The Doomsday Machine: Space Scrap 17 Book 1

by Erick Drake

  "Steve, how long until the orifices discharge?"

  "Four minutes."

  "Flaps! Kettlewick, you have three minutes to get the engines restarted."

  "You think me a whore sir?! The process will take five minutes. No more and no less. This is science! Just as the laws of physics dictate it takes precisely five minutes to bring a woman to arousal, observing the specific and undeviating sequence of actions in the correct order and for the precise allocation of time, it will take five minutes for the engine restart process to complete. There is no circumvention of the procedure sir! Engineering out."

  Daisy swallowed down on the panic rising within her. What was it the Doctor had said? She was able to think objectively and clearly on the Square Jaw because there was no evolutionary psychology governing her biochemical reactions. Or rather, there was but the pseudo-carbon printed body of the Bloke she inhabited did not possess complex biochemical reactions. So, think clearly and objectively. She thought clearly. She weighed the situation objectively. She thought about her options both clearly and objectively and objectively and clearly. She came to a rational and objective and very clear conclusion.

  "Nope. We're screwed."

  "Ululation high command Captain," said Mic.

  "What, no! Delay them, I need to think."

  "On screen."

  "Mic I said delay them not -"

  "Greetings Captain Daryl. I am NickersGaily, High Mane of Ululation Central Herd."

  Daisy regarded the view screen. It showed three lit elongated faces arranged in a triangular formation that seemed to float against a black background.

  "Aha, yes, greetings o . . . Oh. You're a . . . you're . . . sorry, how would you describe your species?"

  * * *

  Jones left the bathroom on Deck A in the relaxed state of someone who had been staving off the urgent cries of a full bladder for way too long.

  He desperately needed a shower and a change of clothes. He had grown fond of his T-shirt with its amusing cartoon zebra-punching logo and hoped to meet its owner at some point. Anyone who hated zebras like he did was clearly one of a select group and someone to get drunk with. Of course, such a meeting might mean he would have to return the T-shirt to its zebra-phobic owner, which he would regret, but in that event, he would wait until the mythical owner was blind drunk and then steal it. But all that would have to wait even though, given the exertions of the past few hours, the T-shirt was now more congealed sweat than tasteful attire.

  No, he had a score to settle with that idiot Doctor. Excessive urination? Violent mood swings? Grinding his teeth, he marched off in search of an elevator or lift or whatever they called them on this ship. He'd show her violent mood swings! And maybe some excessive urination for good measure.

  * * *

  "The designation you are looking for Captain is 'Zebroid'."

  Daisy blinked at the view screen. "Huh. So that's, what, humanoid Zebra?"

  The three faces inclined in various directions. "Bit human centric," said NickersGaily, "But yes, we evolved from an equine species. Or rather, two equine species. Originally the peoples of the Nonsense Sphere and our sister planet, the Scents Globe, were separate. Now our flesh is joined in the holy stripes, thanks to Gavin Starmane, our most revered hero."

  "Revered," chorused the other Ululations.

  "So, uh, what can I do for you, I'm afraid we are quite busy up here, what with things and stuff."

  "Captain, we have received reports that your discharge orifices have targeted our planet. Specifically, our most sacred grasslands. We would like an explanation for this. StrangeGallop here," the Ululation occupying the bottom left of the triangle of Zebroid faces inclined its muzzle and raised a hoof, "wonders if this is an honorific custom of your people?"

  "Ah," said Daisy, "yes, about that . . ."

  * * *

  Tongue was worried.

  He had formally received the delegation at the shuttle bay and the three Ululations, introduced as PrancingHoof, FoamingWithers and AchingChestnuts, marvelled at the ship that had battled an alien super weapon in defence of a race that its crew had never met. Much honour, they said, was indeed owed to these representatives of the Loose Alliance.

  Tongue had made all the necessary gestures and comments and was now leading them along the corridors of A Deck to their designated quarters, with due apologies for the lack of comforts.

