The Legend of Dan

by Robert Wingfield

  Five minutes later, Janet Ward Stores Universal (Antares) went out of business as the Personnel, Purchasing, Supply and Finance systems shut down. The off-site data store then burned to the ground, as a G.o.D.-connected toaster failed to receive a signal to shut down, after overheating its contents.

  Kara’s cylinder vanished into thought-space, moments before a lynch-mob of ex JWSU employees arrived at Bluben’s office, having tracked his terminal as the undisputable source of the problem.

  A Bit of Legwork

  The Magus disrupts normal operations.

  Nuns are vexed.

  A

  t the observation port in the brig of a military spacecraft, the Magus watched his planet disappear into the blackness of space. He refused all attentions of the guards, who seemed to have been briefed to treat him politely, and made himself fall into a deep sleep.

  He awoke a considerable time later, and realised the engines had stopped. The captain of the ship stood at a discrete distance, and when he saw his prisoner was awake, cleared his throat. “I am notified by the Controller that he would wish to have converse with you... at your own convenience, of course.”

  “I suppose I haven’t any other pressing engagements at the moment.” The Magus shrugged, making a show of checking his timepiece, a ‘Mickey Mouse Analogue Galactic Positioning System Chronometer’, signed by Mickey himself. The captain waited patiently for a while, and then cleared his throat.

  “The controller doesn’t appreciate being delayed.”

  “Doesn’t he? And do I care?”

  “When he has to wait, he amuses himself by executing small furry animals. How many corpses do you require on your conscience?”

  The Magus stood up. “Lead on.”

  He followed the captain along a companionway, towards the front of the ship. Two troopers clicked smartly out of the shadows behind them, to follow at a precise distance, not close enough to signify house arrest, yet not too far away to be a guard of honour. The Magus noted their presence, and was directed out of the transport and on to the docking bay. They passed through an atmosphere lock, and then down seemingly endless metal corridors. Eventually, at an ornate, studded door, the captain knocked, and ushered his charge into a large office with medals and pictures of spacecraft adorning the walls. He bowed to a long, boat-shaped creature, lounging at the side of an expensive desk. A high-backed chair was turned to face a window looking out into the blackness of space. From this vista, the Magus assumed they were on the aforementioned space station.

  “Floran Prime, will look after you, now,” he said uneasily. “Please make yourself comfortable. He backed out of the room, not taking his eyes off the creature. The Magus flopped into a chair in front of the desk. The floran drew itself up and made a menacing noise at him, like thin plastic sheets rubbing together.

  The Magus was unruffled, and stared levelly at it. “I’m awfully sorry to disappoint you, old chap,” he said, “but I don’t speak a word of ‘Floran’ without the aid of my organic processor, and your goons have already taken that away.” He folded his arms, leaned back in his seat, and gazed nonchalantly at the ceiling.

  “Then, let me translate for you.” The Magus had assumed the chair to be empty. He was wrong. It vibrated, as chill tones sent a shiver down one of his spines. The voice continued. “Floran Prime wants to know if you will give us the manufacturing details of your ‘Organic’, or if as an alternative, you would like to have your limbs lopped off.”

  “I don’t think I can be of any assistance,” said the Magus, after a short consideration, “and I don’t respond favourably to threats. You obviously haven’t worked out how to do it yourself, so lopping off my extremities won’t help... if you want me to cooperate with good grace, that is.”

  “I hoped you might see reason, but I’m sure we do not need to resort to violence,” said the voice in a more conciliatory manner. “Perhaps I should explain further,” and then in the floran’s direction, he made a guttural sound in his throat.”

  The floran answered with a sound like fibreglass cracking.

  “No you can't. Perhaps later,” said the voice in the chair.

  The floran glided into a corner. It seemed disappointed.

  “So who are you then?” said the Magus. “Be so good as to show yourself. I’d rather not talk to the back of a seat.”

  “Fair enough, if that’s what you want. Most people are unnerved by me. Are you ready?”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Now don’t scream; I’ve been having a bit of trouble shaving this morning.”

