The Doomsday Machine: Space Scrap 17 Book 1

by Erick Drake

  "Oh, hello," he said.

  "Hello," said Daisy.

  "You are . . .?"

  "I am what?"

  "Here."

  "Yes."

  "Right, well lovely to meet you." His attention returned to his clip board and he made to move off.

  "I'm looking for the XO, I was told he is dealing with a problem of some kind."

  "Yes. Not to put too fine a point on it, he's in the shit."

  "Lovely. Well, I'm Daisy Daryl and I may be able to help."

  "No thanks. I'll let him know you called though."

  "Captain Daisy Daryl."

  "Oh! Right! The new Captain! Sorry, yes, should have realised, sorry, lots of stuff happening, er, well I'm your second officer, Navigator Steve Power." Steve shuffled a bit then stood to attention and gave the space fleet salute.

  Daisy returned the salute. "So, what are these things?" she gestured at the huge containers behind her.

  "Those? Sewage treatment plants. We have to treat the raw sewage before delivery. It flows from the other cargo bays into these treatment processors and then it's filtered and pumped through to the empty bays."

  "I see. And where is the XO?"

  "Him? Well like I said, he's in the shit."

  "Yes, Mr Power, I appreciate he is dealing with some challenging issues, but I would like to consult with him to formulate an action plan to resolve said issues and enable us to get underway and meet our schedule and therefore our obligations to our contract. So, where is he?"

  At that moment a loud thumping filled the cargo bay accompanied by a loud screech of protesting metal. Daisy and Steve stepped back from the treatment processors, eyes wide.

  "Oh my gods, is it going to blow?" Daisy had to shout to make herself heard over the ear-splitting noise.

  The noise halted as suddenly as it had started, and a number of lights sprang into life on the second and third containers.

  A chute attached to the front of the first processor tank gurgled and spat various gobbets of nasty brown blobs onto the floor of the bay, splattering two of the Blokes who, oblivious to the commotion, continued their work without pause.

  Then came a distant wail and clamour as something fell from the chute.

  It landed in a stinking heap on the floor of the bay.

  "Ow. Dear gods," came a muffled voice from inside the excrement covered diving suit.

  Daisy made to assist whoever the poor guy was, but Steve laid a restraining hand on her arm. "No Captain, probably best if you don't."

  The figure struggled to its feet, pulling off the diving helmet. "That was disgusting. Literally couldn't see for shit. Jeebuzz I'm going to ask, no, demand, I shall demand a massive pay rise for this and furthermore -" The figure froze as he caught sight of Daisy and Steve.

  "Oh, er, XO," said Steve, "May I introduce the new Captain, Captain Daisy Daryl, this is Michigan Jones, XO and sewage pipe unblocker."

  "Captain?" said Jones. "Really?"

  "Really," said Daisy.

  "Oh," said Jones. "That's. . ."

  "A surprise?" finished Daisy.

  "Surprise yes. Awkward is also a word."

  "I see your vocabulary has increased."

  Jones stood in silence for a moment, excrement dripping from his suit.

  "Right," he said eventually, "Well, this is . . . this is a thing. So, I imagine you have lots of questions. Shouty questions. Recriminations, accusations, that sort of malarkey."

  "Jones . . . Michigan," said Daisy, taking a step toward him. She halted as the stomach-churning stench of effluent hit her, thought better of it, and took two steps back. "I'm so sorry, how can you ever -" she was going to ask how he could ever forgive her, but the smell simply made her gag.

  Steve looked at each of them in turn, uncertain of what was happening. "Oh good, you've met . . . hooray."

  "Yes Steve," said Jones. "We've met. Well, more than met, we had a . . ."

  "A relationship?" suggested Daisy.

  "Yes. One of those."

  "Oh great, then you'll get on really well," said Steve happily. "That's always a thing – will the new Captain and XO like each other. Will they hate each other, you know, really get each other’s –"

  "Steve, shut up," said Jones. "We had a 'relationship'. And it ended."

  "Yes," said Daisy, looking at her feet and trying to will a hole to appear and swallow her up.

  "We had some pretty bad arguments towards the end," Jones said, watching Daisy closely.