  Before meeting the Ululations, Tongue had hastily showered and changed clothes. Upon returning to his bedroom, he had discovered an ampoule containing a clear liquid. The accompanying instructions directed him to expose the liquid within a confined space. The effects, said the note, would take around thirty seconds and would be quite fatal to any equine-based life in the vicinity. How and when Tongue did this was up to him but, the note cautioned, it must be done before the ship arrived at Blah-Blah.

  This was what now occupied his mind and made him chew his lip. Not an attractive look, he knew, but Miasma had told him he would get another opportunity to assassinate the delegates and now here it was – delivered by what appeared to be another Miasma agent aboard Space Scrap 17.

  And that was a worrying thought.

  Why had Miasma not told him that they had another agent aboard Space Scrap 17? Were they having him watched? This was an unwanted and annoying complication.

  He could make any number of excuses for failing to carry out his orders. But not if a third-party had him under surveillance. If someone was watching him, how was he going to make sure the Ululations arrived safely at the talks? Did Miasma already suspect him of being a double agent?

  Rounding a corner in the corridor, his mind elsewhere, Tongue almost walked straight into Jones coming in the opposite direction.

  "Tongue!" said Jones.

  "Jones!" said Tongue.

  "Zebras?" said Jones, indicating the three Ululations.

  Oh no, thought Tongue. This he did not have time for. "Ah. Yes, XO, allow me to introduce the diplomatic delegation from -"

  "What . . . is the meaning of this?!" said AchingChestnuts, pointing a trembling hoof at Jones.

  Tongue followed the indicated direction. Oh flaps.

  "Ambassador," said Tongue, "Really this is a slight misunderstanding, you see -"

  "Oh, what this?" Jones looked down at the logo proudly displayed on his T-shirt. A logo depicting a cartoon fist punching a cartoon zebra in the face. "Yes, I know what you're going to say."

  "Jones, shut up and leave this to me," said Tongue, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

  "You dare!" shouted PrancingHoof.

  "You're right. It's a very sweaty T-shirt. But there's nothing wrong with that. I've been very sweaty of late."

  "'Make yourself happy'," read AchingChestnuts, "'punch a zebra in the face'?"

  "What that? Yes, it does say that. Which is fitting really because I bloody hate zebras. Really piss me off. And here you are, three lovely zebras who just happen to turn up from nowhere. Is that you Steve? Is this a joke? Who put you up to it? Was it Daisy? Come on, take off those stupid masks!" Jones stood with his fists balled, a manic glint in his eyes.

  "XO, this isn't Steve," said Tongue, "these are -"

  "Not a good time for a joke Steve! Here I am . . . sweaty . . . suffering the aftereffects of an ill-advised Stim prescribed by that lunatic Doctor! And you . . . you take advantage? Et tu Steve? Well, let me tell you these stims carry side effects of excessive urination and violent mood swings. And," he said, a sharp grin on his face, "I'm all out of excessive urination."

  * * *

  "You see, our discharge orifices were damaged during the battle with the alien weapon," Daisy addressed the three Ululations on the bridge view screen.

  "Ah," said NickersGaily, "One moment please Captain, I am receiving an urgent communication."

  "Is it about the biscuits? Are the celebration biscuits ready?" asked the third Zebroid.

  "Silence ButteryFetlocks, do you wish to spoil the surprise?" admonished StrangeGall
op.

  "Surely they will have baked delicious celebration biscuits of their own?"

  "This is not their way."

  "Oh," said ButteryFetlocks, squinting at the camera suspiciously, "weird."

  "Silence both, we must commune!" said NickersGaily, "Bring the Communing Biscuits!"

  "Actually Captain," interjected Mic while the Ululations alternately communed and ate biscuits, "the discharge orifices were damaged when -"

  "Shut up Mic," said Daisy. She kept her eyes fixed on the screen, reassuring smile in place.

  "- you forced the XO to manually dock -"

  "Mic, shut up," cracks began to appear at the corners of her strained smile.

