The Fourteenth Adjustment

by Robert Wingfield

  “I’m an old romantic at heart,” said Tanda. “You’ve touched my very soul with your plea. What can we do, in exchange for the Magus leaving the herd with us?”

  Tom gave the Skagan a sharp glance, but she was already gazing back at the doku, now chewing their way through offcuts from the smak plant. “Actually, I haven’t worked that out,” he said.

  “I have,” said the Magus. “Here are some notes I have scribbled on the back of a fag packet.” He handed it over.

  “What’s this?” Tanda took out the silver wrapping paper and shook out the obligatory earwig. It scampered off into the undergrowth. “Smells nice,” she said, sniffing inside. “But what do you want me to do with it?”

  “You see there, the plans for a small drone. We would like you to build a few so we can send them as spy cameras, to root out the weak points in the TBP’s organisation.”

  “Only that? Where’s the killing bits?”

  “No killing,” said Tom. “Brute force won’t work against a faceless bureaucracy, no matter how many parking attendants you punch. We need to be stealthy to break the stranglehold on storage spaces. If we can get something we can make public, maybe the government will act, or the monopolies commission... Oh I don’t know,” he said as the others stared at him. “We have to start somewhere, don’t we?”

  “I’ll see what we can do,” said Tanda. “No promises, but we will be in touch. In the meantime, you take the Fortune and get some raw materials for us to build with.”

  “And I’ll give you Herr Gottstein’s details,” said the Magus. “He has promised to source everything we need.

  “Pete, are you still there?” Tom cautiously pushed open the door to the operations room on the Fortune. There was a scraping of cardboard as it swung inwards, and a strong smell of pizza and sweat. “Pete?” He regarded the inert figure at the console.

  “What?” Pete Young jerked awake. “Whoops, closed my eyes for a moment. How are things?”

  “Oh fine. The doku got loose and destroyed the Skagan breeding beds and we were staked out to be eaten by a carnivorous plant.”

  “That’s nice,” said Pete, turning back to the console. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to finish building this virtual empire so that I can get the bonus points for completing my daily objectives. I must have nodded off. Is there any more pie or perhaps a spare can of lager?”

  Tom shuddered. “I think we used the lager supply to clean out the effluent chutes. You might have to drink tea or ale. We are adequately stocked with both.”

  Pete winced. “Ale?” He sounded horrified. “I’m not sure I can handle anything with taste. Even the coffee doesn’t seem like Mrs Tuesday used to make, although we are using the same ‘Dozy Ethelred’ beans. When are we going to take back SCT and get back to normality? I miss designing real things... and a good cup of coffee.”

  “We can’t return yet. Not until we’ve broken the parking stranglehold, or at least negotiated better rates. With that in mind, we have given the plans of a spy drone to Tanda. Do you think you could work with the Skagans to build a few?”

  Pete gave the screen a wistful glance. “Miss my Hyper-Wars objectives, you mean?”

  “Ah, but instead have something real to develop. We can then get back to material battles, rather than some imitation on your screens.”

  Pete rotated his seat. “But this is real, in a virtual reality sense. And you need me to man the weapons. Supposing we are attacked?”

  “Can you rig them up to the cockpit so the pilot can control them? Targeting can be automatic, I’m told.”

  “I might have to spend time working that out... you know, design, plans, testing, recalibration and wiring in to a deflector array that hasn’t been fitted yet... that sort of thing.”

  “I met Tanda’s younger sister, pretty in a skimpy dress, down the allotment. Apparently, she has recently come of age, and is looking for training and exercise and coaching in Skagan greeting rituals... but of course, if you are going to be busy with all that...”

  Pete stood up and pulled a large switch over the control console. “Done,” he said.

  “Done?”

  “I only had to reroute the controls. When do I start?”

  “We were thinking of moving on, to see if we can drum up some support. The Skagans are busy reproducing, but with our own spy drones, I’m hoping we will be able to start hitting back at TBP soon.”