  "Bad arguments?" said Steve. He nodded, making a face as if imagining the vitriolic exchanges. "What, like vicious appeals to authority, tautologies, nasty bit of post hoc ergo propter hoc, that sort of thing?"

  Jones gave him a flat look. "Not badly constructed arguments Steve . . . although to be fair they were mostly ad hominem by the end."

  The tannoy burst into life, breaking the relationship horror standoff. "This is Mic Vol - the new Science Officer is about to arrive at the shuttle bay."

  "Well," said Daisy brightly, thankful for the diversion "I'd best go . . ." She gestured awkwardly at the door.

  "Yes," said Jones, "I'm long overdue a shower and a change of clothes. I'll . . ." He gestured vaguely at the crew changing rooms.

  "Yes," said Steve, "and I'll um . . ."

  "Oh, shut up Steve," said Jones, just as a couple of Blokes approached and dutifully sprayed their sterilisation units at him.

  Jones disappeared from sight, cloaked in a swirling antibacterial fog.

  Daisy made the most of it and left for the shuttle bay at speed.

  4 Nice tits, Ambassador

  Dr Olga Smiert stood by the shuttle bay exit. She did not ordinarily greet new crew members this way, preferring instead to have them at her mercy in her laboratory - no, she corrected herself - she preferred to see them in sick bay for their preliminary medical check-ups as early as possible. For the sake of her true work, she must keep a check on her thinking. One small slip and she would be faced with angry crowds of agrarian peasants screaming about blasphemy and black magic and waving crudely shaped agricultural implements outside her cliff top windmill. Again. She shuddered at the memory.

  "Doctor Smiert, I presume." A short, chubby, nondescript woman approached. Oh, how many ways you can die, thought Smiert. Which was her usual line of thinking upon meeting new people. She smiled.

  "You clearly a good reader of people, yes?"

  "Well, you know," replied the woman.

  "You have telepathic strain in family? Ever had an ancestor accused of witchcraft? Have you had your ESP rating checked?"

  The woman went all misty eyed. "Well, now you mention it, I did have an aunt who -"

  "I only ask because otherwise I fail to see how you knew I was Doctor Smiert. Because other than the regulation white medical jacket I am wearing, the somewhat clichéd stethoscope hanging around my neck and this lanyard carrying my identification card with the words 'Dr Smiert - Chief Medical Officer' written on it, there is absolutely no way you could have known who I was."

  The hobbit - for that is what the Doctor had decided this thing was - blinked a few times and its features hardened.

  "Interesting bedside manner, Doctor. I'm Daisy Daryl. Captain Daisy Daryl. Which you couldn't possibly have known since I'm not wearing a badge with 'Daisy Daryl - Captain and not someone to piss off' written on it. Obviously unlike some of us you have no history of telepathy in your family. But there is that fatal genetic defect you have, you know, the mutated genome that causes fatal sarcasm. Perhaps you have ancestors who were brutally stabbed to death because of their fatal propensity to be a smart arse? Are you noting my frequent use of the word 'fatal' here, Doctor?"

  So much for keeping a check on her thinking, "Ah, yes. Captain. My mistake. Busy day. Apologies."

  "Accepted. So, what brings you to the shuttle bay?"

  "I wish to meet the new science officer. A Yerbootsian. Interesting species, not one I have seen before."

  The hobbit - damn it Smiert ge
t a grip, she chided herself - the CAPTAIN, frowned. "They're indistinguishable from humans, aren't they?"

  Ah. She didn't know. Good. "Well Captain, I like to book medical check-up as early as possible for new crew. I was in area, so . . ."

  "Very diligent."

  "Yes. It is shame, last Captain was not so thorough."

  "What happened to him?"

  "I kill him. Accident. Ooops."

  The Captain frowned again. "Tell me again why my father employs you?"

  "I am cheap. Can I book in your medical now?" Smiert held a stylus poised over her DEVICE - a ubiquitous, compact computerised tool that was very cheap, very useful and interfaced with pretty much anything in technologically advanced societies. The word DEVICE was an acronym that stood for 'Personal Digital Apparatus'. Its inventor was really clever with digital technology but absolute rubbish with acronyms.

  "Maybe later," said the Captain. "’Smiert’, that's an interesting name."

  "You think? It is quite common name in Mother Russia."