  “I can handle blood... as long as it isn’t my own.”

  Slowly and dramatically the seat swivelled towards him. Despite being prepared, the Magus let out a gasp when he saw what was in it.

  Before him, sat a smartly-dressed humanoid, its quadruple-breasted suit was a relaxed, retiring grey, its bowler hat was perhaps a little too spherical to be absolutely convincing, and the lines of the cunningly disguised, umbrella neutron shield it leaned on, as it gazed levelly at him, were possibly spoilt by the quantity of lead lining. However despite all, it was the man’s face that shocked the Magus the most. It was rather difficult to describe it, owing to a total lack of features.

  “I see.” The Magus composed himself. “That really must have been a bad trim.”

  “Yes, I did warn you about my appearance, but to business. We would like your help. I’m sure we can provide adequate reward if you would tell us the secret of how you created your organic processor.”

  “We? Who are ‘we’?”

  Lack-of-Features leaned back in his chair, a little further than looked comfortable. “I suppose it doesn’t matter that you find out, at this stage. We have been secretly expanding our influence, and now run most of the galaxy, through a network of businesses, governments, information stores, armies, search engines, space fleets, the European Union, and burger bars...”

  “Burger bars?”

  “Yes, a very powerful subjugation tool. Once we get a burger bar on to a planet, people have cheap food, get hugely fat and lethargic, and can’t be bothered to resist anymore. It’s called ‘civilisation’.”

  “I’m sure it is. So you run the galaxy by infiltrating all the main institutions... exactly like the corruption of organised crime?”

  “Of course not.” The voice sounded shocked. “Think of it as an optimum style of government. You may not have heard of our organisation,” he continued, “but take my word on it that we are in control.”

  “Oh, OrcommNE.” The Magus said the first word that came to mind.

  “How do you know that?” The Lack-of-Features lack of features expressed extreme surprise.

  “The name was an answer to a cryptic crossword clue on the side of a packet of breakfast cereal I got delivered through the post... in error I hasten to mention; I actually ordered a set of steak knives. The clue was One hundred men on the moor seeking the man in the street…”

  A frown seemed to emanate from the lack of features in the chair. “Are you sure that was the right answer?”

  “It fitted, after I changed some of the other answers.”

  “An unusual coincidence, but you are right: OrcommNE.” Lack-of-Features spoke the name in a hushed voice.

  “Or... what?”

  “Or... we will have a really difficult time controlling the galaxy if you don’t help us. There are pockets of resistance and pouches of capacitance popping all over. It has become the done thing to form rebel alliances here there and everywhere. I blame the film industry, before we managed to take that over, and replace it with 24-hour adverts for coffee, perfume, gambling, bed sales, and sad-looking foreign people.”

  “I’ve seen those. I was going to order a dozen, while the sales were on. It’s still not under control, then?”

  “Unfortunately there are still pirate copies of the propaganda films still circulating on the ‘Shady Grid’.”

  “The undergr
ound network. I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been able to find the right shovel.”

  “Be that as it may, I can offer you job satisfaction, money, status, free coffee, a score of at least 4 on your next appraisal, and all the girls you can bribe.”

  “I’m not really interested.” The Magus paused, trying to gauge the reaction on the lack of features in front of him. There was no reaction. “On the other hand, do you have a pension scheme? How many days holiday can I expect? And... what about an office of my own?”

  “We want you to work with our scientists,” Lack-of-Features continued, leaving the Magus’ all-important questions unanswered, “to build advanced organic computers and integrate them into our network.”

  The Magus felt his blood-pressure rising. “Scientists? What scientists? I had heard whispers that the big corporations were using quadrillipods to do that sort of work.”

  “You heard correctly,” said the Lack-of-Features from behind his hand.

  “Oh no!” The Magus gripped the arms of his chair. “Organisms with more than a hundred legs really freak me out! I really can't go near them without screaming. Ninety-eight is fine. Do you have any centrillipods instead? I could work with them.”