  “TBP have changed their name,” said Pete. “I was listening to the twenty-four-hour games station, and in the ten-second weekly news update, they said that TBP have merged with all the other car-parking organisations to form a super-group called STOP. They now have a stranglehold on vehicle storage on Sapristi and are using our technology to expand into the galaxy. That would explain the drone that attacked us. From the remains that I collected to load up the shunt again, I found a bit with some writing on. The words ‘Exterminator Attack Total Execution Nuke ’ were crossed out, and someone had written ‘Peace Envoy P1’ instead.”

  “Sounds much nicer, and that drone didn’t seem to be a problem.”

  “They will be sending more. Their only limitation is the engine technology. They have announced their intentions to purchase their own herd of doku, and were looking for farmers wanting to make a fast drachma. Then they said they needed to track down a source of hexacat whiskers, and were offering large sums for information. If they get all the components, they will have the same flight capabilities as we do.”

  “Then we may be in a race to survive. Once they can catch us, we stand no chance, even in this great craft. It will be ‘life’ in the ‘State Pen’ for us. You will have to get the Skagans to work fast.”

  “They might work better for you if you stay around to drive them,” said Pete. “You know they will work like Skagans used to do, if there is someone standing over them with a whip. They love that sort of thing.”

  “Never needed to drive them, before,” said Tom. “The thought of imaginary insurgents gave them all the incentive they needed, but I would feel happier if you were guiding their research. I really don’t want to be responsible for rearming them into another galactic war. I simply must get into the enemy’s communications and processes and see if there is a way we can legally challenge them. Will you do it?”

  Pete nodded absently. Dragging his eyes away from the screen, he took a deep breath and pressed the ‘Save’ button. There was a pause with a whirling indicator, stating, ‘Do not switch off or leave your seat, even to go to the toilet, while the Save icon is showing.’ He stood up. Immediately the message ‘Save failed’ flashed up, quickly followed by ‘unable to conserve game progress, owing to Galactinet connection crash. Reverting to last save: New Game—Erase all Data—Quit.’

  “Now look what you’ve made me do.”

  “There are greater things at stake here,” said Tom, “and I’m told that Tanda’s sister is very like her, only younger and prettier.”

  “In deference to the kind way you have treated me, and the improvements that SCT has contributed to pizza manufacture, I will try, and won’t mention you slagging off my favourite lager at all.”

  “Good man.”

  A bell started ringing. A small hoist towed it slowly towards the ceiling. It got louder as it went.

  “The alarm’s been raised,” said Pete. “It’s detected another one of those STOP drones. We should be safe down here, but as soon as it’s gone, you should leave. We don’t want to attract attention to Skagos.”

  “Not that they need car parks here,” said Tom, “but you never know what they might try to put tarmac on. If it’s there, someone will try to use it, I’m sure.”

  The Black Empress Kara’s Good Fortune was lurking in deep space, attempting to hide from the STOP war-machine. Since leaving Skagos, they had dodged several more individual ‘P’ drones. Groat had wanted to annihilate them, but Tom thought it better to avoid conflict rather than pinpointing their position by destroying
any of them.

  “I miss the eggs,” said the Magus, in the cockpit, “but when are we going to start doing something?”

  Tom looked up from the multi-user origami game he was playing with Caryl, herself across the universe, and filling in time while she waited for the old steeplejack in charge of family records to climb down from the library ladder. “To get those hexacat whiskers for the engines, we need to find your old planet. Can you remember where it is?” He looked around. “It’s a lot better in here now we moved the chickens out. Amazing what a clean-up does. I can see the controls, now the muck has been scraped off.”

  “I could look it up on the Galactinet,” said the Magus. “It’s been renamed a few times, as various people have failed to colonise it, but I might be able to find it. How do you propose to stop STOP getting hold of the hexacat whiskers, though? If I can find it, so can they.”

  “We have to stop STOP, so we need to get there first. Do you think it will be dangerous if we were to land?”

