“They deserted. Apparently, the head of the Swedwayland Football Alliance had been taking bribes from the Beauty Industry to install their models in the teams. That’s why whenever you watched the matches, there were always adverts for haircare products and face cream.”
“Were there?” said the Magus. “I really hadn't noticed... I was focusing on the skill of the players,” he added quickly.
“They were given amnesty, and have returned to their original jobs as fashion models and companions for rich old men, so we lost the crew. There’s just us two.”
“Poetry in motion,” said Tom, as Spigot led the way across the hanger. He received a dig in the ribs from Suzanne. “What?”
“You’re supposed to be my husband. Take your eyes off the woman.”
“I thought we agreed we were going separate ways, now that I’ve lost the company and aren’t worth anything to you.”
“While you’re with me,” she said haughtily, “that does not apply. Behave yourself.”
Tom gave her a sideways glance.
“And I need a shower,” she said. “And something to eat. Spigot, do you have anything in the way of chocolate aboard?”
“I think we have smelly fish and meatballs, but it’s okay if you don’t look at it or taste it at all. We really should stop up for a top up.”
“Ship’s meeting in the ‘Disarray’ in ten minutes,” came a voice through a panel on the wall.
Spigot pressed a button and a light came on to show that she had pressed a button. “Groat, we'll soon be there; we have news we can share,” she said into a communications grille.
“This rhyming is going to get annoying,” said Tom, “but show us the way.”
Spigot took a breath. “Whatever you say.”
The Skagan woman left them sitting in the Officers’ Disarray of the renamed Fortune. Tom looked around curiously at the large table with the chairs, the whiteboard and the comfy sofas. The Magus gave a grunt as he opened a cupboard.
“Perfect, they even have a drinks’ cabinet.”
“On a deep space cruiser?” said Tom.
“Don’t knock it.” Suzanne joined the little man at the cabinet and poured herself a glass of amber liquid. She sniffed. “It’s a good one.”
“Everything is a good one to you,” said Tom.
Suzanne shot him an injured look. “I’ve given that up,” she said. “I’m only investigating this… for medicinal purposes. All that stale air, and your armpits in ‘Fireball’ has given me a sore throat. Don’t you realise when you need a wash?”
“I’m investigating it for alcoholic purposes,” said the Magus. “I’m not proud. What will you guys have?”
“I don’t drink shorts,” said Pete. The others stopped in mid action and gaped at him. He reddened. “They, er, fog the mind, destroy the kidneys and make your breath smell,” he said.
“Thank goodness for that,” said the Magus. “For a moment there, I thought there was something wrong with doing it.”
“What’s this meeting about?” said Tom, sipping from a glass now containing what might have been a rather good Scotch had it not tasted disgusting and been nothing like Scotch. “Where did they get this stuff?”
“It says ‘Nishifiddich’ on the bottle,” said the Magus, squinting at the writing, “and is described as a whisky having ‘a delicate floral nutty verdant neatness, with pungent murky, and fresh fruit connotations, comprehensive with a rich spiced arboreal difficulty.’ Made on the verandas of Musoketeba, apparently.”
“That would explain it,” said Tom, shaking his head. “Ah, this would be our host then,” he added as the door hissed open and the man he knew as Groat entered.
“Greetings,” said the Skagan, undoing his belt buckle and eyeing Suzanne with interest.
“Not right now,” said Tom. “What’s going on?”
“And who are you to interrupt the greeting ritual?” Groat rounded on him angrily.
“Your boss, Two-Dan $mith (sic), if you remember,” said Tom, standing up and breathing whisky fumes in his face. “You got a problem with that?”
“I have no boss,” said Groat.
“You do now. This is my ship, so stand down, mister.”
Groat’s eyes narrowed. “It is my ship,” he said icily.
“You stole it from SCT. This was to be the first of our luxury cruisers and you lot seem to have turned it into a ship of war.”
“Is there any other kind?”
“If I have to fight you for it, I will.”
Groat snarled and drew out an evil-looking serrated knife.
“And that’s not even your knife. You stole it from the kitchen. Put it back in the drawer and do what you’re told.”
“Righto then,” said Groat with a sigh. “It will be good to have someone in charge at last. To tell you the truth, Spigot was beginning to get on my nerves, what with her rhyming and curves, and all that telling me what to do.”
“What happened? What’s with the office furniture in the Officers’, er, Disarray?”
Groat gazed around the room. “We had to refit the ‘Mess’ after the ladies football teams left,” he said. “They might look lovely, but they don’t know how to tidy up after parties. Anyway, for expediency, we just took what we could get, to replace all the broken furniture and fittings: chairs, tables, consoles, and the odd coffee machine.”
“I like odd coffee,” said the Magus, swilling his drink pensively. “I could really do with one now.”
“I thought I recognised it all,” said Tom. “So, that’s where all my new equipment went. No wonder we could never get the conference room refitted after that assassination attempt on me.”
Groat brightened up. “Insurgents, Milord. I remember. I think we got them, but they stole your furniture. Best time we’d had for ages... especially as you survived, Milord, of course.”
“Of course. So about this equipment, Vac told me the supplies had been held up by pirates.”
