by Erick Drake
The starship Space Scrap 17 was, like most starships of its class, a starship. But there the resemblance ended. It was a cobbled together miss-match of technologies and ill-fitting bulk heads. A 'cut and shut' job was an ignominious trick used by disreputable used car salesmen on old Earth and described a practice where two fatally damaged vehicles are welded together to look like a single, perfectly safe and legitimate transport. In the case of Space Scrap 17 a better description would be a 'cut, blow up, what does this bit do, never mind just stick it on, oh my god anyone stupid enough to try to fly this is going to die horribly, I mean caveat emptor doesn't really cover this does it, more like caveat horrendam mortam . . . and shut job'.
Assembled from the used spaceship lots of the planet Yerboots, Space Scrap 17’s construction consisted of 90% welding and 10% shrug. As such, it was the only affordable vessel the Space Scrap company could afford. The Admiral had taken advantage of a sales drive - buy one, get one free, by which the dealership meant, buy one fake certificate of flight worthiness, get something vaguely resembling a spaceship free.
Bargain.
Powered by exotic matter its main propulsion, the wormhole generator, enabled the ship to journey between star systems. Admittedly, the length of the wormhole and therefore the amount of ordinary space it was able to circumvent at any one time was on the point-and-laugh end of the spectrum. Most starships contemporary with Space Scrap 17 were capable of generating much, much longer wormholes. Its Ion drive only just about qualified as an engine, which meant the speeds at which it could traverse the wormholes it generated were best expressed in units of slow.
The main ship itself was a long, narrow affair with a bulbous front end containing the living quarters, bridge and various workaday areas. At the other end was a smaller bulbous section containing main engineering, wormhole generators and Ion drive. Attached to the narrow connecting section were thirty squat oblongs which constituted the cargo bays. These could be separated from the main hull for remote loading and possessed their own propulsion systems. One of these, the largest, cargo bay one, was currently separated from the main hull and being loaded with raw sewage by another transport, thus keeping the disagreeable and messy process away from the space station with which Space Scrap 17 was now docked.
She carried a rag-tag crew of twenty and held a small complement of Some Blokes, biological robots printed when required. The rudimentary brains of these worker bees had only enough autonomous mental capacity required for completion of tasks requiring basic motor skills. Blokes could be deployed to complete non-specialist tasks considered either too menial or too dangerous for humans. In theory, you could easily run a ship with just a Captain, an engineer and a crew of Blokes. The only limit on the number of Blokes you could have at any given time was the amount of pseudo-carbon blocks you could afford for the printer. In theory. However, there were minimum required crew sizes, depending upon the nature and purpose of the ship and without which you could not obtain a space worthiness certificate. So, much as the Admiral would have preferred to crew his ship exclusively with Some Blokes, he had to pay for a minimal crew complement to stay in business.
Considerations such as these would understandably be on the mind of any bright, ambitious new XO on approach to his new ship.
Michigan Jones was, however, neither bright nor ambitious.
Or rather, he was both.
When he could be bothered, he was very bright, his mind capable of absorbing many facts and of joining the dots between seemingly unconnected events to discern the true pattern of things. This skill annoyed him immensely. Because his ambition moved in one direction only – his desire to be left alone to consume vast quantities of whatever dubious substance happened to be within arm's reach.
He didn't want to think.
He didn't want to 'do' things.
He didn't want to achieve anything.
You came into the universe with nothing and you left with nothing.
Achievers, freeloaders, prize-winning scientists, entrepreneurs, hippies, criminals, filing clerks, everybody everywhere ultimately got the same reward for their efforts . . . or lack thereof.
The rewards of life, Jones considered, were Zilch.
Bugger all.
Nothing.
So, what was the point of making an effort when you get the same as the guy who works 24/7/365 (or whatever your local day / month / year cycle might be) building a vast business empire?
Jones did not believe in an afterlife, despite what the various Aspirational Concepts tried to sell.