  The Magus smiled. “Hexacats are cute, furry animals. The only danger is in their saliva. One application and any humanoid turns into a mindless, happy zombie, interested only in expensive cat-food and tea-towels featuring hexacats. You only have to look at the postings on Twitface to see who’s been affected. Come to think of it, that would help us find the planet quicker. If I can filter out those people who are naturally stupid and can’t be helped, from those who have been actually contaminated by a visit to the planet...”

  “While you are looking into that, I suppose I should do something. Turn the TV on perhaps, to see if there is anything about STOP on the news and perhaps find out what’s going on in the rest of the universe?”

  The Magus shook his head. “Suppose it's linked into the ‘Galactinet of Doobries’, and STOP use it to spy on us, subsequently tracking us down and murdering us?”

  “How likely is that?” Tom sneered. “The Galactinet is secure, as we are always being told. Even if the devices are connected, the security measures to protect our privacy are without equal... well, since they banned the database administrators from using taxis, and stopped them wearing trousers. That prevented most of the data leaks; you can’t lose the backups from trouser pockets in a taxi if you don’t have any, and aren’t allowed to use taxis anyway.”

  The Magus sighed. “I don’t think it’s the best idea. Do what you will, though, and I’ll see if I can find my planet of the hexacats.”

  Tom pressed the red button on the console to switch on the TV, but fat-fingered the buttons and succeeded in operating the window blinds and the fridge magnet organiser instead. A short message passed to the Goggle Galactinet Organisation, which did an audit on the freezer and ordered a replacement for the dangerous-looking vegetable that had started to dissolve on the middle shelf. The GGO came up with the likelihood that it was a celery root, or Jerusalem Artichoke, but decomposition had rendered that unimportant, so instead it settled on an aubergine, for the sake of the joke, and field the order. An automatic detection system registered the purchase, and began to cycle through the buying habits of everyone in the galaxy, seeking a distinctive pattern of aubergine buyers. Some twenty million spam communications were sent out to advise these buyers of the health benefits of aubergines. Three extra orders were placed as a result and the GGO systems registered a successful marketing campaign, reporting back to the Aubergine Marketing Board and invoicing them for twenty million hits. The AMB only discovered later that all but three of the replies contained expletives and ‘unsubscribe’ requests, and of the three remaining, two of those were mistakes, as victims had pressed the large ‘buy’ button by accident.

  The 3-D screen came on; apparently a real woman reporter.

  “This is Maribel Snowball of STOP News, bringing you all the latest spin and misinformation. In a statement earlier, the head of the SCT Corporation, Montague Errorcode, said that galactic peace has now been achieved and that everywhere is totally safe to travel, apart from a few lethal war zones, and everywhere south of the ‘Ferdinand Line’, which is at this moment being purged of privateers. Mx. Errorcode suggested that we might like a test drive in one of the new ‘S-Top’ Self-Parking range of Hynishota Abominables, which are now available at a discount from ‘STOP Cars’, and come with a car park loyalty card...”

  “Bastards stole our idea!” Tom switched channels:

  “Alexei Jerkov from ‘STOP Rumours’ here, bringing you the lies as they happen. The chairman of STOP, Ferguson Poordraw, recently announced that in order to make the Health Service work, all diseases have been cured, so if you are feeling sick, it is simply hypochondria. STOP have developed a range of placebos, crafted out of the finest lard and sugar derivatives, should you feel the need to take some medicine.”

  “That’s rubbish,” said the Magus over his shoulder. He brandished a STOP-branded packet. “I’ve still got that sore toe... but these pills are helping. I’m sure I’ll be cured soon. What else is on?”

  Tom flicked news channels again. This time it was a mechanical reporter from the Daily Outrage, DO-G.

  “Julia Duskwriter, from the STOP ‘Feelgood’ channel, reports that everyone in the universe is now content and completely happy with their lives. She advises that if you personally feel you are missing something, please contact your local car park, and they will arrange for a friendly executive to adjust your smile for you. According to Julia, this is the added value you can only get from STOP car-parking initiatives. And now the headlines from the local papers...

