The Fifth Correction

by Robert Wingfield

  “This is not good,” said Gloria. “Your pictures are all over the media. We have never heard anything negative about the man. In all appearance he is a cross between an archangel and Casanova. The girls go wild for him, but he is loyal to one lucky woman only. If anything, they hate him for that. You have instigated a raid on his mansion, presumably without any proper evidence of any wrongdoing. There may be compensation claims. I trust your organisation has a sufficient financial backing to weather any punitive court cases?”

  Scaly was agitated. “We never said any of that. I didn’t ask anyone to raid anybody’s home.”

  “I’m sure all will be revealed in the video footage,” said Gloria, “once we have put it through post-processing. So you want to take him away; for what particular crime exactly?”

  “It’s too complicated to go into, but he has been upsetting the fabric of the universes and not following the laws and generally upsetting what you call the String Theory.”

  “I keep hearing about that,” admitted the woman, “and I’m going to read the appendix to find out more later, but how can contravening it be a crime? What has he actually been doing that might affect this planet?”

  “He allowed the partial collapse of several universes. Millions of worlds disappeared. That’s mass murder isn’t it?”

  “Millions of worlds? Most, if not all of them uninhabited because we all know the only intelligent life in the universe is on this planet, and possibly wherever you came from, assuming you are not a journalist in disguise. We are all still here, so how do I know what you are saying is true?”

  “We have a mission. I can show my authority from TCA Central.” Scaly started scraping on his slate again.

  “Stop that grating or I’ll slap you,” said Gloria. “Your authority from the TCA doesn’t amount to a knoll of berries here, my good man. I think I’ve heard enough. When our intern has finished painting your rusty bits, I’ll thank you to take your alien arses off my planet and fuck off back whence you came. I’ve got a lot of covering up to do now, because we all know aliens don’t exist.”

  “But,” Scaly got no further as Gloria grabbed her umbrella and a brush and swept towards the door.

  “And if I find you here in an hour’s time, you will be in Court for contempt and I’ll let the SCT Group know where to contact you and why you are here; see how long you last with them and their ant-powder factory. Good day.” She slammed the door.

  “I say,” said Scaly, taken aback. “We’ve not had that sort of reception before.”

  “No, they’re normally much more hostile,” said Bott. “I would have liked the opportunity to get my blaster out and show them what ‘alien technology’ is all about.”

  “Shhh,” said Scaly, pointing to the young intern daubing rust inhibitor on Bott’s exposed metalwork. “They could be listening...” He tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Are you listening, boy?”

  The intern stood up and removed his ear pieces. The room filled with a dread beat that vibrated Bott’s loose joints. “What?”

  “Were you listening?” repeated Scaly.

  “Yuh, to the ‘Fields of the Scumsucker and Sons’ latest download. Great. Do you want a piece?”

  “No thank you,” said Scaly.

  “Suit yourself,” said the boy. He replaced the earphones and applied some final spots of paint. “Yeah, done.” He stood up again and held out his hand for a tip. Scaly looked at it for a moment and then reached out with a forcipule to stab it. The boy pretended to gag, flicked him a rude finger and left the room.

  * * *

  “So what do we do now?” asked Bott as they strode across the runway towards their landing site, dodging some of the larger planes taking off. “Go home?”

  “If we did, we would have failed our mission,” said Scaly. “This is a mere setback. We will have to stay undercover now.”

  “Not easy,” said Bott, turning. “Look, why don’t you lot piss off?” He berated the group of people following them, filming every movement. The crowd came to a halt.

  “You don’t have to be rude,” piped up a man. “We don’t often get aliens here. They don’t exist, apparently.”

  “Go away,” growled Bott.

  The crowd did not move. “Show us some alien technology,” yelled someone.

  “What a good idea,” said Bott. He removed a large neutron blaster from inside his torso. It had been missed at Baggage Check because the metal detectors were off the scale with all his other components.

  “The chief said ‘cull the fire-sticks’,” hissed Scaly. “You shouldn't have that with you.”

  “No I shouldn’t,” growled Bott, “But I don’t feel right without it, and I think we’re about to find out it can be useful.”

  “Please don’t hurt anyone,” said Scaly. “Our brief is ‘target only’, this mission; there is to be no collateral damage for once.”

  “No problem,” said Bott.

  “You don’t frighten us,” said the spokesman. “We have ‘laws’ in this country you know.”

  “Are you going to leave us alone?” Bott’s voice was strangely level.

  “Bott please,” hissed Scaly.

  “No, we want to see your spaceship arrive and get pictures of it for the Twitface advertising database.”

  “Last chance to leave,” said Bott.

  “You people, stop,” said the spokesman as his fellows started to disperse in panic. “We don’t even know that death cannon is real.”

  “Here’s a clue.” The gun belched fire as Bott took out the spokesman. The other members of the group ran for their lives. None made it as Bott’s weapon tore them apart.

  He blew down the barrel to disperse the last of the smoke. “No witnesses,” he said, turning to Scaly. Even on the face of a giant millipede he could see that his companion was shocked. “A problem?”

  “But we agreed there would be no collateral damage,” stuttered the quadrillipod.”