  "- the Captain has perhaps forgotten the catastrophic consequences that resulted when she ordered the XO to manually dock the cargo pod and -"

  Daisy's smile gave up and collapsed. She rounded on the communications officer. "Mic Vol I am in the middle of a delicate first contact situation -"

  "Um, Captain?"

  "Not now Steve! While trying to prevent polluting the most sacred -"

  "Captain Daryl"

  The Ululations had completed whatever they had been doing and now regarded her sternly from the view screen. There was something very unnerving about being stared at by three zebras.

  "Ah, yes, my apologies, I was just discussing some urgent matters with my bridge crew."

  "Captain," said NickersGaily, "We have received some troubling news. Apparently one of your crew has violently attacked our diplomats."

  Oh flaps, what now? "I'm sure there's some mistake, none of my crew would ever -"

  "Captain," said Steve quietly,

  "What is it?" hissed Daisy.

  "Well firstly, Tongue reports that Jones -"

  Daisy's shoulders dropped at the sound of Jones's name. "What's he . . . he hasn't . . . Oh flaps. Zebras." Daisy pinched the bridge of her nose. "NickersGaily, please understand my XO has been under extreme pressure and has reacted badly to medication prescribed by our Doctor and I assure you -"

  "And now," interjected NickersGaily, "your ship is discharging a large quantity of raw sewage onto our most holy grazing grounds. This is most peculiar. Can you explain before we completely destroy you?"

  Daisy looked helplessly at Steve. "Yes," he said, "that was the other thing." An alert sounded on his console. Steve checked his board, his body suddenly tense and alert. He double checked the information displayed on the screens. "Captain, orifices have stopped discharging sewage!"

  "Oh, thank Jeebuzz!"

  "Orifices have stopped discharging sewage . . . because they have completed discharging all one hundred and sixty eight million gallons of it. Onto the Ululation homeworld."

  "Fuck."

  On the main viewer ButteryFetlocks leaned toward the camera. "Herd leader," he said quietly, "shall I fetch the Revenge Biscuits?"

  18 God Inc

  "This is Shill Media [INSERT NUMBER OF HOURS IN YOUR LOCAL DAY CYCLE]. What's real? What's fake? Who cares? Stand by for a surprise statement by God Inc hosted by our regular political editor, Paxbot".

  Sweat trickled down Sir Reginald's face as he squirmed beneath the studio lights. He nervously adjusted his eye-patch.

  The Paxbot, adorned in a costume befitting a sex dungeon dominatrix, stared at him, rhythmically tapping a baseball bat on his open hand.

  "You'd better make this fucking good," he growled.

  "Ah, well, thank you for making the point, Paxbot because I think you will find what I have to say will be of great interest to you and your viewers."

  "I doubt it. But carry on with your attempt to validate your existence you piece of excrement."

  "What I have to say concerns the nature of," Sir Reginald took a quick glance at a sweat stained handwritten note, "yes, the nature of our fundamental belief systems. As you know, God was proven to exist when an enterprising individual campaigned to remove the restriction preventing any company being named for a deity. Once removed, he immediately filed a company formation in the name of God Inc. And since, according to laws of the country formerly known as America, before the . . ." Sir Reginald made uncomfortable gestures indicating his preference not to go into the grotesque details, "the, you know, happened, American law stated that companies had the legal status of people and so he was therefore able to legally prove that God exists."

  "Get to the fucking point."

  "The point, ah, yes, the point, well the point is, the point is you see, the point . . ."

  "You have no idea what you are talking about, do you?"

  "Please not the face, we agreed, not the face!"

  "Sir Reginald, have you actually read your brief?"

  "Yes of course I have read my brief."

  "Really, well it doesn't seem like you have any of the answers."

  "Oh, I do," said Sir Reginald, daring to waggle a finger at Paxbot, "Oh yes I do. I am fully briefed in all the answers, just to an entirely different set of questions. Answers . . . well answers are overrated. Let me . . . let me ask you a question . . . frequently? What do you mean 'frequently'? Even more . . . even more let me ask you . . . because that is the very definition of democracy. I've not come here to answer a bunch of questions."