  “The Daily Panic reports that universal meltdown is right around the corner, so put on your lead overcoat and order these radiation pills from our sponsors...

  “From the Daily Indignation... ‘It’s all the fault of the Government and Fuksit. Be annoyed now’.

  “From the Liberated, the outlet of the ‘Slightly Left of Centre but Unwilling to Specify’ party (Slocbuts)... ‘The normal people are to blame.’ It then goes on to explain how the intolerance of common people is making life difficult for the perverts, murderers, insane and greedy.

  “From the Stretches, the vote against everything newspaper... ‘Making changes is dangerous and terrifying. Don’t do it’.”

  “I’m not going to bother buying any of those tabloids,” said Tom, switching off the set. A small red light on the top indicated that all conversations were now being shared to the Galactinet, and recorded, should they ever need to revisit for legal reasons.

  “You forgot the Hack of the Universe news channel,” said the Magus. “They sometimes have stuff which may be of interest, as they expose some statesperson for taking bribes from property developers. I know it’s a target-rich environment, but it keeps them in bulletins.”

  The television picked up on their conversation and switched back on to the Hack of the Universe.

  “Your devastating flame-haired correspondent, Antonia Sternlight, comes to you with this shocking story, sponsored by ‘Bandwagon Innovations, delivering gastric bands for your wheeled vehicles’. The international jewel thief and woman of mystery, Rannie Dearheat, has been reported returning to her empire of tat and scams, after the recent amnesty granted to criminals by the outgoing Emir of Sapristi. Dearheat’s latest product line, an under-arm patch that generates a bad smell if your hygiene is less than perfect, is proving to be a hit with some of the more primitive worlds. There have, however, been a crop of complaints that the generated smell is worse than the actual smell. Mx. Dearheat issued a statement to explain that this is intentional. ‘You might not notice if your armpits smell,’ she said, ‘so having the odour patch, to make sure you don’t miss it, is essential, especially when travelling on underground railways and eating in fast food restaurants.”

  “I need one of those,” said the Magus. “I’m never sure my deodorant is working properly. I miss her.”

  “Rannie? She keeps bolting and getting you into trouble. Why can’t you dump her and find someone who will treat you better? There must be someo
ne out there who fancies a little bald bloke with a doku empire and a hexacat.”

  “She still loves me,” said the Magus, “and I love her.”

  “Have you seen this bit then?” Tom rewound the report.

  “In response to accusations that she was a one-woman crime wave, Mx. Dearheat said that the reason she had successfully robbed every one of the major banks and repositories in the galaxy was purely for testing their security measures, and as a gesture of good faith, she offered to return the stolen cash in exchange for reasonable finders’ fees. She said that the only thing left for her to do now was to get even with that two-bladdered fart-snake investigator known as the Magus...”

  “Now we’re talking,” said the Magus, rubbing his hands together. “That’s code for her wanting us to meet up again. Shall we go and find her?”

  “Forget the hexacat whiskers then?”

  “My woman needs me. After that, we can go after some pussy.”

  Rannie

  In which Luigi gets banned

  T

  he Fortune descended gently on to the surface of the planet that Rannie had made her manufacturing centre. Large billboards welcomed them and advised that should they want to purchase anything, they should go on to the Secure Galactinet, also known as the ‘Dark Mesh’, to avoid their transactions being traced, and therefore make sure there was no chance of a refund in the event of dissatisfaction.

  “At least she’s up front with terms and conditions,” said Tom.

  “I think that’s how the empire works,” said the Magus. “She sells stuff that people can’t do without, at a very reduced price. They buy it because of the novelty value, and if it doesn’t work, no problem. They still have the product, and can boast about it to their friends, who aren’t the slightest bit interested in seeing it functioning. Oh, look at the latest venture. She did tell me about it.”

  “What?”

  “The sign over there; Dearheat Dating, ‘guaranteed to introduce you to the partner of your dreams, or a complete refund’.”