  “Sorry, my finger slipped,” said Bott. “Now let’s go and get that dirty criminal before he commits more atrocities.”

  The Dokumat

  The Magus flies

  Kara puts her feet up

  T

  he Magus eyed his leggy ‘assistant’. “So, is this going to work?”

  “Of course it will,” said Kara. “How can it fail?”

  “If we don’t get the hexacat whiskers lined up precisely on the mat, who knows what will happen.”

  “One way to find out.”

  “I’ll wind them down then, shall I?”

  “I wish you would. We’ve been sitting here an hour already, waiting for you to pluck up the courage. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “We could be vaporised by uncontrolled feedback.”

  “If we don’t try, we’ll never know.”

  The two humanoids, one hairy, one horny, were sitting side by side in a tiny space-ship no bigger than a Hynishota Pointless15, and we all know how small that is. It was supposed to be a four-seater, but the space in the back would have been unsuitable for most, except perhaps the Mucronns, who were mostly composed of translucent jelly, and even they would have needed to be very good friends.

  In the front, the Magus with the steering controls squeezed into his stomach was pleasurably close to his taller companion with her knees in her chest and her feet on the scoot-board, the co-pilot’s navigation controls.

  “I would have liked more space,” she observed as the Magus eyed her exposed flash lasciviously. “Why did you choose this vehicle?”

  “Was all I could afford,” lied the fluffy fellow. “Took all my readies.”

  “That explains why you are not using conditioner after a shower,” said Kara. “Are you still in there under that hair?”

  “Somewhere,” he replied sadly. “I didn’t think you’d want to spend time in an enclosed space with an odoriferous orb though, so I had a good wash.”

  “The gesture is ap
preciated, but don’t forget I can disconnect my olfactory systems if things get too bad.”

  “You can’t disconnect your flea deflectors though. I used ‘Mystic Pelt’ shampoo with organic pyrethryns (it said on the bottle).”

  “Impressive,” said Kara sarcastically. “What are they, dog pheromones? You smell like a poodle parlour.”

  “And you like a…”

  “I only had a kipper for breakfast.” She grinned. “Shall I start the engine?”

  “I wish you would.”

  Kara turned the wheel in the centre of the Scoot and the Magus watched nervously as an array of hexacat whiskers slowly approached the doku-hair mat enclosed in a sturdy plasti-glass compressor chamber. They had decided to keep the array to a minimum size to prevent over-straining the vehicle with the output of the drive. A short run along this long straight road would be enough to prove the concept.

  The road itself was deserted, except for a badly hidden police-car in the distance, parked behind a billboard saying, ‘Speed limit 20 mph. The City of the Saints’ welcomes careful driver’s. This sign comes to you past the curtesy (sic) of the Nishant Offshore Sign Hierarchy (professional signwriting without incorrectly placed apostrophe’s).’

  The car gave a shudder as the first of the whiskers connected with its mat. There was a flash inside the compressor and the ‘reactolight’ coating darkened to avoid blinding the drivers.

  They felt another kick as the car picked up speed. Kara continued winding the acceleration wheel. The second mat activated and the car ramped to its next power output level. They were past the police-car in moments. It gave chase, lights a-flashing, horns a-blaring. When the gendarmes (the police force had been outsourced to the French) realised they could not keep up, they launched a homing-rocket at the lawbreakers, as detailed in the manual.16”

  “Shit, they’re shooting at us,” said the Magus, squinting into the rear-view mirror.

  “Time to go then,” said Kara. She spun the accelerator wheel with her finger and all the remaining mats connected. The car punched forward and scorched up into the air.

  “Is it supposed to do this?” asked the Magus. “I mean, we haven’t got any wings or anything.”

  “You can get a brick to fly if you put enough engines on it,” said Kara sagely. “Keep steering upwards. We might even make it out of the atmosphere at this rate.”

  They had one last glimpse of the rocket as it lost its lock on their vehicle and reversed direction to target the only other metallic object in the area, the police-car, and then they were above the clouds, still accelerating.

  “But we’ll burn up in the atmosphere,” wailed the Magus.

  “Why do you think we chose the Hynishota as our test vehicle?”

  “Because it is so pointless that if it crashes it will actually improve the looks?”

  “Maybe, but the real reason is that it has the best paint-job on the planet. The finish is so good that there is literally no friction at all. Actually, the Hynishota Car Corporation say that, but really we know they have simply developed a coating that actually absorbs the friction energy. It might get a bit toasty in here, but once in space, as long as we keep moving, we keep warm.”

  “Clever, if you’re right,” said the Magus, pulling slightly back on the steering and sucking his stomach in.”

  “One way to find out; keep going.”

  “And how are we going to breathe?”

  “I took the precaution of fitting a recycler I cobbled together out of spare mats. It takes in carbon-dioxide and outputs carbon bricks and oxygen. We can store them in the space left by the food you eat. Of course I don’t need air to breathe.”

  “I suppose not. And what do we do with the bricks afterwards?”

  “Make a nice fire when we land?”

  “Or start one on board if it gets a bit chilly.”

  “That too; the recycler should be able to cope. Are you okay?”