  "Sir Reginald, why have you come here?"

  "You see? Another question. You can't help yourself, can you?"

  "Sir Reginald, do I take it from your drug-addled ramblings that you and indeed the rest of the board of God Inc are distancing yourselves from the proclamations of common decency uttered by God himself, Leroy Cakes?"

  "Mr Cakes, I would remind you, is not God. Not until he is inaugurated as CEO and chairperson of God Inc. Until then his pronouncements may be considered questionable, debatable, proto-truths. Or to put it another way, total lies."

  "So, his stance on 'innocent until proven guilty' even in the face of the ill-informed opinions of the self-appointed members of the Virtuous Council would be considered 'off message'?"

  "Well, as I say, I am fully briefed with the answers, just not necessarily the answers to the questions you are asking. For example, how does this affect the cod quota? Hmm? Have you considered that? Go on, ask me something about cod quotas. Go on. I've got . . . I know loads about cod quotas . . . for some reason . . . seems I picked up the wrong brief . . . but yes, go on, ask me, I dare you."

  "So, what will your stance be once Leroy Cakes is actually inaugurated?"

  "Well let me tell you that there has been some very challenging science for cod stocks in the North Atlantic, and the cod have responded very well to implementation of the recommendations for conservation of cod stocks."

  "By which you mean, they have gone extinct."

  "Yes. Thus, bringing forward our conservation targets by several years."

  "Sir Reginald, Archbishop of God Inc, thank you very much for sharing your last ill-informed words with us."

  "Wait, what?"

  The Paxbot swung its baseball bat which connected, with a heavy 'thunk' sound, with Sir Reginald Ponce's head.

  Execution complete, Paxbot turned to the camera with a reassuring smile.

  "Next - in a dramatic turn of events the Ululation government have agreed to join the Loose Alliance of Planets without the need for extensive talks and negotiation thanks to some unusual circumstances involving a garbage recycling cargo ship. Lesley Bricks has the details – Lesley?"

  19 Red paint sales convention

  ". . . my fault, don't listen to him!" Jones awoke with a start. He looked around frantically, eyes wide, as if expecting multiple crises to jump out at him from every corner of the room wielding claw hammers and fangs.

  Daisy lit a cigarette, sat back in her chair, crossed her legs and waited for him to stop gasping and jumping at everything in her cabin. He had done this three times before. Jerk awake, scream at things in her cabin like tables, corners of the room and the very concept of rooms, then collapse into unconsciousness for another twenty or thirty minutes.

  To pass the ti
me she absently read the health warning on the side of her cigarette packet: 'Interstellar Health Warning - Cigarettes can fatally improve your health'.

  The cigarettes were just one of many inventions by an alien race called The Trope, who divided most of their time between having ideas, inventing things and travelling around the Galaxy telling everyone they met how they had already invented anything and everything ever invented by anyone, anywhere. The Trope were mentally connected to each other via a level of reality they called the Astral Plane. But the Astral Plane was not exclusive to The Trope, as evidenced by Hippies and 'woo-woo' folk everywhere pointing out that they knew about it too. As a result, any ideas any Trope ever had were instantly communicated not only to all other Tropes but also to anyone else who happened to be having a bit of a think at the same time. The Trope’s only consolation was that the Astral Plane was an imperfect communicator. Even though everyone got the same general idea at the same time, much to the consternation of writers and artists everywhere, the ideas did not necessarily translate well.

  One such idea was that of the cigarette. But where the Trope’s invention concerned cigarettes made from highly addictive, health-promoting herbs, the idea as translated to other species completely failed to mention the ‘health promoting’ bit. Ultimately this didn’t really matter as both versions of the cigarette turned out to be lethal, resulting in each packet of cigarettes requiring a health warning. In the case of Earth, because the cigarettes were addictive and toxic. In the case of the Trope, because they were addictive and healthy. Fatally healthy. The Trope became so amazingly fit that their redundant immune systems lost the ability to cope with the local microbial ecology of the alien races they visited. As a result of one such infection, the Trope prolapsed into extinction.