by Erick Drake
"Daisy," said Jones, suddenly sitting up on her couch. "I have questions. Why, how, who, what, when and if. And not necessarily in that order. I was on A Deck . . . oh Jeebuzz." Jones looked down at his blood-spattered clothing and knuckles. "Why am I covered in red paint? Was there red paint? The red paint trade show, yes, it's coming back now. We hosted a red paint trade show celebrating all the marvellous and wonderful shades of red paint it is possible to make. Did I give the keynote speech? Yes, I did, it's all coming back. 'Ladies and gentlemen thank you for coming here today to this wonderful convention. I think you'll agree it's been an excellent year for sales of red paint'. Was that what happened? Something like that? And then I got pissed and horrifically offended people and now I don't know what's happened or how much trouble I'm in. WHAT? TELL ME WHAT?"
Daisy handed Jones a cigarette and lit it for him.
She took a breath. "Well, shortly after Space Scrap 17 discharged our total cargo of sewage onto the most holy and sacred grasslands of the Ululation home world, you staggered onto the bridge covered in blood, said 'It's not -' and then collapsed unconscious. Tongue and Errol helped bring you down here to my cabin where you have been floating in and out of consciousness for the last three and a half hours."
"What about the convention?"
"No Jones, there was no convention."
"Are you sure? I've got a bloody good speech outline in my head. Why do I have a speech about fourth quarter predicted red paint sales in my head?"
"Probably a mix up on the Astral Plane. There was no convention."
"And the getting pissed and offending everyone bit?"
"Didn't happen. You have been suffering the somewhat spectacular side effects of the stim Doctor Smiert gave you."
"Oh good," he raised the cigarette to his mouth with a shaking hand. "So that's alright then."
"However, you did encounter the Ululation representatives on Deck A and proceed to attack them, shouting something about walking barcodes."
Jones's face dropped as fragments of memory began to string themselves together. "Zebras! There were zebras! On two legs. How were there zebras on two legs?"
"Zebroids is the term. Humanoid Zebras. AKA the Ululation diplomatic delegation."
Jones looked at the blood spatters on his knuckles. "Oh flaps. Oh shit. I am in so much trouble. Wait, sewage? We discharged . . ." Jones's mouth continued to open and close but the only sound that come from it was a high-pitched squeak. He swallowed hard. "I suppose," he said quietly, rubbing a hand across his face, "I suppose they want to torture and kill us."
Daisy smiled. "Quite the reverse."
"They want to kill us and torture us? What kind of sick, twisted . . . no, wait I suppose it's better that way . . ."
"The High Herd of the Ululation government think you're a god."
Jones stared at Daisy blankly. "Sorry, no this stim, the words you're using are being substituted by nonsense. Say that again."
"Or, to be precise, they think you are the Fabled Herald of the Second Coming of their god, Gavin Starmane. And Space Scrap 17 is your mighty chariot and your coming was proclaimed by dumping raw sewage onto their world. And while they admit this is an odd way to make such a pronouncement, none of them are prepared to argue with you. Jones," Daisy sat forward, her face beaming, "they love us. They worship you. Literally."
"Why do they think . . .?"
"Apparently it was foretold that they would know the Herald by his repeatedly punching high ranking Ululations in the face while wearing the sacred garb."
"Sacred garb, what . . .?"
Daisy pointed at his blood-spattered T-shirt.
"Apparently your T-shirt contains an accurate depiction of Gavin Starmane. And the phrase 'make yourself happy, punch a zebra in the face' are the exact words contained in their holy text."
"You have got to be kidding me. That's . . . this isn't even my T-shirt."
Daisy spread her hands. "It's true. I've seen it. And because you, oh mighty Herald, have arrived, they think this is a sign they should join the Alliance and share their shielding technology with us, no questions asked. If war comes, they want to be on the side that Heralds the Second Coming of their god."
Jones stood. "I've got to get rid of this T-shirt. I need to get to my cabin."
Daisy raised a hand. "I wouldn't. The Ululations are in there. They have decreed it a sacred space. They're waiting to cover you in unguents."
