by Erick Drake
The Doomsday Machine
Space Scrap 17 Book One
Erick Drake
Sands Creative (FTG) Publications
Space Scrap 17: The Doomsday Machine Copyright © 2021 by Erick Drake.
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-8383145-0-7
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The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, because the author is an independent creator and frankly needs all the help he can get.
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Published by Sands Creative (FTG) Publications
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All enquiries to: [email protected]
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Cover Design by James at GoOnWrite.com
This book is intended for mature readers only. That is to say, mature readers with an immature sense of humour.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Visit my website at https://www.erickdrake.com
For Samantha
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Several billion years ago, two stars shone brightly in the darkness of space. And they loved each other and they wanted to be together and they were sad because they were not. So they made a pact. They shrank themselves down and down and down until physics screamed and then they burst across space in huge, fiery, cosmic explosions. And then, a few billion years later, as they had agreed, their stardust rained down upon a small, blue speck of a planet and they reshaped and reformed themselves until, at last, after around four and a half billion more years, we got married.
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Totally worth the wait.
For Fred, Lily, Norman, Catherine & Sheryl Robinson
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I am legally obliged to send a copy of this book to the British Library. Which means it will reside there as an official record forever. I’m sorry it’s not much but it’s as close as I can get to making you immortal.
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Miss you all.
Contents
1. Prelude
2. Your assignment, Captain Daryl
3. Relationship horror standoff
4. Nice tits, Ambassador
5. Walkage
6. Bad hair day
7. Tongue lashing
8. Off we pop
9. Flaps
10. Upload
11. We have engaged the turd
12. The Doomsday Weapon
13. The fall of the LASS Square Jaw
14. Bugger
15. In two minds?
16. Best overalls everyone
17. The herald cometh-eth
18. God Inc
19. Red paint sales convention
20. Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Erick Drake
1 Prelude
The universe is made up of three layers of space: Hyperspace, ordinary space-time space, and the lesser known but very much feared Hypospace.
The gas clouds of Explicon VII have a word for it – "Tumarysa", meaning 'downward-pointing void'. The ancient Tregarisans, former inhabitants of a mysteriously empty Dyson sphere, called it "Smense", meaning 'vast unknowable vertigo'. The Klak of the binary star system Vorlax call it "Aaaiiiieeeeeee!" meaning 'Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!'.
Hypospace is the last home for all the sorts of matter that space and hyperspace either do not want or cannot tolerate. It is composed not so much of strange matter as distinctly odd and not particularly pleasant matter. Detritus and decomposing matter drift down from the higher realms to litter Hypospace, like the floor of a deep ocean beyond the reach of any sunlight. And like a deep ocean, some really weird things inhabit Hypospace, things that make Angler fish look cute and cuddly by comparison.
The twisted denizens of Hypospace are impossibly dangerous. Vast, powerful freaks of nature, they go about their business without the slightest regard to the consequences of their actions on the lives of those who inhabit the higher realms.
Think of it this way: Imagine that the pieces of a board game are sentient. The players play the game oblivious to the pain and suffering they cause, while the pieces are in turn helpless to resist the machinations of the players. The pieces cannot comprehend the players and the players care nothing for the pieces.
And now the denizens of Hypospace gathered once more, ready to begin their games again.
Two shapes coalesced from the exotic, rejected particles that make up that godsforsaken place. One, a boulder of gigantic proportions, the other a fantastically long and slightly curled filament the width of a human hair. They came together so that Boulder rested, fully supported, upon Filament.
"Greetings denizen," said Boulder, "We meet again."
"We literally just had breakfast," said Filament, bending and straightening slightly.
"The breakfast of gods!" boomed Boulder.
"And there are only two of us in existence."
Boulder paused for a moment as it considered this. "The existence of gods!" Boulder said eventually, more for something to say than anything else.
"Do you like crumpets?"
"What?"
"Small bready things. They eat them up there in middle space. They toast them and smear them with butter. Very nice so I hear."
"We already dine on matters exotic and decadent, what care I for moist crumpet?"
"It's something different. A change. Expansion of experience. We crouch down here in Hypospace, go dormant for millennia and then wake up to play these stupid games."
"The games of gods!"
"Ahhhh" was the only thing Filament could think to say.
"And only one of us shall rule!" continued Boulder.
"Rule what?"
"The other. And then we play again."
Filament pondered for a moment. "Shouldn't we just fuck and get it over with?"
"Only one of us," Boulder paused in its proclamation having just realised what Filament had suggested. It decided ignoring the comment was the least weird response. "Only one of us can be Galacticon Maximus."
"Yes but . . . why?"
