The Fourteenth Adjustment

by Robert Wingfield

  “You can leave the planks behind,” said Tom. “They might not need decking. Usually these vehicles already have floors.”

  “I’ll ‘deck’ anyone who tries to stop me,” said Groat, “hence the planks.”

  “I think we have a problem with pathetic gags,” said Tom tiredly. “Magus, where are you?”

  “In the cockpit, having eggs for breakfast.”

  “There’s a switch marked ‘esoteric’. Could you switch it off for me?”

  “There, done as requested,” said the Magus, with his mouth full.

  “Right, is that better now, Groat?” said Tom.

  “Much better, Captain $mith (sic). I will lead the way.”

  “I’m glad about that.”

  The air locks at both ends seemed to work, and Tom followed the sturdy Skagan into the tube and along to the other ship. He shut the outer door behind them and checked that his blaster was set on the widest spread. “Right. I’ll let you lead.”

  “Good,” said Groat. “I hope there’s lots of resistance.” He pulled the release lever and they stepped through the hatch into what looked like a loading bay.

  “It’s very quiet,” said Tom.

  “I’ll soon change that if any of the crew turn up.”

  “It smells a bit strange,” said Tom. “A bit like a mixture of cat and soft furnishing.”

  “It’s doing my head in,” said Groat, wavering.

  “I think we should get back to the Fortune,” said Tom urgently. “We need breathing apparatus. Why didn’t we check the atmosphere before we came over?”

  “We did,” said Groat, sinking to the floor. “It showed nothing out of the ordinary. The canary is still hopping about.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” muttered Tom as he too collapsed. “And I really need something to cuddle.”

  Tom’s eyes flicked open as a space helmet was fitted. He looked worried. It wasn’t really a helmet; more of a plastic bag stretched over a crude wire frame. Someone had fixed an air cylinder to his chest, and a tube ran from that, underneath the bag, where it was stuck with brown parcel tape. Someone then operated the valve on the cylinder, and fresh air filled the bag, the overflow squeezing out round his neck with a slight farting sound.

  “Ah, welcome back,” said the smiling face of the Magus, dimly visible through the plastic. “I thought you were done for.”

  “You came to rescue me?”

  “I teleported over,” said the Magus.

  “That was uncharacteristically brave.”

  “I could always go back the same way. You know how I am.”

  “I do, but thank you anyway. What happened?”

  “The atmosphere.”

  “I realised that. It was so quick, though.” Tom took grateful gasps of the air as the plastic helmet filled up.

  “That’s how it is.”

  “Magus, you aren’t wearing any protection. Why are you not wearing protection? Has the threat disappeared? Did you purge the ship of whatever poisoned us?”

  “Didn’t need to; I’m immune.”

  “To what?”

  “Come and see.” The Magus helped Tom to his feet, and then Groat, who was staring around, looking bewildered inside a similar makeshift breathing apparatus.

  They walked out of the loading area into a corridor and then followed signs along to the crew’s quarters. He pushed open the door. Tom gasped.

  The air was full of feathers. On the ragged remains of sofas and armchairs, some of the crew lolled, stupid expressions on their faces, tongues hanging out, and mouths drooling. On the clawed knees of all of them were hexacats, many hexacats. The room was full of hexacats.

  “How many?” said Tom, trying to see through the misting plastic.

  “I lost count,” said the Magus. “They must have been taken from ‘Home’ for their whiskers, but rather than simply doing a bit of trimming and then getting away, these STOP people obviously decided to capture the beasts while they were there. Judging by the effect the atmosphere had on you two, they never stood a chance. One hexacat will reduce a normal person into a gibbering wreck upon contact with the saliva, but a ship full? The histamines have got into the atmosphere, and this is the result. Didn’t they realise that they had to keep the hexacats isolated?”

  “Once they saw how cute they were,” said Tom, tickling one of the beasts under its chin, “I expect they never stood a chance. Diddums, pussy want some milk?”

