by Erick Drake
The violent shaking and clamour stopped, and the bridge crew watched the new arrivals in stunned silence.
The pair waved their arms about in a flamboyant 'ta-dah' type flourish, as if their sudden appearance was completely normal and expected.
"Fine," said Jones, "OK, clearly I ate some odd mushroom-type things before coming on duty and this weird stuff is definitely not happening. Agreed?"
"Not unless I ate the same mushrooms, which I didn't. Which means this weird stuff is definitely happening," said Tongue.
Jones glanced over. "Your hair looks fantastic by the way." Alert to the sudden change of circumstance and potential threat, the science officer's hair had once more reconfigured itself, this time into a fetching new hairstyle featuring a cute ponytail.
"Oh, thanks," Tongue smiled back.
The magicians each raised a white-gloved finger to their painted lips in the universally polite gesture that indicated 'shut up'.
Daisy opened her mouth to speak but the words refused to come. Heart pounding, she tried to stand but found herself frozen in place. A glance at the rest of the crew confirmed they were likewise inhibited.
With a now silent audience, the magicians began their performance. The grinning one on the left, which Daisy had unconsciously labelled 'serial killer', raised his hand and inserted a large, rusty key into his right ear. He turned the key several times, each turn eliciting a wince inducing sound, like fingernails scratching against a chalkboard. At the final turn his face swiveled open to reveal a hollow interior containing a violin and bow. These he withdrew and began to play a jaunty tune.
The magician on the right raised his arms to the sides. As his companion began to play, a second head extruded from the top of his head. This was slightly smaller than the original but looked exactly the same in all other respects, down to the 'O' shape of the mouth. A third head extruded from the second and then a fourth and a fifth.
The extra heads leapt down, and the magician juggled them expertly in his hands, each head emitting a warbling falsetto song as he did so.
Daisy couldn't be sure, but she was fairly certain that none of this was even remotely alluded to in the Captain's course prospectus.
When serial killer finished his ditty, he neatly replaced his violin in his head, closed his face and removed the key from his ear. His companion threw his extra heads into the air. His oval mouth opened even wider and he swallowed each of them as they descended.
The magicians repeated their 'ta-dah' gesture and the bridge crew erupted into spontaneous and involuntary applause.
The lights went out.
When they came up again, the crew found themselves seated in a barber’s shop. OK, weird, thought Daisy. But relatable at least. The fact that they were all having their hair enthusiastically cut by a very bushy plant wielding scissors at the ends of its various branches and shoots was somewhat less relatable. Daisy sniffed at the pungent aroma in the air.
“Relax, it’s a cannabis plant,” said Jones, glancing over at her. He leaned over conspiratorially “I think it’s stoned,” he said, sotto voce.
“Oh well, that’s alright then,” replied Daisy, flinching as two pairs of scissors snipped dangerously close to her eyes.
From the corner of the room, a crackling song issued from the horn of an old gramophone, its speed alternating slow and fast in time with the speed at which a grinning white-gloved gentleman turned the crank handle.
Steve screamed and writhed as the plant cut what remained of his wispy, long hair.
Daisy looked across at Tongue, whose hair was putting up a brave fight with the plant, utilising what appeared to be a hair based version of Wing Chun. The plant seemed somewhat nonplussed, as if it was not entirely used to hair reacting this way. Which, to be fair, could be said of Tongue’s hair and hairdressing plants.
"What the hell are you grinning at?" Daisy demanded of Jones.
"Oh, nothing," he said, "Just enjoying the effects of exotic particles from an unstable wormhole bouncing off our collective subconscious and fracturing reality. Let me know when you want me to fix it."
"If you know how to fix it, fix it!" shouted Tongue.
"I'm afraid that order would have to come directly from the Captain."
"It'll be a cold day in hell before I ask for your help!" hissed Daisy.
"Fine. In the meantime, I'm long overdue a haircut."
The vines abruptly stopped snipping and lowered the scissors to the jugular vein of each crew member. Flesh dimpled as the points of the scissors pressed in.