The only logical conclusion then was hedonism – you are born, have as much fun as you possibly can, you die. Simple.
The fact that the only reason he reached this conclusion was because he had a clever analytical brain was a matter of irritation to him. It reminded him he was capable of reasoning and reducing complex concepts to simple, readily understandable ideas. Which meant he was clever and really ought to do something with it. But his overriding ambition was to have no ambition. An oxymoron, the quiet voice at the back of his mind would point out. Fuck off, the loud voice at the front of his mind would respond.
Jones was convinced that he had in fact been twins, himself lazy and unfocused, the other full of buzz and intelligence. He was also convinced that he had absorbed his twin in the womb because the bright, optimistic, action-oriented other had disturbed his sleep. Bearing in mind humans only get nine months in their entire life where they are encouraged to sleep continuously and where they remained beyond the reach of other people, Jones Major was not inclined to give up any of that precious time. So, he concluded, he had eaten his twin. In utero. He could find no other way to account for a personality so diametrically opposed to itself.
Jones turned to the pilot of the shuttle. "We should be there by now, why are you pissing about? I’m so bored I’m starting to mull. I hate mulling. Why are you making me mull?”
The pilot regarded him, with a puzzled look. "You want to go direct?"
"Yes, I want to go direct."
"We can go direct. You want to make love?"
Jones blinked. "OK, fine, yes that was direct. No, I want to go directly to . . . " He gestured vaguely at the view screen, "the thing, the floaty space thing."
"Oh."
"Interesting accent by the way. And you have," he gestured around his face and body, "Gills. Lots of gills. Is that normal where you come from?"
"I am from Shoal Home. We are descended from fish."
"Well so am I but if I have any gills they are at best vestigial. I mean what do they do? They don't have any function in an oxygen atmosphere. They're just . . . distracting."
"We are, how do you say, bisexual."
"OK?"
"Yes, we spend half our life cycle in water, half on land."
Jones gave her a flat look. "Amphibious. Not bisexual."
"Amphibious? Does that mean you have a strong desire to have sex whenever you see an ocean?"
"Ah. No. That would be . . . amphibi-sexual. Or strange. Or something. I suppose swimming baths are very popular on Shoal Home?"
"Ooh," she flashed him a smile that would have been flirty were it not for the gills competing with her mouth for facial real estate, "Dirty bitch."
"Are we there yet?" asked Jones, desperately trying to change the subject, "Why is this taking so long?"
"You are part of command staff for Space Scrap 17?"
"Yes. Executive Officer. Which I'm hoping means I get to tell people what to do and then they bugger off and leave me alone. What's that got to do with anything?"
"It's just that command staff usually like to take the long way around so they can get a good look at their new ship. Their eyes go all sort of glazed and they get this awestruck look on their face. Really weird. The beauty pass, they call it."
Jones peered at the view screen, "More like an ugly pass in this case.”
"You don't seem the command type."
"I'm not. I'm the sitting in a chair gettin
g drunk on a huge bottle of Big Papa's Big Papa Secretions and reading a book type."
"So why - ?"
"It was this or a hospital."
"You're a medic?"
"No, I owe a lot of money to some nasty people and if I don't pay them, I'll end up in hospital."
"Gangsters?"
"Booksellers and distilleries mainly. This gig was all I could get. And they have a very relaxed attitude about criminal records. The pay's not great but it's free rent and food and it’s healthier if I don’t stay in one place for too long."
The pilot pressed a few buttons and the sound of the engines fell away.
"What," said Jones, "what's going on, why have we stopped?"
"Holding pattern," said the pilot. "We have to wait fifteen minutes before we can dock with the ship."
"Great. Tremendous," muttered Jones.
"So. You want to make love?"
Jones's mouth dropped open as he regarded her face's gill clusters, which were now quivering slightly. "Yeah, fuck it, why not."