“In a way, they had,” said Suzanne, helping herself to another glass of Nishifiddich. “If you count this wretched specimen as a pirate.”
“We are pirates,” said Groat plaintively. “There may not be that many of us, but we do what we can.”
“And how many are you then?” said Tom. “If we are going to regain SCT Island, we will need a good crew.”
“Not that many, Milord.”
“And how many are left after the ladies departed?”
“Me and Spigot only,” said Groat. “All the other men followed the ladies, saying that they had been employed as masseurs and lifestyle coaches. I couldn’t stop them.”
“Actually, we missed it because Groat and I were engaging in our morning rituals,” said Spigot, as she reappeared, pushing a trolley. “We didn’t realise they’d gone, until a couple of days later. Coffee and pizza anyone?”
“Rather,” said Pete, jumping to attention.
“Alas, we don’t have any. Supplies are running low. We were hoping your ship was carrying something to eat. That’s why we held you up.”
“You were going to destroy us,” said the Magus. “We couldn’t have given you anything in that instance.”
“We weren’t really. Nobody knows how to operate the doku-shunt battery, so we couldn’t hurt you. Previously, it hasn’t mattered. The targets usually give up and send over what we ask for, without getting splattered. Anyway, Groat, you waste of skin, why aren’t these people in the brig, like I told you to rig?”
“Not my call,” said Groat smugly. “Our leader, Milord $mith (sic) has taken charge.”
“Didn’t you challenge him to a fight to the death as is required by tradition?”
“You were the boss. It’s your job.”
“I thought you were the boss.”
“It’s fortuitous I’m here,” said Tom. “Let’s have some order, shall we?” He sat at the head of the conference table and ran his hand lovingly over the smooth maho
gany-substitute veneer. “It’s good to be back at the table. Pete, can you check out the doku-shunt? We need to get some defensive capability to start with.”
“I’m on it,” said Pete. “Is there anything to eat?”
“Carrots, celery and gripe water,” said Spigot.
“I don’t know whether my body will accept that sort of thing, but I’ll give it a try.”
“How long do you need, Pete?” Tom helped himself to a carrot.
“I should have it operational in three days.”
“Make it twenty minutes.”
“No problem.”
“Then why did you quote three days?”
“I’m an engineer,” said Pete over his shoulder, as he departed.
“I’m none the wiser,” said Tom. “Now, who’s driving?”
“We’ve stopped,” said Groat.
“I know that, but someone needs to drive. Set a course for somewhere and get us moving. It will not be long before TBP come after me. Once they issue a parking ticket, they never seem to let go. Spigot, what do you do?”
“The main engine,” said the Skagan woman. “I keep it alive.”
“Then go, and go now. Judging from the sound of that starter motor, or is it someone shaking up bean cans in a metal dustbin, Groat will need your help to get the ship moving.”
“You are declining the Skagan launching sacrament? We can’t really get the ship moving before that is spent.”
“Put me one on credit. We can catch up later. I think we will need all hands to get this crate operational.” Tom regarded the Magus and Suzanne. “What can you bring to the table?”
“Another drink?” said Suzanne.
“Always need another drink,” agreed the Magus.
Tom shrugged. “Then I’ll leave you two to get acquainted with the alcohol supplies, and I’ll go and check out the rest of the ship.”
STOP
In which a car-parking junta forms
I
n the largest auditorium on Sapristi, the Saint Jeremiah Corbett Memorial Hall, the various factions of the car-parking triads had convened a major conference. At the entrance, was a commemorative plaque detailing the significant achievement of the saint’s life.
The hall was packed with employees from all three companies, and also included a scattering of robot journalists in the form of small disks affixed to flat surfaces. Finally there was a representative from the PTA, the Personal Transport Association, who was there because he was the only car driver on the planet who hadn't broken any speeding, parking, eating, talking or blinking laws, so they couldn’t keep him away.
The hall came to order as the chairman of the meeting, Montague Errorcode, stood on a box so that he could see over the lectern. He shuffled a wad of papers. A groan went through the audience, as they anticipated a long and boring introductory speech. They were not disappointed as Errorcode cleared his throat and spoke. Nobody heard anything, but they could see his lips moving on the monitors scattered around the hall. Offstage, the floor manager made frantic gestures to the Sound Desk to turn the sound up to maximum. He spoke into the microphone in Errorcode’s ear, asking him to repeat, and to try to talk a bit louder. Errorcode scowled and repeated his whisper. The sensitive equipment managed to pick out the words, and enhanced them with a tinny electronic buzz, so that the audience could benefit from the insight about to enfold.
“Ladies, Gentlemen and robotic news reporters...”
There was a cough from the front row. Errorcode glared at the man. “And our esteemed representative from the PTA.” He shuffled his papers, and smiled. “I trust that the upcoming court case will be dealt with fairly and to the common advantage.”
“I was framed,” said the man. “My car hasn’t left the garage for six months.”
“I’m sure justice will be done,” said Errorcode, “but moving on, we are gathered here today...”
“Wrong service,” shouted the floor manager into the earphone.