"How you doing for throat cuts?" said Daisy.
"Would this be your subconscious making some sort of point?” Jones's confidence of a moment ago had fled. He remained very still as he watched the scissors at his throat in the mirror.
"I don't know XO. But in case you hadn't noticed, my subconscious hasn't excluded me from the lesson."
"Yeah, you're right, screw this," he said, "OK Mic, full stop. Cut engines."
Immediately, they were back on Space Scrap 17. Daisy urgently scanned the bridge. Everything was back to normal. Except Tongue. His hair was a Medusa-style explosion of outrage.
Mic Vol stood next to the navigation console, his hand firmly pressed on the big red button labelled 'Stop'.
"Well done, Mic," breathed Jones.
Tongue slammed his fist down on his console. "You two," he glared at Jones and Daisy, "My cabin. Now." He span on his heel then stopped. "And if ANYONE mentions my hair, my breasts will pump venom into my death quills."
Tongue balled his fists and stomped from the bridge.
"I don't know about anyone else," said Steve into the subsequent silence, "But I'd quite like to see that."
Daisy and Jones looked at each other.
Jones shrugged. "Bad hair day?"
7 Tongue lashing
Upon arrival at his cabin, Tongue had been greeted with several covert messages. None of them were particularly welcome. Politically, the Galactic situation had worsened in the last few hours and events were moving at an alarming rate. Tongue took a deep breath.
The intercom buzzed. Oh great, he thought. Tweedledum and Tweedledee. "Come," he said.
The door opened, admitting the Captain and XO.
"My door doesn't do that, does your door do that?" said Jones, watching the door glide smoothly shut again.
"What, open and close?" said Daisy, "No, not without protest and a lot of kicking and swearing."
"That's what I thought. You, how come you get the only functioning door on the ship - JEEBUZZ!" Jones and Daisy took an involuntary step back, eyes wide and teeth bared in a terrified rictus.
This was not the sort of reaction Tongue was used to. Awe, yes. Declarations of love, yes. Sometimes people would stop and compose sonnets to his beauty on the spot and declare undying love or swear that they would henceforth become hermits, foregoing all contact with other people on the basis that they had already seen the epitome of beauty and everything else was liable to be a massive disappointment. Indeed, Tongue had received begging letters from mental health specialists asking him to tone it down, since one look at him and their patients knew that the rest of their lives were going to be pale and shallow by comparison. He had also received begging letters from pharmaceutical companies asking if he could possibly ramp it up a bit because wherever he went, sales of antidepressants went through the roof. Mostly, though, people just dribbled.
These reactions he was used to. Fear and shock, he was not.
Frowning, he went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.
He screamed.
He emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later.
"My apologies, Captain, XO. I'm afraid events of the last half hour have confused my hair. Our recent experiences have been somewhat novel, and my hair had no idea how to compose itself. It tried to adopt several different styles and colours at the same time. The outcome was . . . regrettable."
"Regrettable? It was hair-ageddon!" said Jones.
"No, he's right. On my way here from the bridge I passed several crew members who either screamed and ran away or fainted on the spot. Damn it," a sudden wave of emotion swept over Tongue, "I have enough pressures already, why must I be gorgeous no matter what the circumstances?"
"Tongue, don't give it a second thought," said Daisy. "Your hair looks lovely now. All those . . . tight cascading curls and the way it shines. It's just not right the way society puts pressure on people like us."
"You seem able to resist it without any problems," said Jones.
Daisy gave him a flat stare.
"Society?" said Tongue. "What do you mean? Society doesn't pressure me and even if it made the attempt, like any rational being capable of independent thought I would simply ignore it."
Daisy frowned, confused. "Sorry I thought you were upset at having to look gorgeous all the time. It's nothing to be ashamed of, we all feel that way from time to time."
"Yeah, the sleepless nights I endure, worrying about having to be gorgeous all the time," said Jones.