  “Don’t touch them,” said the Magus, pulling Tom’s hand away. The hexacat swiped it with a claw, and drew blood.

  “Ow, the thing scratched me,” said Tom with a hurt expression, “but they really are so sweet...”

  “I’ll get you out of here,” said the Magus, propelling Tom back towards the door. “You too, Groat. Leave this to me. I’ll get them into our hold, and there they must remain sealed until we can drop them back on ‘Home’.”

  “How can you be so cruel to keep them away from love and affection? Look at their little faces...”

  “I’ve told you, I’m immune to their dribble,” said the Magus, as he closed the hatch. “I lived with them for a while, and don’t forget that Cat, our own ship’s hexacat, has been working with me for ages. He is mostly dribbled out, hence the minimal effect he had on you lot, apart from Suzanne, who seemed to succumb to his charms last trip.”

  “Yes, I wondered why she took it upon herself to keep Cat occupied. Oh, the whiskers. We need the whiskers.”

  “I’ve got my trimming scissors. I’ll collect some on the way.”

  Once back on the Fortune, Tom regained his senses, as much as they were, and was able to part with his hexacat-themed tea-cosy catalogue, once the Magus had prised it from his fingers. The hold was now on a separate air supply and, apart from a few remaining doku, full of hexacats, all making pathetic mewing sounds and playing with woolly balls and imitation mice. The Magus had the key to the room and was guarding it jealously to prevent the crew weakening. The On the Starboard Bow had been released and sent on its way on auto-pilot. They assumed the crew would recover before it made landfall on Sapristi, but as a failsafe, Groat had set the controls to hit the main STOP operations centre without slackening speed.

  “Could try,” he said apologetically.

  After trimming, the hexacats were released remotely on their original planet of ‘Home’. Tom heaved a sigh as the Fortune left the atmosphere, and the remains of the histamines in the hold were flushed into space.

  “What now?” Groat swivelled his chair, his hands behind his head.

  “We need to patrol these shipping lanes to make sure there are no other attempts at stealing the hexacats, but then we also need to take these harvested whiskers back to Skagos to get the new engines operational. How did the reaping go, Magus?”

  “Very high quality of whisker,” said the Magus. “I had been making do with those tired ones from Cat, but he could only grow them so fast. These are fresh organic whiskers, so I’m hoping they will make even more powerful engines.”

  “We must make sure that they don’t fall into STOP hands.”

  “Perhaps protect them with the Bereavement Notable,” said Groat hopefully. “It has the defences, storage and manufacturing facilities, and we can now move it, if we need.”

  “As much as I dread the idea, you are right,” said Tom. “We need to protect this crop, and keep STOP away. Once we have a few more ships, we can leave a blockade here and make sure that nobody else can get the whiskers. I don’t think they will attempt to transport any more of the hexacats away after this. Hopefully, they won’t understand how to deal with them.”

  The Magus peered in through the hatch. “I’ve checked out the doku in the hold. They seem to be part of my original herd. They don’t have tracking devices as far as I can see, so we should be safe.”

  “Apart from those,” said Groat.

  “More drones, and us with our pirate credentials still visible.”
/>   “I’ll go and strike the flag.”

  “Better pull it in instead,” said Tom. “We don’t want them to see you drawing attention by hitting it. Groat, do you have weapon control?”

  “I don’t need to,” said Groat. “They simply blew themselves up.” He sounded disappointed.

  “How did that happen, do you think?”

  “As far as I can tell, their weapons had been wired up the wrong way round.”

  “They really should improve their quality control and testing... ah, I think I understand. Who did we leave in charge of SCT?”

  “Mr Errorcode, I believe,” said the Magus. “His specialities were change control, quality and risk.”

  “There you go then. Good old Monty, working for us still, in the background. In gratitude, I might give him a better job and an office when we get back.”

  In the plush headquarters of STOP, Ferguson Poordraw was interviewing his new head of IT, the omnipresent Montague Errorcode, also currently acting head of Tom’s organisation, SCT. Ferguson’s co-directors, May Welby and Pietro Fairway, were sitting in smaller chairs beside him.

