“And for your next drink, madam?” purred Chemise le Rouge, the lollipops stuck to her lizard-skin hat glistening in the lounge’s demure light.
“I was talking about this one,” said Nina Twice. “Did I actually order this?”
“I wouldn’t know. My shift has just started.”
“Really?” Galk asked her. “But … hold on.” He scowled at his martini. “But I was … I mean … we were … oh crap. Chemise, better pour me another one. Make it a double.”
“And I’ll have a pint of Guinness, Chemise,” said Nina. She glanced at Galk. “You were saying?”
“Huh. Yeah. I mean, when they invented the damned suites, I bet they figured, oh, I don’t know, historical reenactments, conversations with fake AI versions of famous people, geniuses with Italian accents or something. Or even comic book stories, or noir potboilers. But you ask me, they were idiots. I mean, who’d use the holographic chamber for boring shit like that? Hell no. It was porn nonstop. That’s why the Fleet shifted to shiny black trousers.”
“And short skirts,” said Nina.
“You’re wearing slacks.”
“I’m Security. Besides, the captain nixed that directive. Thank Darwin.”
“Sin-Dour wears active wear. Leggings, and I’ll tell you, if we still had a holographic chamber she’d be my number-one star—”
“STOP,” said both Nina and Chemise.
New drinks on the counter, Galk drained his first martini and reached for the fresh one. “Fine. How about I tell you both about this new weapon I found in Stores? The Brachinator Slick-Palm Disruptor Mark IV.”
When Nina scowled, Chemise asked, “All right, I’ll bite. What does it do?”
“Targets brachiating aliens, makes them lose their grip on branches and fall to their deaths.”
“Are there any brachiating aliens?”
“Not that I know of, but the arms industry is all about future contingencies, advanced and projected applications, specificity of function.”
“You seem unhappy, Ms. Twice,” observed Chemise.
“I’m not allowed weapons,” she said morosely. “Unarmed combat specialist. Though I suppose, in extreme circumstances, I might find myself in possession of, say, a Crass Devastate Non-Discriminator modified-stock overclipped Ice-Slammer 23.”
“Ooh,” murmured Galk, licking his chaw-stained lips.
“That’s assuming we find another rogue planet here in T-Space,” Nina continued, “defying the laws of the universe in the usual manner that seems to follow us around everywhere. And that the captain decides we just have to visit its surface, or at least the tunnels beneath the surface, and he calls me to join his landing party.”
Galk rubbed the bristle on his jaw. “Rogue planet, huh? And what’s on it, Nina?”
“What’s on it? Who knows. Something mysterious, dire, dangerous.”
They jumped at the red-alert Klaxon and the canned announcement: “All essential personnel to your stations! This is no drill. Repeat. This is no drill!”
An instant later, Galk’s and Nina’s comms beeped and then the captain’s voice said, “Gear up you two and meet me in the Insisteon Chamber. You won’t believe this—another rogue planet in T-Space!”
Galk pointed at Nina. “This one’s on you,” he said in a growl.
* * *
Sans star, the rogue planet was internally lit like a giant mostly opaque light bulb. Darker veins traced chaotic patterns across its otherwise smooth surface. Hadrian studied it a moment longer on the small screen in the Insisteon Chamber, and then turned to his landing party. “All right, we haven’t got much time, since we’re due at Kittymeow like, yesterday. But galactic peace will just have to wait. This is a planet! A mysterious planet in T-Space! I mean, how often does this happen?”
Galk raised a hand. “Sir, I swear we ran into one not that long ago—”
“Yes, and how’s that for an insane coincidence! Buck, check the coordinates again for this displacement. Sin-Dour detected a tunnel network but there was gravimetric interference, or maybe it was ionic interference—one of those, anyway, so the remote mapping was a bit vague. Okay, let’s call it ironic interference. Beta, welcome to the landing party. I’m sure you will prove to possess essential talents well-suited to whatever we encounter down there.”
“My lingerie program is up and running, sir.”
“Excellent. If we run into any Red Friday Sales Events, you’ve got our backs.”