  "Really? Does it mean anything?"

  Smiert regarded the Captain suspiciously. Was she trying to make a point? Was she, despite all appearances to the contrary, a cunning strategist and master manipulator, someone who in psychological terms would register high on the Machiavellian end of the Dark Triad scale?

  "In my mother tongue, Smiert means 'happy', 'lovely' or 'kind'," Smiert lied.

  "Oh. Sweet," the Captain smiled at her.

  Smiert's suspicions chuckled to themselves and wandered off – clearly nothing to see here. The Captain was an idiot.

  Just then the door to the shuttle bay whooshed open and a figure walked through.

  Smiert and the Captain gaped at the vision standing before them, all thoughts of the previous discussion abruptly shoved from their minds as they tried to comprehend the epitome of loveliness now beaming at them from within the confines of a black leather cat suit that lovingly hugged the voluptuous contours of its wearer.

  "Please tell me she's not the new science officer. Please tell me she's not the new science officer. Please tell me she's not the new science officer," the Captain muttered over and over.

  "Hello, I'm the new science officer," said the new science officer.

  "Bollocks," said the Captain.

  Smiert smiled to herself. The Captain had clearly never met a Yerbootsian before.

  The new science officer was, frankly, fucking gorgeous. Her figure was perfect. Her makeup and hair were immaculate. Her breasts could stun at a thousand paces. Her curvaceous hips hinted the promise of many children. Her poise was that of a princess, not one of the stuffy old ones but one of the fresh, new, modern princesses with fresh, new, modern DNA that royal families have to accept from time to time just to temporarily stave off the relentless production of royal genetic monstrosities for another generation or two.

  In short, the new science officer was every woman's nightmare. She was young, perfect and gorgeous.

  Which, for any other woman in the close confines of a starship with limited space and limited crew, was a massively unfair and cruel twist of fate. Looking at her every day would be like having to look in a magic mirror that constantly reminded you of how imperfect and inadequate you were. "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fair -" "NOT YOU, YOU UGLY BITCH!".

  All of which would have been a massive problem if, in fact, the gorgeous creature that stood before them was a woman.

  But he wasn't.

  He was a perfectly formed, straightforwardly heterosexual, Yerbootsian male. Although to be fair, Doctor Smiert considered, she was making an assumption about his sexual orientation.

  In the animal kingdom of Earth, the males are the gorgeous ones, the flamboyant ones, literally the peacocks. The males take fastidious care in how they look. The females, on the other hand, are dowdy, bland, wear the animal equivalent of beer-stained track suits, fart in public and consider belching the most sophisticated, if not the most amusing, form of communication. If they were able to conceive of them, they would consider shoes simply an item of clothing and not magical talismans of promise and rainbows that probably taste of chocolate. But when it comes to the human race the complete reverse is, by and large, true.

  Evolution on the planet Yerboots decreed no such reversal. Their males, like the rest of their animal kingdom, are universally gorgeous, their females universally dowdy.

  Since it was still the women who gave birth and breast-fed their offspring, Smiert found it puzzling as to why the men had such fantastic tits. But such intrigues could wait.

  The new science officer frowned at the two gawping women before him, which annoying only made him look more gorgeous.

  "Ah, yes," Smiert broke the silence and held out her hand, "I am Doctor Smiert and this is Captain Daryl."

  When the Captain continued to stare at the science officer with that same wide-eyed stare that rabbits reserve for the beams of car headlamps in the middle of the night, Smiert nudged her. "Hello," said the Captain, snapping out of her reverie. "Your tits are amazing!"

  Smiert coughed.

  "No, sorry, no," the Captain blustered, "No. Hello, you look amazing, welcome aboard."

  "Er, thank you Captain. My name is not pronounceable by your primitive Earth tongue."

  "What?" the Captain glanced incredulously at Smiert with a triumphant look that seemed to say 'Aha - I knew it, she's a right bitch!'.

  "My name is not pronounceable by your primitive Earth tongue." He repeated.

  The Captain bristled. "Now listen here young lady, we'll have none of that snooty phonetic superiority on this ship. You may have a name full of multiple syllables or coughs and whistles and clicks but I think you'll find we are perfectly capable of mastering someone's bloody name around here, thank you very much."