“Right,” said Errorcode. “I have pleasure in introducing the first annual conference of the combined car-parking groups, and will leave the stage to the leaders of the same. I have been asked to chair this meeting, but I’m sure the leaders of the groups will be able to explain more.” He shuffled his papers again, deafening the crowd, and went to sit at the back of the stage. A sigh of relief echoed around the hall, and then tumultuous applause. One of the cameras managed to pick out Errorcode as he took a bow.
A large man at the side of the stage stood up and made his way to the lectern. The floor manager made more gestures to the Sound Desk to reduce the microphone volume.
“SOME OF you know me,” said the man, as the engineer managed to cut the volume, “but for those who don’t, I am Ferguson Poordraw, the leader of the TBP group of car parks. I have with me, May Welby, leader of C.R.A.P., Complete Rip-off at Parking, and Pietro Fairway from the P.U.S.S., Parking under Special... Circumstances?”
“Yes,” said the man indicated as Fairway, “I’m afraid we outsourced the creation of the acronym to Musoketeba. I wish we hadn't, but it was cheap, so we saved loads of money. We’ve been happy with everything else they’ve done for us, apart from the odd five-day outage on our computer systems every now and then, so we can overlook this.”
“Thank you, Pietro. P.U.S.S., of course, deals with executive parking, and supplies specially vetted chauffeurs from Bonigalia to park your priceless conveyance. I believe your theft rate has dropped considerably since you started following up on employee references.”
“You might have heard that Bonigalia,” put in May Welby, “is a country noted for innovative developments in crime, particularly social engineering and genocide. However, it is also popular for the cheapness of its workers, who are large enough to make effective security personnel, and can be unequivocally trusted because they all come with certificates of honesty issued by their local governments.”
Fairway smiled. “Yes, we used to rely on the employment agencies to provide background security checks, but after the last delivery of drivers, who came strapped to the underside of a truck, we were forced to increase our security measures for humanitarian reasons... with great results. We are currently running at 90 percent crime-free parking, with some 90 percent of the owners getting their cars back with most of the fixtures still attached, and 90 percent of those actually returning at the time specified. We are proud of our ‘Three Nines’ performance rating.”
“A worthy accolade,” said Poordraw. “And Ms Welby, I hear that C.R.A.P. is making a killing through premium parking?”
“It’s Mx.. Welby actually,” said the woman. “Have you not seen the recent human rights legislation?”
“Enlighten me.”
Welby took a breath. “It is now illegal to label anyone by gender, marital status, race or abusive byword. The title ‘Mx..’ will be used to show respect, and also ridicule a system where anyone can be offended by anything. The 64th Adjustment states, ‘Sticks and Stones may break my bones, and that’s perfectly legal, but hurt my feelings, and I’ll see you in court.’”
“I’ll try to remember that,” said Poordraw. “Now, you were telling me about C.R.A.P.”
“Of course,” said Welby, smoothing her skirt-pants. “Over the last year, we have tripled our profits by providing better security, and selling the same parking bays at different rates, depending on the time of day. We now employ conveyance security facilitators (CSFs) to actively monitor each of the premium customer vehicles and ensure no harm befalls them.”
“And people are happy to pay for this? I believe you still offer basic parking facilities?” Fairway sounded sceptical.
“Basic vehicle storage always runs the risk of theft or damage.”
“Aren’t your CSFs there to stop them?”
“At risk to their personal safety, the CSFs are instructed not to intervene if the vehicle is not in a premium parking bay.”
“Even though it could be pa
rked right next to a premium vehicle?”
“Correct. The method works neatly, because thieves now only target the unprotected transports; a technique I believe is known in management circles as a ‘Rabbit Garden’. Assaults on our staff from criminals have dropped to zero. We are proud that being a CSF is one of the safest jobs on the planet.”
“I thought I saw a number of your CSFs had been admitted to hospital recently. Did they try to prevent vehicle thefts anyway?”
“Regrettably,” said Welby, “the injuries were perpetrated by basic parking vehicle owners, frustrated at the mutilation being committed to their conveyances as they were still manoeuvring to park. The criminals were becoming a bit over-enthusiastic, but always scarpered before the drivers got out, so they have been taking it out on the facilitators.”
“Thank you both.” Poordraw interrupted. “TBP of course provides the simple parking arrangements, where nothing is out of the ordinary. We buy up tenement lots, level them, and provide inner-cities with adequate vehicle storage for the workers. We operate a humane tenant relocation policy, where we take pretty market towns out in what used to be the country and surround them with hideous estates of affordable and spacious housing, where affordable means that we cram lots of small buildings on a farmer’s field somewhat below sea-level, and, for those of you unfamiliar with estate agent terms, spacious means you can stand in the middle and not quite touch all four walls with your arms outstretched. As a matter of reference, If you can touch at least two walls, then the room is compact. Any more and you have what we call a ‘galley’.”
“We?” said Welby.
“TBP also has major interests in housebuilding. We have been challenged by the government to produce another million homes by the end of next year.”
“Mx.. Poordraw, may I interrupt?”
“Of course. I presume from the light on your box, I am talking to the robotic reporter from the Daily Outrage?”
The Fourteenth Adjustment Page 6