"One of us shall be ruler of the three spaces that form the universe. If I win, I shall rule a universe of war, tyranny and sorrow. If you win, you shall rule a universe of peace, tiramisu and soy."
"Why?"
Boulder regarded Filament for a moment. "Is something bothering you?"
"When I coalesced," Filament paused here for a moment, wondering if the word 'coalesced' was the right one or if there was one that didn't sound quite so disgusting. It couldn't think of any and so continued. "When I coalesced, something didn't feel right. Something had . . . changed."
"Changed? You blaspheme!"
"I know, right? This is what we do. We play our games, set the path for the higher spaces and then we go dormant for a millennium or six and let it all play out. Then we coalesce and do it all again. But this time I woke and there was a question uppermost on my mind. 'Why?'"
"I don't know, why?"
"No, 'why?' was the question. Why I was asking ‘why’ I don't know."
"You don't know why why?"
"What?"
"Look, I know what you mean, I feel the same way. For example, I am wondering 'why' you have to be a pain and 'why' you have to overthink everything an
d 'why' you have to be so bloody awkward all the time. 'Oh no, war is bad, let's all co-operate' as if survival of the fittest is the same as survival by mutual co-operation! Hah!"
Filament stretched again, irritated. "Again with the war thing." It was always the same.
"War of the -"
"Why must we play these games?"
Boulder went quiet for a moment. "Yes," it said eventually. "I know what you are thinking."
"Then you agree with me?"
"Actually, I have no idea what you are thinking."
"All I'm saying is," said Filament, not sure how to make its point any clearer, "What's the point? Why don't we just . . . not play the games?" Filament let that one hang there.
"And do what instead?"
Filament pondered for a few hundred years. "No, fair enough," it said, "I got nothing."
"Then let the games begin!" roared Boulder, pleased to be able to get on with things once more. Filament was always annoying first thing. "Have you chosen your pawns?"
"Yes," pronounced Filament. It revealed them to Boulder.
Boulder regarded them. "Oh come on," it said eventually, "Look, if you're not even going to try . . ."
"I have chosen."
Boulder spun a bit on the end of Filament before deciding that that wasn't very pleasant and it should stop. "Very well. Have it your way. I suspect this will be over quickly."
"You first," said Filament.
Boulder made its first move.
The games began once more.
2 Your assignment, Captain Daryl
A dramatic voice announced, "This is Galactic News [INSERT NUMBER OF HOURS IN YOUR LOCAL DAY CYCLE]". Impressive newsy graphics flowed across the screen accompanied by urgent, newsy music and text confirming to any viewers who remained in doubt that this was indeed Galactic News.
A female newsbot addressed the camera. "In a dramatic twist today, surprise conviction candidate Leroy Cakes has won the nomination to run for Aspirational Concept 36 after Aspirational Concept 35, Razor Knuckleface, announced the date of the next cage fight. The winner of the fight shall be declared God and decree authorised dogma for the Galaxy for the next decade. If Aspirational Concept 35 wins again, his doctrines will continue to dominate all religious thought as holy writ for all species in the Galaxy, for those who like that sort of thing. Male newsbot, how do you rate Leroy Cakes's chances to defeat Razor Knuckleface? "
"Well female newsbot, it would be a tough call. As Aspirational Concept 35, Razor Knuckleface has been in the cage fifty-four times, winning twenty-two by knockout, fifteen by technical knockout, five by kidnap and intimidation and twelve by continuously stomping on his opponent's head for six days after they died."
"And for those of us who don't follow religion male newsbot, what exactly is a 'technical knockout'?"
"It's the same as a knockout but a technical knockout is achieved by battering your opponent to death with a computer welded to a paving slab."
"I guess that's what you might call a 'runtime error', ha ha."
"Ha ha, no, why . . . why would you say that?"
"Ha ha, thanks male newsbot. Well, on receiving the news that he has a new challenger, Razor Knuckleface said ‘Grrrr, kill, foam, lick spittle’. Controversial? Perhaps. Nonsensical? Certainly. But what do you think? We sent our 'asking people in the street' correspondent Cherry Pickings out to find out. Cherry?"
The camera cut to a highly coiffured woman on a busy street. Her smile occurred exactly 3.5 seconds after the camera went live.
"Thanks female newsbot. I'm standing here on Ordinary Street assaulting passersby until they give me what I want. You!" A group of five men wearing 'Press Gang' lanyards leapt forward and grabbed a woman as she walked past. She screamed and tackled one of the press-gang with brutally efficient martial arts techniques, hitting various nerve clusters in the precise sequence necessary to make the victim explode. Which he now did. Unfortunate as this was for the victim, it provided enough time for the others to cast a news net over the unsuspecting woman and drag her before the journalist.