“Precisely, sir.”
“Galk?”
The combat specialist held up a massive black-matted weapon festooned with multiple canisters and battery packs like so much hanging fruit. “Yes sir. Brachinator Slick-Palm Disruptor Mark IV. In case we run into a heretofore unknown tunnel-dwelling race of brachiating aliens, sir.”
“Outstanding, and Ms. Twice, is that a weapon in your hands or were you just fumigating the orchard when I called?”
“Crass Devastate Non-Discriminator modified-stock overclipped Ice-Slammer 23, sir. And yes, it’s excellent against insects and other vermin.”
“I see, but won’t that interfere with your unarmed combat capabilities?”
“Additional ordnance is always advised, sir. Since the chief engineer is carrying only his multiphasic, perhaps he can shoulder it for the time being, thus freeing me up for hand-to-tentacle engagements?”
“Buck?”
The chief engineer popped a handful of pills. “Good to go, sir.” He shouldered the Ice-Slammer 23.
“Well then,” said Hadrian, “are we set for mayhem or what? Of course, assuming a hostile reception. If it’s not hostile, well, I’m sure it will be sooner or later.”
“With these weapons,” said Galk, “count on it.”
“And in this manner we continue to profess peaceful intentions on an ever-expanding wave of spraying blood and alien body parts.” He tapped his comms. “Sin-Dour, put the marines on standby.”
“Yes sir.”
Tammy the chicken now appeared. “That’s right,” the AI said, “you’re going nowhere without me. You, Nina Twice, pick me up for the displacement, will you? There. Good. Oh, you have such soft hands … except for the bone-shattering ridge implants on the edge of your palms.”
“Now then!” said Hadrian. “Onto the pads, team! And remember, so long as none of us die it doesn’t matter how many aliens we slaughter. All sympathies remain with us and indeed, our innate righteousness remains intact!”
Everyone took position. To then stare at the unmanned displacement console.
“Crap. Buck, call us in a technician, will you? Or just set the timer. But remember, you only get seven seconds to get back on the pad! If you stumble and land like halfway, well, it won’t be pretty.”
Buck scowled. “I’ll call the technician.”
Tammy snorted.
* * *
The tunnel was constructed of rough-hewn grey-stone walls and a smooth level floor that had been waxed recently.
Buck grunted and then said, “Looks utterly abandoned.”
“Somehow even this place reminds me of California,” said Hadrian. Then he shook himself. “Never mind. Galk, you’re on point—uhm, that way. Nina, take up the rear.”
“Sir?”
“Take up the rear.”
“Yes sir. That would be over here, correct?”
“Perfect. Beta, check your Pentracorder for life signs.”
The android studied the readings. “Warning! Imminent contact! I detect four biological life signs very close, along with two inorganic artificial intelligences!”
“Yes,” said Hadrian. “That would be this landing party. Anyone else?”
“No sir, although I detect strange energy readings directly down this tunnel.”
“Goody! What’s strange about them?”
“Sir?”
“The energy readings.”
“Oh. Well, the little digital screen here says: STRANGE ENERGY READINGS.”
“Right. Galk, lead on. Let’s
track down those strange energy readings, shall we?”
They set off down the tunnel, or perhaps it was up the tunnel. They set off along the tunnel. And round a bend came to a door, beyond which emanated the sound of tinkling chimes, or a harpsichord, overlaid a moment later by ominous strings.
“Tammy, what did I tell you about your infernal soundtrack overlaying in situ soundtracks and confusing everyone?”
The strings stopped. “How disappointing. And here I’ve just installed stereophonic surround-sound amplification acoustic devices where my breasts would be, if chickens had breasts—hold on, they do have breasts! What kind of linguistic discombobulation is this language anyway? Chickens lay eggs! They have chests, not breasts! ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, the chef recommends roasted chicken chests for tonight, unless you would prefer the genetically modified contradictory horror of chickens with potentially lactating mammalian breasts, hmm?’”
“Are you done now, Tammy?”
“For now. Point made and all that.”
“Right. Galk, try the door, will you?”
“Do I have to, sir?”
