his chest and abdomen was one big maze of thin red lines. A heap of tiny wireless medical scanners had been glued to his body hair, and they were blinking and beeping quietly. Touching one of the surgical lines, Tuesday pulled his hand away in pain and glared at the tech.

  “Like I just said, Mister Spasm, there really wasn't all that much left for us to work with...”

  “Why do people keep cutting me open all the time?” Tuesday raged. “Every five minutes some slice-mad bugger gets the scalpels out!”

  “You were in deep space for the better part of a minute. It's a miracle you didn’t pop like a virgin at a Scumbags concert,” the tech said harshly, tapping away at a lightscreen.

  Tuesday could feel that s
omething was weird with his feet. Kicking at his starched bedsheets, Tuesday looked further under the blanket.

  “Wait, why are my feet taped into plastic bags?”

  The tech kept rudely mucking about with his lightscreen.

  “They were officially classed an Omega Level contamination risk. As our standardised scanners didn't recognise your particular species of moss, we called in our most gifted podiatrist to take a look. He's one of the best in the entire Unison.”

  “And?” Tuesday prompted.

  “Well, last thing I heard he's still on suicide watch, but his self-inflicted wounds weren't all that serious.” The tech finally looked up from his lightscreen. “Now, I'm afraid I have some bad news. See, your organic rebuild was worth the better part of twenty-four years of surgical insurance...”

  “I have surgical insurance?”

  “Ah, now, see, here's the tricky part,” the tech said in an apologetic way. “Problem is, you don't actually have insurance of any real kind. As a crew member of zero operational value, your level of medical cover only provides a bag of sugar-free cough lollies, a packet of Flintstones band-aids and one raspberry chapstick a month. Turns out we didn't know this until we'd already renovated your entire circulatory system from temple to toes. It's put us in quite a tricky situation, and I'm not sure how to...”

  “Can you just spit it out?” Tuesday growled.

  “Okay, fine. Long story short, in order to reclaim what you owe us we'll be garnishing your salary by ninety-eight percent for the rest of your natural life. As your meals and lodging are automatically provided as a part of your income, you'll still be able to stay on the right side of starvation. Unless you live to a hundred and sixty, we'll also need to wire up your embalmed corpse and use it as a robo-janitor until it liquefies.” The tech finished tapping at his lightscreen and gave Tuesday a big, fake smile. “Well, have a great day! I'd tell you to buzz the orderly if you need anything, but...well...don't.”

  Just as the tech left the room Jimmy woke up with a revolting snorting sound and looked blearily at Tuesday. Disconnecting from his saliva-soaked pillow with a wet noise, Jimmy sat up and squinted.

  “Spasm? We still alive?”

  “I guess,” Tuesday said, sighing. “I wouldn’t honestly call it living, though.”

  Snorting and gurgling, Jimmy fell back asleep.

  Tuesday patted about for his cigarettes without luck. His orange coveralls – or at least what was left of them – had been stashed in a box under the bed. Checking the pockets, Tuesday discovered with glee that his pouch of home-grown tobacco, a packet of rolling papers and his Dad’s trusty Zippo seemed to have been mysteriously overlooked. It was like Tuesday had a guardian angel somewhere...

  Tuesday was only halfway through his second breakfast durrie when two looming orderlies muscled into the room and stood at the foot of his bed. From the size of their arms and the hostility in their expressions, it was pretty clear that these were the orderlies who got called when there was trouble. It was far from reassuring.

  “Come with us.” The burlier orderly waved away Tuesday’s argument (and his cigarette smoke) before he could voice it. “I don't care. You're due at an official inquiry in five minutes. We need to escort you there.”

  “But I need to-” Tuesday stuttered to a halt. “I need to-”

  “What? You need to do what?” the smaller orderly prompted.

  “I need to www...I need to wwwww...”

  “What, what?”

  “Work! I need to work!” Tuesday exploded.

  Feeling as dirty as a twice-used band-aid for telling what may have been the biggest lie of his life, Tuesday's heart sank when he realised that it obviously hadn't helped his situation. The smaller orderly – who seemed to be playing the voice of reason – leaned in closer to give some quiet advice.

  “Look, mate, I should probably keep this hush, but there are Unison soldiers armed with riot gear in the corridor, and they’ve been instructed that you need to get to this inquiry right now. If you don't choose to go with us, which is the easy way, then they'll take you the hard way.” The orderly gently shook his head. “I've seen the hard way. I still haven't got all the stains out of my other uniform.”