* * *
Second officer Steve Power waited nervously outside the shuttle bay. This was nothing unusual, he had a number of people smuggling things for him and would have to wait for them to come through disinfection and customs. Although the custom on this ship was not to look too closely at what people were bringing aboard. What was unusual was for Steve being nervous. Despite his ridiculously butch second name, his demeanour and standard state of excitement was more akin to what one would expect from a flatlining patient in a hospital.
But today was full of potential worries. A new Captain, a new XO, and a new science officer, all in one hit. Also, why the hell did they need a science officer? You could never tell what you were going to get with these command positions. Usually, pushy little bastards who start out wanting to make their mark only to come aboard and discover that there were way too many marks on this ship already, most of them of a distinctly unsavoury nature. They'd then file for transfer and sod off at the earliest opportunity. But in the meantime, they would have made life hell for new the crew, instigating all sorts of 'new procedures' and 'more efficient ways of working' and 'clean that up before it evolves'. Ugh.
Steve had his back to the shuttle bay door when it opened.
"Hello beautiful, XO Michigan Jones reporting for duty."
Steve smiled. Well, that was one new command officer he didn't have to worry about.
He turned, a broad smile on his face, which is where he liked to keep it. His smile dropped.
His old drinking buddy Michigan Jones stood before him, looking just as he remembered. Except . . .
"The slime. You’re slimy now. Is that a fashion thing or a disease or . . .”
Jones looked down at himself, "What, this, well it's, no, never mind."
Steve sniffed the air, "Can you smell fish?"
"Yeah, the shuttle pilot, she was from Shoal Home, amphibi-sexual, something. We . . . it’s complicated."
Steve collected his wits. "Right, well, welcome aboard Space Scrap 17!"
"Thanks. Where's my digs, I want a shower before I have to ingratiate myself to the Captain. Is he or she or it aboard yet?"
"She, human and no."
"Good, I hate meeting new people. Well, I hate meeting people. I hate people. Time-wasting bastards. Especially Captains. Especially, especially new Captains. They look at you like you're dirt!"
"Well, you are covered in fish slime. You might want to forgo the shower for a bit though. We've got a problem."
"Oh, flaps, not a problem! Don't bring me problems second officer, bring me alcohol and a delicious biscuit. Or a comfy pillow. Or a delicious pillow and a comfy biscuit. I don't mind. But bring me alcohol."
Steve was not surprised at Jones's reaction. He had long since gotten used to his friend’s outbursts of childish petulance at the first sign of anything that required effort. "Jeebuzz it's good to see you, old friend. It must be . . ."
"Must it?"
". . . five years?"
"Oh god yeah, that luxury cruise starship." Jones smiled at the memories. "You remember that stint we had in the kitchens?"
Steve laughed, "Yes. We had some laughs, didn't we?"
"We certainly did. All that food hygiene nonsense."
"Yes. And then all the crew got food poisoning."
"Yeah."
"And they all died."
". . . Yeah."
"And we had to steal a couple of the life pods before the cops arrived."
"Yeah. Who. . .whose idea was it to blow up the ship to hide the evidence?"
"No, we didn't do that on purpose. We didn't repressurise the ship-side air locks before we ejected. Explosive decompression."
"And they said those things were fool proof!”
“Yeah! We showed them!”
“Yes, yes we did . . . lucky we were still in dry-dock and the guests hadn’t boarded yet . . . so anyway, this problem. Not to do with air locks or anything?"
"Our cargo bays have been loading the raw sewage that we're supposed to transport to Yerboots. All of the bays, bar one, have redocked with us but the treatment tank in cargo bay three has a blockage. Someone needs to dive in and unblock it."
"You want me to dive into a tank of sewage?"
"Well, you’re the XO. What better way to get in with the new Captain? You come aboard, sort out a problem straight away?"
"No. Get Some Bloke to do it."
"None of the Blokes are waterproof."
"Well, you do it then."