"Shut up unless you want to clean the toilets for the next month."
"I was upset. Temporarily," said Tongue. "But that's got nothing to do with 'society'. Like all species I'm driven by my own evolutionary psychology which motivates me, in essence, to adopt whatever behaviours it thinks will allow me to successfully reproduce. In other words, if I'm feeling any pressure it is only the pressure that I place upon myself. Any other conclusion would be a pathetic attempt to abdicate responsibility for one's own actions. Why would anyone do that, it's vacuous. Not to mention neurotic."
"Sorry, I was just expressing what we humans call an emotion, the emotion of 'empathy'," said Daisy.
"And now she's expressing the human emotion of 'Patronising bitch' along with another old favourite, 'talking bollocks'. Got any drink? I need a drink."
"You see why I left him," said Daisy.
"You didn't leave me, I left you. My letter was on the kitchen table first."
"ENOUGH!" Tongue's death quills erupted from his fists. He couldn't help it. Events had taken their toll on his patience and he was in no mood for more bickering between these two idiots.
Daisy and Jones stood transfixed.
"Enough," repeated Tongue, retracting his death quills with an effort. "Now, I don't know what it is between you two, BUT," he said as they both opened their mouths to begin another round of accusations, "It ends here. Your stupid, petty little squabble has put this mission in danger. Do you realise what is at stake here? Do you?"
Daisy and Jones stared at their feet, which were shuffling uncomfortably.
"Have you seen the news?"
They shook their heads.
Tongue stabbed at a button. The monitor sprang into life.
"Oh Jeebuzz, I hate newscasts. If you want me to watch this, I definitely want a drink," complained Jones.
"Shut up and watch. This went out in the last half hour."
The monitor showed a newscast interview featuring a hard-nosed, sneering newsbot seated across from a smartly dressed businessman.
"Welcome back morons" sneered the Paxbot. "I have with me Sir Reginald Ponce, archbishop of God Inc."
"Good evening Mr Paxbot, pleasure to be here."
"Oh, shut up. So, Sir Reginald, we have a new aspirational concept - bit of a ham-fisted cock-up on your part?"
The archbishop shook his head. "Not at all, myself and the rest of the board are very excited."
Paxbot's face screwed up in distaste as if he were chewing a wasp that he had expected to taste of delicious chocolate but instead turned out to taste of angry wasp and canine genitals. "Oh come on, you lying cunt – Leroy Cakes has stated he will be a conviction god and not a career god. As such he is clearly not the candidate favoured by the board of God Inc. In fact, if it were not for his surprise win in the cage fight, your chairman would still be Razor Knuckleface."
Sir Reginald made the requisite PR media course approved mollifying gestures. "The wishes of the board do not enter into it. As you know Paxbot, the chairman of God Inc, God himself as acting Aspirational Concept to the Galaxy, is selected by a fight to the death in the cage. That is democracy."
"But it wasn't a fight to the death was it? Razor Knuckleface is still alive and has, in point of fact, been appointed Mr Cakes's personal bodyguard. And keep your fucking hands still or I will cut off your arms, you self-serving, duplicitous twat."
Sir Reginald smiled, was about to raise his arms in 'Mollifying Gesture #12' but decided against. "Under theocratic rules," he said instead, sitting on his hands, "the death does not have to be a physical one. Some would say, myself among them, that not all the sacred rules of the cage fight are intended to be interpreted literally. Some of them are intended to be viewed as allegorical or metaphorical. 'No underpants to be worn on the head within the cage' is obviously literal. But the holy writ of all Aspirational Concepts since the formation of God Inc has been that there is an afterlife. And since the soul is eternal the concept of death is itself a nonsense. We must, in this sense, infer a metaphorical intent."
"Like the vexed question of how many angels can dance of the head of a pin?"
"No. That is perfectly literal, the answer is three. You have clearly not read my white paper 'Pinheads are only wide enough to accommodate three angels – the campaign for wider pinheads'."