“Dire mystery and danger, Galk! This is what we live for!”
“You were listening in!”
“Just open the damned door!”
Galk opened the door.
They found themselves looking into a sumptuous chamber accoutred in the style of the seventeenth-century French Royal Court. The harpsichord was louder now, originating from the maroon-velour-wearing figure seated at the ornate instrument with his back to them. The music paused and the figure twisted round, revealing a human face now breaking into a welcoming smile. “Oh do come in! The deadly revelations unveiled via our bemusing conversation to come are indeed imminent and do let’s get on with this, shall we?”
“Oh crap,” muttered Hadrian, “keep an eye out for the shadow of a giant cat, everyone.”
“Any cat can cast a giant shadow, sir,” Nina Twice observed. “It’s all down to the lighting effects, you know.”
“Oh dear,” said the man, now rising from the bench and approaching, “I believe you are confused, Captain. Cat? What cat? No matter. I’ve already sent for my lovely wife to join us. You will adore Countess Felinia Spitting-Fury, I’m sure.”
“Sir,” said Beta, “I am reading no life signs from this stranger. I therefore conclude that he is dead. Perhaps your combat specialist can now shoot him as this will dispense with the impossible contradiction imposed by these readings.”
“He’s not brachiating,” Galk observed. “I can’t even scratch him, much less kill him. That said, I might make his armpits itchy. That’s something.”
Nina collected her weapon from Buck. “I can kill him, sir,” she said, charging up the Ice-Slammer 23.
“Belay that, Nina,” said Hadrian.
“Yes, belay that!” cried the stranger. “I am Count Markup DeSale and you are the landing party from the Willful Child, a starship I have just now shrunk down to fit in this small jar,” which he held up, revealing the tiny ship inside.
“And why did you do that?”
“Well, because it’s cruel, especially when I do this—” and he flung the jar at the wall. The glass shattered and the tiny starship spun away and then began circling near the ceiling. “Oh, that didn’t work as planned.”
“Of course not,” said Hadrian. “Since my first officer no doubt activated defensive screens as soon as she discovered that the ship was in a giant jar held by an even bigger hand in a colossal Royal Chamber. It’s what I would do.”
“Oh what a dreadful buzzing sound it’s making! Make it go away! Make it go away! Waaa!”
“Now dear,” said a motherly voice, “you mustn’t break your toys because then they’ll be broken and then what will you have to play with tomorrow?”
The count frowned. “Who’s speaking?”
“Well,” said Tammy, “it was worth a try.”
An inner door slid open and in slinked Countess Felinia Spitting-Fury, shimmering in her shimmery gown, her long black hair blackly gleaming like black silk, her emerald green eyes lined in Egyptian kohl and glittering, powdered green malachite, her deep crimson lips painted deep crimson, the whiskers flaring out from her cute button nose twitching as they tested the air while a tiny pink tongue slid out in delicate tease from between her long white canines as she smiled a predatory smile.
Her husband hurried up to her side and grandly gestured with one arm. “May I present to my wonderful guests my beautiful wife, the Countess Felinia, daughter of the venerable noble houses the Spitting-Blythes and the Ineffectual-Furys. Proof, dare I say, that all that inbreeding nonsense is just that: nonsense! Why, have you ever seen such a lovely creature? Darling dearest, this is Captain Hadrian Sawback, commanding the Affiliation Fleet Ship Willful Child—yes, the thing buzzing our chandelier at the moment—and assorted members of his crew. We have guests for dinner and isn’t that wonderful?”
The count then made a flamboyant wave and suddenly the chamber was dominated by a grand dining table crowded with all sorts of food, wine, liquors, and beside each plate personal communication/entertainment handheld devices designed to obliterate the mindfulness of physical experiential reality in favor of vacuous distraction in an electronic ghost realm of extreme self-centered obsessive-compulsive existential despair disguised as “being connected.”
“Ooh,” murmured Buck DeFrank, drawn closer to the table in the manner of a moth to the flame, “has someone messaged me? I must know. Immediately! Wait!” he then cried as Galk pulled the man back and held him in an armlock. “Let go of me! I can’t—I can’t think! Aagh! What am I missing? What am I missing?”