Jones raised his eyebrows, "Oh. Well, that doesn't sound too bad."
"Unguents they make from the spit of their high priests."
"Zebra spit?" Jones inclined his head, eyebrows knitted, considering. "No," he said eventually, "No. That sounds very unpleasant. Daisy I stink, I need a shower and a change of clothes."
"Don't worry," she said, standing. "Errol found your luggage, it's over there. You can use my shower."
"Thanks. I suppose you'll want to join me and worship me with a protracted celebratory body soaping?"
"No," said Daisy flatly. "Now bugger off. I need to talk to my Dad."
* * *
Tongue ran into his cabin and switched on the news. His monitor filled with newsy graphics and urgent newsy music.
An urgent, newsy, dramatic voice announced, "This is Galactic News [INSERT NUMBER OF HOURS IN YOUR LOCAL DAY CYCLE]".
Cherry Pickings sat behind the news desk and addressed the camera with Concerned Face #7, the one reserved for news of great import. Concerned Face #7 usually indicated that something worth reporting had happened, and you were about to be told about that instead of the outright lies which made up most news output.
The music died down and Cherry began to speak. "We have just received reports that Leroy Cakes has died on the way to his inauguration as Aspirational Concept 36. His bodyguard Razor Knuckleface, formerly Aspirational Concept 35, declined to comment due to the fact that he is also dead. Miasma Inc issued a press release three hours before the fatalities, stating that," here Cherry looked down at a DEVICE, "there are no indications of poisoning and they don't know anything about poison so if there are indications of poisoning it is nothing to do with them or their recent acquisition of controlling shares in Poison Inc. Speaking with a Miasma spokesperson, our 'people who have suddenly died' correspondent Lesley Bricks pointed out that no-one had actually raised the question of poisoning. We'll have more on this story later.
Coming up – tributes pour in after the death of our 'people who have suddenly died' correspondent Lesley Bricks."
Tongue switched off his monitor.
Although he didn’t know it, Michigan Jones had rather neatly resolved Tongue’s dilemma about his orders to assassinate the Ululations. Now, even if Miasma did suspect him of being a double, even if they were having him watched, no blame could be attributed to him. His cover was safe, and the objective of the talks achieved . . . just not in the way Miasma had wanted. But the news of Leroy Cakes's murder was bad. Cakes, as Aspirational Concept 36, was to have prevented the onset of war by destroying first Miasma and then God Inc. Now it seemed nothing could stand in Miasma's way.
Their last communication to him had been blunt - stay aboard Space Scrap 17 and await further instructions.
So. He was stuck here.
But for how long?
* * *
Daisy switched off her communications deck.
So, Daisy and Jones were stuck here now. Her father, the Admiral, had been predictably ecstatic or 'effing chuffed' as he put it. Contracts and interview requests were pouring in apparently. He had congratulated himself on his choice of Executive Officer. "You see Daisy, I said Michigan Jones would make an excellent EO. Bloody marvellous."
They were to stay in orbit around the Nonsense Sphere - the Ululations had promised to repair the ship for free - until the Admiral sorted out their next contract.
"Looks like we're stuck with each other then," said Jones from the doorway to the bathroom.
Daisy turned from her monitor and gave Jones a long stare. She had o
riginally intended to put him off ship the first chance she got. But now? Well, it hadn't been that bad, had it? And he had, after all, helped her through some tough times of late. She smiled. "So, it seems," she said. "I take it you have no intention of living with the Ululations?"
"Sod that, a planet full of Zebras and being massaged with horse spit every day? No thank you,” he scratched absently at the back of his neck. “No, I'd quite like to stay aboard if that's OK. I mean, I thought it was going to be a marmalade of nonsense at first but, you know . . . we sort of worked it out."
"We did. Just one thing though, something that's been puzzling me."
"Yes?"
"In the sick bay when I came in with the Neural Uploader. Smiert asked me what it was. You correctly identified it. But those things have been banned for decades. How did you know what it was?"