"But that's not fair."
"Not fair, what do you mean not fair?"
"Well, I did a coin toss earlier and you lost."
"What? Liar? Which side was up?"
"Heads."
"Ah, damn it I would have chosen tails!"
"I know."
"Right. Bollocks. Come on then. I knew this was going to be a shit job."
* * *
Daisy entered the bridge. She had been on Space Scrap 17 for all of twenty minutes and so far, she had not been impressed.
First, there was no-one to greet her on arrival. Well, that was OK because she wanted to arrive incognito anyway - get a chance to see the ship and crew operating without realising who she was.
Second, she had followed the signs to the bridge only to find herself in the men's toilet. Someone aboard apparently had a sense of humour when it came to putting up directional signage.
Third, now that she had found the bridge, it was devoid of any personnel. Aside from one. A lone individual stood by one of the command stations. Garbed as it was in some sort of environment suit, she could not tell if this individual was human or alien. The environment suit itself resembled a collection of featureless, black triangles. There was a torso-sized inverted black triangle, upon which sat a smaller head-sized inverted black triangle. Where a neck, or some other connection between torso and head should be, there was just empty space. Huh. The arms and legs were long and thin and wrapped in what looked like bandages.
An understaffed bridge. So much for first impressions.
Daisy coughed politely. "Hello – where can I find the XO?"
The figure, who had been bent over a console, stood erect and faced her. "Dead," it said.
"Sorry what?"
"What?"
Daisy frowned and decided to try again. "The Executive Officer. Where is the Executive Officer?"
The figure inclined its head segment. "The crew?"
Oh great, Daisy thought, an alien who had not been fitted with language transcribers. "Do you understand Galactix?" she asked in that slow and slightly louder than usual way that people ask questions in their own language of people who don’t speak it.
"No, I was talking about comms. All channels are dead."
"So, where's the engineering maintenance team?"
"All dead."
"Oh my god."
"Ah, you must be the new Captain. Welcome aboard, I am Mic Vol your communications officer."
Dai
sy's jaw dropped. "Communications? You?"
"Apologies Captain, I was temporally distracted."
Jeebuzz. "The word, communications officer, is 'temporarily'."
"No, temporally. I was having a discussion with you in the future. This can happen if I do not concentrate."
"Sorry, what?"
"I do not originate from this dimension. My species perceive time in both a segmented and sequential fashion. Or rather we do in our own dimension, where it makes sense. In your dimension this can be rather . . . annoying. I can forget to anchor myself if I allow my mind to wander."
"Right. So, hang on, in the future someone ends up dead?"
"It would appear so."
"Who? No, when, when does this happen?"
"In ten minutes."
"What?"
"Or ten years. It is difficult to tell."
"So, to summarise, you were just having a conversation with me in the future but all you can tell me is that in the future someone dies."
"Yes."
Fat lot of use. "Great. I'm a Sagittarius, can you tell me what sort of day I'm having?"
"A Sagittarian? That would explain it. I had expected you to be a human."
"I am human - no wait, what do you mean 'that would explain it'? That would explain what?" Daisy took a slow breath. "Never mind, start again. Where is the XO?"
"Ah, he is currently dealing with a problem in cargo bay three."
"Already? Well at least someone is getting on with things. Excellent."
"Shall I inform him of your arrival?"
"No, I'll head on down there. I'd like to see my dynamic new XO at work."
* * *
When Daisy arrived at the cargo bay, she found a handful of Blokes going about various menial duties which all seemed to have something or other to do with three great tanks that occupied the whole floor. She could not discern their purpose other than that they stood throbbing at each other.
Someone came down from the operations room, boots clattering on the metal stairs.
The chubby man approached Daisy, his clipboard content commanding his full attention. He had a balding pate, and what remained of his receding hair hung in wispy strands down to his shoulders. He stopped abruptly, coming to a halt just before he collided with her. He looked up, surprised.