Abruptly the chief engineer collapsed in Galk’s arms, eyes rolling up, face twitching and mouth frothing.
Meanwhile, the countess, having spied the tiny starship circling the chandelier, stood transfixed for a long, tense moment, and then she leapt onto the table, scattering dishes, goblets, and crystal wineglasses, her taloned hands reaching up in an effort to bat the ship to the floor. It dodged and spun out of reach to hover in a corner of the ceiling. A tiny torpedo spat from the Willful Child, banked, and set off directly toward the countess.
Hissing, Felinia fled the room in a flurry of black silky hair and shimmery gown, the torpedo racing after her.
“Sir,” said Galk, “did that torpedo have hummingbird wings?”
Tammy (who had hopped onto the tabletop to jadedly eye the dinner’s centerpiece: roast chicken besieged by wedges of roasted potatoes) now spoke. “Indeed, Combat Specialist. My newly invented Phlapton Torpedo, specifically designed for atmospheric pursuit.” There was a distant explosion that shook the chamber and made the chandelier tinkle sweetly. “Ah. Successful engagement, Captain. Target impacted, presumably destroyed.”
Frowning, the count said, “Destroyed? My lovely wife?”
“Don’t feel too bad,” Tammy said. “She had the brain of a dim-witted cat, according to the deep-scan neural-pathway diagnosis I ran when she came into the room. There was an entire nation run by similarly inbred twits back in Terra’s history. They ruled their island nation until foxes evolved laser-beam eyes and turned the hunt on the hunters with unmitigated but entirely satisfying slaughter. Burning coattails and ear-piercing haw-haws. This was shortly after the twits built their wall around the island to better effect their new Era of Xenophobic Nostalgia under the leadership of Trumpisia May. Happily short-lived as it was.”
Hadrian apologetically cleared his throat and said to the count, “You’ll have to excuse Tammy, Count Markup. His grasp of Terran history is as garbled for the chicken as it is for the rest of us, ever since the EMP scrambled our data banks. The foxes never evolved laser-beam eyes. That’s ridiculous. They simply armed themselves with generic flamethrowers. But the war truly turned when the hunting dogs suddenly realized they weren’t four-legged people after all, but close cousins to their prey, and set about chasing toffs down into holes and ripping them to pieces, res
ulting in some of the best online videos ever.”
“My wife? Destroyed?”
“And that’s what I don’t get,” Hadrian said, throwing up his hands. “Every damned alien invites us in as guests. You’d think word would get around, wouldn’t you? We’re bloody murder when it comes to the status quo.”
“Can we go now?” Galk asked.
“I doubt it,” Hadrian replied, studying the count. “We need our ship back in space and back to full size.”
“Allow me,” said Beta. The android walked up to their host. “Sir, your wife has not been utterly destroyed, just singed. She is now lounging on your bed, pretending that nothing happened that she didn’t intend to happen. However, the point I wish to make now is far more pressing. Your wife, sir, was wearing no lingerie.” She held up one of the handheld devices. “I took the opportunity to peruse your online shopping capacities, sir, and may I suggest that, at modest expense, you can delight your wife with an impressive assortment of bras, knickers, hosiery, nylon stockings, sexual aids, and fluffy dangling balls.”
“I can?”
“Yes sir,” Beta replied. “And luckily for you here in T-Space, our ship possesses a well-supplied annex—”
“It does?” the rest of the landing party asked, barring Buck, who was still unconscious and frothing due to e-withdrawal.
“It does,” Beta replied, turning her attention back to the count. “A few hundred thoughtful purchases will do much to amend the damage done by your inviting guests to dinner without offering her the option of vetting, or indeed vetoing the entire evening of dubious entertainment since she has a headache. Because, let’s face it, you overstepped here, sir, especially in your assumptions of passive compliance to your every stupid off-the-cuff whim. What were you thinking?”
The count drew himself up. “Hold on here, who do you think’s in charge of this marriage?”
The Search for Spark Page 3