  “I’m afraid not. They are all working as doctors in the AUS...”

  “AUS?”

  “Alternative UniverSe. In that reality, they can claim overtime allowances, are actually appreciated by their patients and management, and have special permission use that inflection at the end of each sentence, which makes it sound like a question. Here, we have to tolerate bipeds whose sole qualification is that they have seen an ambulance, and therefore automatically get a degree from the University of Gondwanaland. Some of them can even speak English.”

  “I’ll remember not to get sick. Now about those scientists?”

  “We are contracted to use quadrillipods, but we could lop a few legs off those we get to work with you, if it would help… I’m sure they are prepared to make sacrifices to have you on board.”

  “A position on the Board? Perhaps I might be interested.”

  “It was a figure of speech.” The Lack-of-Features shook his head.

  “So no position on the Board?”

  “Only one of acute embarrassment, if you can’t get the process documented.”

  “Then, I’m really sorry. Even with all those considerations, I’ll still be having nightmares about those missing quadrillipod legs. Don’t you have any normal scientists I could work with? I am actually quite interested in the ‘girls’ part of the bargain, so I could be swayed. If you can find some bespectacled lovelies pretending to be dentists, in short white coats, to work with me...”

  “Alas, it is not possible. Union regulations preclude creatures without exoskeletons, for health and safety reasons, you understand. It saves a fortune on reinforced boots. Chitin rules.”

  The floran clicked its lid, approvingly.

  “Floran says we could make an exception, seeing as you have special skills. The fake dentists could wear iron outfits...”

  “Not really what I was looking for, and alas I don’t have an exoskeleton. You know I would grow one, if I could. You may have to find somebody else who has invented a unique organic ale-based processing device, to work with you.”

  “Is that your final reply to my proposition?” The Lack-of-Features fiddled with the brim of his bowler. “Now think very carefully before you answer this one.”

  The Magus did not hesitate. “Yes it is. Everything else: the girls, the pension, the executive washrooms, the seat on the Board, but not quadrillipods. Sorry, and all that, but I'm not your man.”

  There was no reply.

  “Good, I'm glad we got that cleared up. Now I would be grateful if you could take me home, and get your soldiers to clear up the mess they’ve made of my planet. You can leave the female ones to help me, if you like.”

  “Our planet actually.” The Lack-of-Features sighed and sat upright. “You will work with us. I had hoped you would see reason, and would save us the bother of all the messy torture business. So be it...” He shrugged and rustled some thin pieces of plastic on his desk. The floran shuffled back out of the corner, and a crane-like appendage emerged from inside. Before he could dodge, the Magus was held in a rather greasy grip. “You can cool off and think about it for a while,” said the Lack-of-Features, “and then I will get the quadrillipods to show you over our new ‘persuasion’ chamber.” He clicked his fingers and two humanoid guards appeared. “Let him rest in the cells for a few days without food or water.”

  “You said I was to be treated kindly, as a visiting genius.”

  “Until you share your knowledge, we don’t know you are a genius,” replied the man, “so until then, you will be treated as an annoying little braggart, and enjoy the hospitality of one of our economy detention units.”

  The Magus was dragged, screaming abuse and outrage, to a featureless cell deep within the complex. After the soldiers had deposited him gently on a comfortable bunk, the metallic door hissed closed. The prisoner was left alone with nothing, but his fear of meeting the quadrillipods, and progressive-rock background ‘muzak’.

  A long time passed. The Magus' requests for caviar and Pepsastim were ignored, owing to the fact nobody visited, or was even listening to his shouts for attention, or maybe it was the call button that was disconnected. The Magus never found out. He appeared to have been forgotten. He fell asleep again to conserve energy—he had practised surviving a very long time in that state, particularly after a heavy drinking session. They could wake him if they wanted to feed him, but otherwise, he could endure his incarceration without getting too bored.