  “Now, Monty, production of the Peacekeeper units is going to plan?”

  “Absolutely; everything bang on target. One hundred percent success rate with production and field trials.”

  “Excellent. So they are all out there, tracking down parking violation fines and confiscating vehicles as necessary?”

  “Completely. We have taken it a stage further. Each unit is armed. If the fines are not paid immediately, the offending vehicle is destroyed. So far we have had a total success rate.”

  “If that is the case, what is this bill for new components? I see doku-hair and hexacat whiskers, the latter being at extortionate prices. I could get an entire day’s parking at the airport for this amount.”

  “There was a problem with supply. Our freighter was intercepted by Burberry Pirates and its entire cargo confiscated. The crew had been drugged somehow. If they hadn't recovered in time, the ship would have crashed on this very building.”

  “Don’t we have defensive shields to prevent that?

  “I’m afraid they haven’t been invented yet. To produce a force-field that could withstand that sort of impact would take more energy than we could possibly generate, even with an extra donkey in the treadmill.”

  “But it happens. I’ve seen force-fields on TV.”

  “I’ll get a team on it.”

  “We lost our shipment. Something has got to be done about these pirates.”

  “Already on it. The peacekeepers have been programmed to bring the criminals to justice.”

  “Why the invoice then?”

  Errorcode shifted downwards in his seat.

  “Where have you gone?”

  “The chair slipped,” came a voice from under the table.

  “Sit up straight then.”

  “I am sitting up straight.”

  Poordraw looked at his co-directors. “May, would you get Monty a booster seat please?”

  May Welby shot him a glance, unnoticed by all except the narrative. She took a cushion off the executive chaise longue and inserted it beneath Errorcode. She was not too gentle, but Errorcode’s head was now visible again, despite his continuing attempts to slump out of sight.

  “Explain this invoice.” repeated Poordraw, more sternly.

  “There have been issues,” said Errorcode.

  “What sort of issues?”

  “Some of our pursuit units have been damaged when attempting to apprehend the criminals.”

  “Can you repair them?”

  “Sort of.”

  “How?”

  Errorcode sighed and then the words came out in a rush. “By building new ones, and that’s why we need the supplies.”

  “Is there no chance of reclaiming the old ones?”

  “Not without a working freighter, a large scoop and a lot of magnets.”

  “And who’s responsible for the destruction of our property?”

  “Those pirates again. I have commissioned and despatched the latest of our enforcer-drones, P17. It is equipped with superior intellect and a big snowplough blade at the front, to protect it against gunfire.”

  “So be it,” Poordraw said. “On that understanding, I’ll authorise the invoice. You will improve the firepower and armour on the new drones so they don’t get broken. I’d also like you to make tracking down and destroying the Burberry Pirates a priority. I presume there is nothing else stopping us from collecting the hexacat whiskers to power our engines?”

  “Everyone else in the Sapristi Main is paying their parking charges without complaint.”

  “Of course they would.” Poordraw rubbed his hands together. “Nobody ever questions parking charges, well, nobody of any consequence, that is.” He looked sideways at his co-director. “An excellent idea of yours, Pietro, identifying everyone over a certain income level, and giving free parking to those people. That way, folks with the money to challenge us will never complain, and they don’t care what happens to the commoners anyway.”

  “I take all the credit for that,” said Fairway. “I bought these ‘reality’ glasses from Dearheat Enterprises. They have filters which blank out anyone below a certain income level. I believe they were developed for visitors to the theatres in the Arty District to help them ignore beggars, but they work adequately when worn by our car-park attendants. They make sure that the leaders of commerce and society don’t get charged.” He handed his spectacles over for Poordraw to inspect.

  “Can I try them?” said Welby. She was ignored.

  “I don’t see any difference,” said Poordraw, squinting around the room at those present.

  “Look out of the window.”

  “Oh, I see what you mean. The streets are empty, except for that vagrant at the corner. Should I be able to see him? Are they faulty?”