"Patronise me again, you money-grubbing shit fucker, and I will eviscerate you. The point is that as a conviction God and therefore possessing moral values, Mr Cakes was always going to be a controversial candidate. And don't deny that or I will cut off your face with a velvet spoon."
"Let's make no mistake here Paxbot – mistakes are wrong, and should be avoided at all costs, unless the costs mistakenly account for them – in which case, mistakes are right. Or at least accounted for. That is democracy."
A low growl issued from the Paxbot's throat. "But the board of Miasma Inc have been outspoken in their criticism of Mr Cakes. And since Miasma owns God Inc, surely their views represent the real position?"
"The views of Miasma Inc are not for the likes of you or I to question. It is a private company and as such a law unto itself. They are accountable to no-one, not you or I and certainly not the public at large. They are, if you like, tyrants. That is democracy."
Paxbot sat glaring at the archbishop for a moment. "Right, I've had enough of this," he said, knives springing from his mechanical fists, "I'm going to cut off your ears because you're clearly not listening and -" he paused, hand held up to his ear. The fact that he had now inadvertently stabbed himself in the face with his fist knife did not seem to faze him. "Wait, I'm hearing from the gallery that . . . yes, we have an insta link with Mr Leroy Cakes himself who has called the studio and would like to contribute to the discussion."
Sir Reginald almost leapt from his chair. "Wait, what? As archbishop I condemn this as heresy."
"But Mr Cakes is now God. How can God’s word be heresy?"
". . . As archbishop I condemn this as hearsay."
A screen insert appeared between them. It showed a live feed of Leroy Cakes. He had a kindly, rumpled face with a straggly white beard. Not the sort of visage one would normally associate with the mindless thugs that usually occupied the position of God. More the visage of a kindly uncle, and not even one of the ones your parents warn you to stay away from.
"Your Holiness, thank you for joining us."
"It is my pleasure, Paxbot. Please do not avert your eyes."
"Thank you, Oh Super One. But I would ask, if I may, to what do we owe the pleasure of your attendance?"
Aspirational Concepts, even those that had not yet been inaugurated, seldom spoke to anyone outside the board of God Inc.
"The archbishop makes several good points and, once inaugurated, I shall certainly be backing his campaign for wider pinheads and I would like to say that I forgive all the outrageous lies, slander and libels aimed at me by the boards of both
Miasma and God Inc."
"Praise be," said a clearly relieved Sir Reginald.
"I forgive them because their comments are trite and meaningless. The Galaxy has been freed from Miasma's grip on the food supply. Since my invention of Pseudo food, each person can now reconstitute food from their own faecal matter."
"Holy shit," muttered Sir Reginald.
"Yes, you are," sneered Paxbot.
"However, this invention has hit their profit margins and in response they intend to compensate for their losses by incitement of Galactic war, thereby increasing the profits of the arm of their company devoted to arms manufacture."
"The arms manufacture arm?"
"Yes. Pseudo food has cost them an arm and a leg. And they won't stand for it."
"All private companies are ordained to obey the holy profits!" protested Sir Reginald.
"One more word," said Paxbot, raising a threatening fist knife.
"Once inaugurated," continued Cakes, "I shall have access to all records necessary to proving my case. I shall not rest until all the board members of Miasma and God Inc are behind bars."
"Outrageous –" which was as far as Sir Reginald got before Paxbot's knife slammed into his left eye.
At which point, Tongue thankfully switched off the screen.
"It all gets a bit messy after that. But the important point is this - it is imperative that these talks go ahead. If the Ululations join the Loose Association, then Leroy Cakes stands a better chance of winning the Doves around, thus preventing a destructive and needless war. We need to make that rendezvous with the LASS Square Jaw."
"That's all very well," said Jones, "but the engines are screwed, the cargo bay sewage discharge orifices are mangled, the -"
"I have spoken with Engineer Nau. We can print enough Blokes to assist with the work. If we focus on the essential engine repairs, we can be under way in just over an hour."