  * * *

  The Magus awoke in a cold sweat. He had no idea how much time had passed. He had dreamed, which was strange, because his trances were usually dreamless, that he was surrounded by quadrillipods, all connecting probes to his private parts. To his horror, when he opened his eyes, he found himself face to face with one of the said creatures. He briefly noted it was clad in the white over-garment sporting a blue, rose pattern of a galactic scientist, first class. Before he could scream, the look of surprise on the quadrillipod’s frontal lobes vanished, along with the rest of the creature.

  The Magus sat up, looked around and realised he was still alone in his cell. “Was it real?” he wondered. “Where did it go? How long have I been out?” All queries failed to be answered, including the last, especially when he looked at his chronometer. It had gone. It was however known across the galaxy that quadrillipods are fascinated by, and fanatically collect limb-mounted timepieces. One of them must certainly have visited his cell.

  The Magus let his mind wander again, trying to locate his watch, and had a clear vision of the scientists’ rest room. Proudly standing in the centre was the very creature he had seen earlier—the Magus knew it was the same one, he recognised it by the legs—demonstrating the operation of the Magus’ watch to his colleagues, and proclaiming his enhanced status as the first fifty-watch quadrillipod in that region. Now the Magus knew that the third of his original questions could not be resolved because of the answers to the first two.

  A cold sweat ran down the Magus’ back as his vision took in the number of scientists at the base. There were hundreds. “I’ve got to get out of here!” he thought with desperation. He shut his eyes, trying to blank the vision, and then opened them wide in disbelief, as a cool breeze ruffled his hair. He was sitting in a long metallic corridor. He blinked hard, denying the situation, and he was back in his cell again. “What happened? I wonder if it could be Mental Unconscious Permanent Physical Ethereal Translocation!” He groped for another definition of the phenomenon. “Auto-telekinesis. I never knew I could do it by myself! No, I can't do it by myself. Ruddles must be back in operation.”

  He concentrated, using the techniques the ale had tried to teach him. Originally, he had always failed, but now the panic of having to spend time with quadrillipods seemed
to focus his mind. In an instant he was back in the long corridor. This time he stayed, and believed it. No alarms sounded, no lights flashed and no lethal laser bolts burned through his body, for which he was very grateful. The automatic restraint systems obviously could not register this mode of travel.

  He sneaked up the corridor, noting and avoiding the motion sensors and death-rays, past other featureless metal doors like that of his own cell. He was temporarily halted by a dividing gate but it was a simple matter to MUPPET through the bars, and with very little effort, he found himself standing on the other side, as his mind took his body apart and reassembled it.

  A massive lead-lined barrier protected the main egress from the prison complex. It was wide open. The Magus was suspicious. Could it be a trap? He concentrated on passing through into the atrium beyond, but various shrieks and psychic emanations from an interview room across the corridor confused him. The power bounced off nearby machines, and a cup of black coffee with two sugars and chicken soup dispensed from a hand cleansing unit in the interrogation room. This shock caused a sudden confession from the prisoner therein about why the BBC were still allowed to charge for a viewing licence, despite having been absorbed by The World Discount Sofa Organisation, many centuries before. As a result, the door security mechanism detected the reaction from the machine, checked the shift rota, decided there should be nobody washing their hands in soup at that very moment, and started to close. The Magus judged the distance to the rapidly diminishing space, put his head down and charged it. He skidded through the final gap and crashed into a statue of a man with no features. The portal clanged shut behind him.

  Alarm sirens sounded, as the door control reported a breakout. The Magus kept running, across a courtyard and into an observation dome, where he burst in on the ‘Sisters of the Wandering Order of Opulent Sharons8’ who were busy working on their star-tans. He shouted apologies, as they tried to cover their bodies, but he was away down a long metal staircase before they could demand he helped them with the mandatory loss of virginity required, if their ankles were ever seen by a man. He charged through a deserted reactor room and finally along another metal corridor into a laboratory, all the time unconsciously following a faint psychic cry for help that came from his organic.