  “Slummer, also,” the bigger orderly rumbled. “They want him, too.”

  Tuesday smiled. Well, at least he wasn't going down alone.

  *

  Any idiot could guess that it would only be a short span of time until big, dangerous questions were asked, such as how September and the others had managed to materialise in the Commander's bedroom as though they'd been beamed up by Scotty. As soon as the Head of Space-Tie had woken up, the puzzle had instantly became a legal concern for obvious reasons.

  Dressed in beige hospital gowns, Tuesday and Jimmy were marched down a series of corridors by the two orderlies. Gasping and panting, Tuesday did his best not to swear as the thin red lines all over his body stretched and stung with every step. The fact that his discomfort didn't seem to be an issue was not a reassuring sign. Finally, just as it felt like his body was going to open up in a dozen places, Tuesday was hustled through a large, ornate golden door. As no stranger to courtrooms, Tuesday knew a legal building when he saw it.

  Almost jogging down an aisle between rows and rows of uncomfortable wooden pews, Tuesday cursed as he saw that the courtroom's gallery was filled with a hundred crew members. Geniuses in purple, white, black and navy blue uniforms turned to glare at Jimmy and Tuesday, whispering harshly at each other. So much for keeping things quiet. Directly ahead, was worse news: there was a raised golden dais made up of dozens of metallic eagles with their wings touching at the tips, and it contained no fewer than twenty-five of the highest ranked men and women aboard The Frontier. At a glance, the panel was split right down the middle with the Heads of every science department and an equal number of Commanders (including a snarling Redmond Eulogy) from The Unison's complex military structure. In the very middle of the panel sat Fleet Admiral Aslan, his bony old body perched atop a grandiose throne. Panning his eyes to the left, Tuesday's heart sank as he saw the Head of Space-Time – still nursing a puffy black eye and a split lip – was baring his teeth in threat.

  Getting closer, Tuesday could see that there were two domes in front of each panel member: a red one and a green one. Like the other twenty-four members of the panel, Aslan also had a red dome and a green dome in front of his hands. As Tuesday was nudged into a defendant box in the front row of the court (which automatically locked him in place like a rollercoaster cage), Aslan gave him a disappointed look. Tuesday was used to being looked at like that and didn't think much of it.

  Turning to the side, Tuesday finally registered that September was already in the defendant box. She seemed to be pointedly ignoring his presence. Before Tuesday could say a word, the large doors boomed shut and the Fleet Admiral started to speak into a tiny microphone bud. Everyone else was silent as the excellent acoustics of the courtroom carried his voice to all corners.

  “I'll get right to it. We are here today because it is believed that James Slummer, Jack Spasm and September have committed no fewer than a dozen serious crimes in a single shift. After inspecting a lot of damning evidence from the minds of three high-ranking crew members – inlcuding Commander Eulogy, the Head of Space-Time and September herself – the guilt of the defendants is certain. Their offences range from the damage of irreplaceable property to physical assault on superior officers to creating a machine that was used for no fewer than four willing violations of the space-time continuum.”

  There was some murmuring at this last charge. Tuesday glanced around to see that he was getting some really weird looks from the gallery. Aslan continued as though the court was still silent.

  “We also have an avalanche of physical evidence that serves to confirm and compound their utter guilt.” Aslan swept his hand towards an empty space between the panel of judges and the defendants. The carpet slid aside and a long marble table lifted up from beneath the
floor. The slab was sprawled with all kinds of junk, including Tuesday's neural gel implant. “As their guilt is beyond a doubt, this court has been convened simply to pass judgement. Before that, though, does anybody want to say anything?”

  Eulogy got to his feet, his face twisted in hatred. Stomping away from the panel of judges, he stormed up to the marble evidence table and gathered up a handful of splinters and tiny nails. He allowed the junk to run through his fingers like sand.

  “You know that desk you reduced to to termite turds? I loved that desk. My grandfather carved it from the very last mahogany tree on Earth with nothing but his own two hands and a plasma blade. And my chair? I stole it from my most hated teacher as a prank after graduation...just before I kneecapped him with a crowbar.” Eulogy's face was so full of sadistic glee that it was almost inhuman. “If you're not sentenced to death today, I will kill all of you, do you understand? You are dead. Dead! It may take me some time to figure out how to get away with it, but know this...”