The press-gang held the woman still while one of them read her lack of rights to her. "You have been arrested for being an ordinary person under suspicion of having an opinion. You do have to say something and anything you don't say will be made up and a pack of lies used against you to influence the thoughts and opinions, such as they are, of our viewers. You have the right to make a formal complaint to the Naughty News Ombudsman about any harm that comes to you as a result of this. However, you should be aware that the chairperson of the Ombudsman, our glorious proprietor, will find himself not giving a crap about the effects of his greed upon you or your loved ones and will find you guilty of crimes against free speech, the free speech in question being his and his alone. The press will manipulate and misrepresent anything you do say and you will be held to account by a court of your peers who will tut and shake their heads and even though they know none of this is true, they will suck it up and perpetuate it because people are wankers. Do you understand?"
"Let me go. I've got appointments!" screamed the woman.
Cherry ignored the woman's cries. "Woman in the street, what do you think?"
"I think I'm going to thump you if you don't sod off!"
"Ha ha that's great. But what of the declaration earlier today by Aspirational Concept 35 that said, and I quote, 'Grrrr, kill, foam, lick spittle, Galactic News media proprietor Rupert Smallpenis is great'?"
"You made up that last bit!" shouted the woman.
Cherry Pickings nodded once at an underling who promptly injected the woman with a syringe of Karen 45, a neural disruptor designed to eradicate brain cells and replace them with a massively unwarranted sense of conviction and righteous indignation.
The woman continued struggling for a moment. Then her face cleared. "Well, I think Concept 35 has a point when he says 'Grrrr'. I mean that's exactly what I see in the street every day. Probably. And it's outrageous. I expect."
"And what of his views on lick spittle?"
"You can't argue with that. I mean literally. It doesn't make any sense so how can you argue with it?"
"But this Aspirational Concept has gone on record in the past as saying he hates the ordinary woman on the street. Especially and most specifically you. He mentions you by name."
"See, he's saying what's on his mind, he's not saying what all these other divinities are saying."
"And do you think he has been forced to take this stance because of the 'not like us de jour'?"
"Oh them! The ones who are not like me? Oooh, they really make me angry! They come over here from . . . over there and refuse to be like me in whatever ways you journalists go to great lengths to tell me they aren't. Bastards. And who pays for it? Eh? Eh?"
"And what about the new tax Tax, ensuring the super poor are taxed on the tax they have to pay? "
"Well, it's only right, isn't it? I mean if your proprietor pays less tax than me even though I earn a fraction of his income, well it's only right that I should pay more tax to pay for the collection of my taxes. That's how democracy works, isn't it? Not like them people who are different from me in some way, oh no!"
"Well, that's great, thanks ordinary woman in the street." Cherry gave another nod, and the press-gang dragged the now deranged woman into an ally and shot her.
Cherry looked solemnly into the camera. "Back to the studio."
Female newsbot stitched a programmed grimace on her face and addressed the camera. "And in other news today other things happened. We go over to our 'other stuff' correspondent, Kimberly Gums. Kimberly?"
Admiral John Nero Daryl switched off the newscast with a dismissive stab of his hand. Razor Knuckleface, Leroy Cakes . . . what did it matter who was Aspirational Concept - they were all in it for themselves. As was, the Admiral reflected, he.
Admiral Daryl liked to think of himself as a self-made man, and most people thought it was very generous of him to take the blame. He had staggered from one busine
ss venture to another, always starting in a blaze of enthusiasm and always ending in financial ruin and shattered dreams.
It was while wallowing in the detritus of one these failures that John Daryl concluded that life was rubbish, the universe was rubbish, and he was rubbish. Like King Midas, everything he touched turned to something completely unusable and destructive. Everything John Daryl touched turned to garbage.
It was at this point in his despair that these two thoughts bumped into each other, looked surprised and muttered apologies before continuing on their separate ways.
And so they would have continued had the Admiral not been wearing his newest smart wig. The MickBook Hair was, according to the advertisements, the latest in hirsute haute couture. A combination, so the ad ran, of head top computer and flowing locks: “Our wigs can be reconfigured into any one of thousands of hair styles and colours and lengths. Standing in a strong wind? Why not adopt long flowing locks? Our latest model comes with slo-mo hair and golden backlighting add-ins - no more waiting for high winds at sunset to get that dramatic, sexy awesome hair look! With a neural interface directly feeding the brain with library information, languages and mathematical skills, you really can get control of your life . . . and your hair! Fulsome hair, light as air”.
“You are right”, said the Admiral’s smart wig, “the universe IS full of garbage. Rubbish. Off casts. Detritus. It always has been, always will be. Wherever there is life, there is unused home gym equipment”.