Jones shifted uneasily from foot to foot. "Well," he waved his hand airily, "I just sort of assumed, you know . . ." His voice trailed off.
"Huh. It's just that I hadn't explained my plan yet. So, you had no reason to assume anything."
“Oh no!” Jones dropped his towel and raised his arms, “I’ve dropped my towel, I’m naked, what a distraction!”
"How did you pass your XO exam?"
“You can see my cock and everything!”
Daisy blinked. "How did you pass your XO exam?"
Jones lowered his arms. "How? Brilliantly, of course. With aplomb. Or a plim, I forget which, does it matter?"
"You used an illegal brain patch as well."
"How dare you, you come in here with your, your accusations and you accuse me! Me, the Herald!"
"You did, though didn't you?"
"I did, yes."
Daisy shook her head. "Unbelievable."
"Alright, fine,” Jones picked up his discarded towel, “we're both bad people. We deserve each other. So, what's our next mission?"
"Don't know yet," said Daisy. "But whatever it is, it can't be any worse than this one."
20 Epilogue
The denizens of Hypospace, entities who kept their real names a secret known only to themselves, regarded one another.
"Well then," said Boulder.
"Well then," said Filament.
"Our first round ends with a draw, yes?" said Boulder.
"It would seem so."
"Seem? Neither of us was able to land a killing stroke."
"It would appear so," agreed Filament.
"Well then."
"Appearances can be deceiving."
"Oh, I see," said the Boulder.
"What?"
"Nothing, nothing, carry on."
"No, what did you mean 'oh I see'?"
"Well, you're in one of your enigmatic moods again aren't you."
"Am I?"
"Stop it!"
"Fine," said Filament. "What did you think of Leroy Cakes?"
"I did not see him coming at all," admitted Boulder. If it had a finger it would have wagged it at its companion, "I had to alter my plans to deal with him."
"A mere feint - my real objective was to ensure the Ululations joined the Alliance."
"Pah! You think that will make any difference?"
"We shall see."
"I still think your choice of players is insane."
"There is much sanity in insanity."
"No there isn't."
The Filament paused for a moment. "No, you're right. I just couldn't think of anything enigmatic to say."
"That is the enigma of the enigmatic."
"Oh, that's good."
"Thanks."
"So then," said Filament, "Shall we commence with the next round?"
"After you."
"You are too kind."
"Too kind . . . or too cunnilingus?"
"Too . . .? Do you mean cunning?"
"Damnit yes," said Boulder. "Can I go again?"
"As you wish."
"Too kind . . . or too cunning?"
"We shall see," said Filament.
"Indeed, we shall," said Boulder.
"Yes, we shall," said Filament, unwilling to concede the last piece of enigma before the game recommenced.
"We shall indeed."
"I think we shall."
"Look just shut up and play," said Boulder, who suspected that this would go on for centuries if it did not intervene. It tensed, if boulders could be said to tense. "So, the next round begins."
"It began a long time ago."
"Oh, shut up."
The Filament made its move. It was, in Boulder’s opinion, a very bad one.
* * *
THE END
THE DOOMSDAY TURD IS DEAD.
BUT THE CREW OF SPACE SCRAP 17 SHALL RETURN IN
'1960'S PURPLE SEX GAS'
* * *
<<<<>>>>
Acknowledgments
Huge thanks to Samantha who puts up with my typing away in the wee, small hours and is very kind and forgiving of my first drafts. She provides endless encouragement and coffee. Thanks to editors Anya and Mark for making sense of my nonsense and to James for making it look good. Thanks to Rupert, the other half of the Space Scrap 17 creative development team, who must accept partial responsibility for creating the nonsense that would eventually coalesce into . . . whatever this is.
* * *
You’re all spiffing.
Also by Erick Drake
Space Scrap 17 is a planned series of six books about the struggles of the inept crew against a universe of malevolent powers.
* * *
The next book in this comedy space opera series is ‘1960’s Purple Sex Gas’.
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If you’d like to be notified when my next book becomes available sign up for my newsletter. I promise not to spam you, and you can download a free short story.
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Until next time . . .