  “I am assuming that the man earns more by begging than the normal working wage,” said Fairway.

  “I will have a word with my brother in the excise office,” said Poordraw. “He might be interested in buying a pair for use in his tax interviews.”

  Kara

  In which P17 falls in love

  I

  n a stone palace in Tween Space, Kara Tay was pacing restlessly. The tribesmen, her predecessor, Arianne Archangel, had named ‘Tweenies’ were prostrate on the floor around her. She had to step over them as she continued her inspection of the building.

  “You, man.” She raised the head of one of them.

  “The Great Tay,” he muttered in awe, trying to avert his eyes.

  “Yes, I know. Now tell me where this device of Arianne Archangel’s is. I would like to inspect it.”

  “I know not what you mean.”

  “The device the Great Archangel arrived in?”

  “Oh, the Great Materialising and then Not Working Archangel,” said the man. “We call that ‘the Great Archangel’ after our departed leader, bless the muddy Great Archangel that she used to walk upon.”

  “Can you show me?”

  “It’s over there, through that Great Wooden Archangel, down the long Great Winding Archangel and out into the Great Paved Archangel at the bottom. I cannot take you. We are too unworthy to even set eyes on that wonder of engineering.”

  “Is that what the Great Archangel told you?”

  “It is. So mote it be.”

  “Then I will go and inspect it,” said Kara.

  “But we have to guard you and be ready to satisfy your every whim. You give us a bit of a Great Archangel here.”

  “If you mean a ‘dilemma’, I promise you I won’t try to escape. Where would I go? The Great Archangel downstairs is inoperative.”

  “It is, it is, all lament the Great Archangel.”

  “Then you can wait here and make sure nobody follows me... and stand up. How do you expect to guard me, if you are flat on your face?”

 
; “So mote it be.”

  Kara heaved a sigh of relief as she closed the door. Since Arianne had deserted her, she had been followed doggedly by the Tweenies. She had attempted to track the woman, but under instruction, the guards had stopped her at the outer door, and politely shown her back to the throne room. She was effectively an honoured prisoner, under house arrest.

  As described, the corridor sloped downwards and led into a stone-flagged quadrangle, in the centre of which was a large cylindrical machine parked in a patch of nettles. Kara swallowd. Her own Time Cylinder preferred to travel between rose beds. A nettle-focused machine was new to her, but she was pleased there would be no more snagged tights and scratched legs from the thorns to worry about, if she could get it going. However, the stings on her legs made her start to reconsider as she trampled a path to the entrance hatch, and wonder exactly how sadistic her maker had been in making her so like a real human, even to the point of being stung by nettles.

  The door slid open silently, and a slightly discordant fanfare of trumpets sounded as she approached. The machine informed her that all systems were shut down except for emergency lighting and essential maintenance equipment. She stood in the hatchway, surveying the interior. Where her own cylinder was looking decidedly tired, with trailing wires and pieces of duct tape holding essential components together, Arianne’s machine was pristine. It had the same general design as her own, but the control console was in the centre, and the storage lockers arranged around the outsides. They all had comfortable cushions on them, with back and headrests, seatbelts and warning notices about travelling unsecured. It looked as though there had been room for a larger crew.

  At the opposite side from the entrance, was a ladder leading up through a hole in the ceiling. If there actually was an anti-gravity lift like her own cylinder, not enough power remained to drive it. After standing cursing beneath the hole for a while, before finding that out, Kara climbed up to the lounge area.

  The rest room did not have her beautiful, circular, and sadly stained, bed, but did have an array of neat bunks around the edge, each having storage underneath, and a reading light over the pillow. There was a circular table and chairs in the centre, and a large refrigerator beneath it. Kara was relieved to see a regeneration unit in a space between two of the bunks. Without that, there would be no chance of repairing her systems should they take any damage. She sat in it for a short while, enjoying the ion shower that cleaned her body and clothing, and the rays that made small changes inside, repairing minor damage. The nettle stings disappeared, along with the irritating itching.