  Just then a new voice broke into the discussion. "Hey, NotPronounceableByYourPrimitiveEarthTongue, you old bastard, how you doing? Heard you were coming aboard, good to see you again."

  NotPronounceableByYourPrimitiveEarthTongue's face split into a broad, and of course gorgeous, smile, revealing perfect and of course gorgeous teeth. "Steve," he said, "Long time no see. Catch up later in the bar?"

  "You bet!" said Steve. He nodded briefly at the Captain and Smiert and continued on his way.

  "Right," said the Captain, "Well as I was saying NotPronounceableByYourPrimitiveEarthTongue, welcome aboard."

  NotPronounceableByYourPrimitiveEarthTongue smiled. "Please, Captain, call me Tongue. NotPronounceableByYourPrimitiveEarthTongue is my formal name, only really used at family gatherings and the odd formal occasion. Or upon seeing someone for the first time after a prolonged absence, as you just saw."

  "Right, so you know Steve of old then?"

  "Oh yes, we've been friends for a long time. Off and on."

  "Friends . . . so what, you and he had a thing?"

  "We had some interesting times."

  "What, sort of boyfriend or 'just friends'?"

  "Boyfriend?" Tongue raised a quizzical and perfect eyebrow. "Oh, no, just drinking buddies really, I'm not gay. Is Steve gay? He never told me."

  A mixture of expressions wandered across the Captain's face. Smiert could almost hear the squeaking of the mental wheels turning as she tried to process Tongue's comment. She decided to put the Captain out of her misery before her brain shattered.

  "Science Officer Tongue is a heterosexual Yerbootsian male, Captain."

  "She . . . he . . . that's a 'he'? Jeebuzz, what do the women look like!?"

  "Excuse please science officer, the Captain is not familiar with Yerbootsian physiognomy - is what humans call 'ignorant bitch'. OK if we talk about you in the third person while I explain?"

  "Ah," said Tongue gracefully, "yes, of course."

  Smiert explained the concept of evolved peacock males to the Captain, whose face gradually cleared.

  "Oh, Tongue, I do apologise. This commission has all been a bit of a whirl, I haven't had the chance to review the crew roster in enoug
h detail. Please forgive my ignorance."

  "Think nothing of it, Captain, I understand. Our physiognomy is something of a rarity in the Galaxy."

  "I'll say," said the Captain in a rush of relived bonhomie, "For a minute there I was going to make you sign a non-disclosure agreement with respect to your boobs! Ha, ha."

  Smiert looked away, suddenly finding anywhere else to be engrossing and much preferable to looking at any of the people she was with.

  "Right," said Tongue an uncertain smile on his lips.

  The Captain realised she had again misspoken but instead of changing the subject decided to plough on. "Talking of which, why do you have boobs? Do all . . . men have boobs . . . like those . . . boobs?"

  "They supply venom to our death quills," said Tongue flatly.

  The Captain's face contorted in the sort of polite, uncertain expression that wasn't sure if it had heard correctly but didn't want to push it. She nodded and made a 'hmmm' noise.

  "Would you like the contact code for our personnel complaints department?" offered Smiert.

  "Why do people complain about your personnel department? Are they inefficient?" said Tongue.

  "No but personnel seem to think it is sort of thing personnel departments should have."

  "Sounds like a ludicrous waste of time."

  "Yes. But most personnel departments are a ludicrous waste of time made up of the sort of people who think they should have a complaints section. Makes them feel like they have a useful skill set."

  "Oh. Well, what I would like," said Tongue, "is to get to my quarters and freshen up? Perhaps the Captain would accompany me? We have much to discuss."

  "Yes," said the Captain brightly, at last finding a combination of words in the conversation she understood, "Quarters. Yes. Doctor." The Captain nodded at Smiert and led Tongue away.

  Alone now, Smiert chuckled to herself. She could of course have explained all this to the Captain ahead of time and saved her blushes, but she was bored, and it had been a while since she had had a laugh. Not since the demise of the last Captain, in point of fact. The previous Captain, unlike Daisy Daryl it seemed, had had a clever and suspicious mind, the sort of suspicious mind that asked too many questions. Questions like, "That isn't loaded is it?".