  “Can we slow down a bit, please?” The Magus was hanging on to the steering wheel and trying to keep the car travelling in a straight line. The cabin began to cool as they left the atmosphere.

  “No probs,” said Kara. She unwound the wheel, disengaging most of the mats. “Perfect.”

  The Magus threw on the brakes, and as he wiped it off again, the remaining power was directed forward and to the side to slow the ship. “I didn’t think it was necessary to give the car its own air supply and gravity balancers,” he said. “How did you know we were going to need them?”

  “I might have had an inkling,” she replied smugly.

  “I must get one of those,” he said.

  “I think that the Dokumat drive has been a success,” said Kara.

  “If I can work out how to land it,” agreed the Magus.

  “That’s where the parachute comes in.”

  “Oh dear.”

  * * *

  The landing was surprisingly successful, once they had extracted themselves from the wreckage and punctured the airbags. Kara called the rescue service. They were not actually members, but once she connected the video feed and flashed her legs, there was a mad scramble as each of the mechanics volunteered to make an exception. It took a couple of days for them to arrive from Musoketeba where the service had been outsourced to, by which time, Kara had flagged down a passing perfume truck and she and the Magus were already back at the laboratory.

  “What you doing now, hairy man?”

  “Checking ‘WeCheatYouOverAnyCar.gal’ for a suitable replacement.”

  “Carry on.”

  A week later they were standing admiring their new ship, a Hynishota PigUgly, which had been a bargain, and gave more legroom, and space for a couple of suitcases. The Magus had a sick-bag at the ready because of its somewhat unconventional design.

  Kara had insisted on fitting another variation on the Dokumat, a device she called the ‘Shunt Cannon’, which could be loaded with buckshot, ball-bearings or sharp bits of notice. “For defence purposes only,” she said. “Who knows what we will meet out there in the vastness of Space.”

  “Very wise,” agreed the Magus, sounding unconvinced, “But shouldn’t we be getting back to curing the Dokuvirus?”

  “Ah, but every great breakthrough in science has its side effects, and this one is literally brilliant—a car driven by, well... what shall we call the power for the engine?”

  “You mean, the bright stuff that propels the Dokumat Drive? Not really sure.” said the Magus. “I haven’t been able to measure the radiation, much less name it. It seems to give out energy far in excess of anything used so far. I can’t even tell if it is composed of particles, waves or sausage.”

  “A new form of something then; we should call them, oh I don’t know, large unidentified subatomic hadrons?”

  The Magus grinned. “LUSH? You want to rename it the Lushdrive?”

  “It reminds me of what I was in a previous life.”

  “You’ve given up the gin now though?”

  “I only used it as fuel—I’ve now discovered that ‘Golden Champignon’, a mushroom-based drink from the Bloaters Brewery, works better and is much cheaper.”

  “A fine ale,” agreed the Magus, licking his lips, “but very strong.”

  “Three for a fiver down Asteswaywaitburys supermarket until they realise the price labels are wrong.”

  “I wondered what you were doing with that barcode printer.”

  “Yes, enough of that…”

  “So we aren’t going to rename my Dokumat drive, whatever you drink,” said the Magus finally.

  Kara batted her eyelashes. “Aw, not even for a glimpse of my thigh?”

  “If I glimpse any more I’ll be able to see your tonsils, not that that’s anything new… no stop it, I’m trying to think. What we have here is a new form of something; we can’t even be sure if it is radiation.”

  “Yes,” Kara settled down. “It must be giving out something, to push us forwards;
gravitons?”

  “We could measure those, and we might be accused of cliché, and that’s not what the project is about.”

  “Expanding the weak vortex will cause fluctuations at the auxiliary singularity.”

  “What.” The Magus stared at her with concern. “I thought they’d bypassed your technobabble generator systems at the last overhaul.”

  “I still have the occasional problem,” said Kara sadly. “It gets triggered by gratuitous clichés.”

  “You’d better not watch the ‘Pete’ channel then with all its repeats of Deep Voyage Trek Generation Q9 ScapegGate Ascending’. Bugger gravitons; what we have here is something completely different…”

  Kara took a breath.

  “…Shut it.” Her mouth closed with a snap and she looked aggrieved. “No, something else,” said the Magus, “not gravitons, but… got it, Dokuons!”

  “Oh,” Kara breathed out, filling the area with the smell of hops and brake-fluid. “So, we have something that can’t be measured, can’t be detected and kicks like an electric fence?”

  “We’ll make a fortune,” said the Magus, rubbing his fleecy forehead, “but don’t forget that we are being funded to produce a cure for the Dokuvirus, not gallivant around the cosmos in a ship so ugly it would make a Mucronn weep.”

  “So we are. We must get back to that,” said Kara.

  “I will need some more equipment though…”

  “As you said. Anyway, I ‘m afraid we’ve run out of money.”

  “But there was loads in my account?”

  Kara looked sheepish. “I’m afraid I spent it.”

  “Spent it?” The Magus adopted a bovine expression.

  “You know we had ‘Mauve Monday’ last week?” Kara went porcine.

  “No, what’s that?” said the Magus, abandoning the animal impressions.

  “It’s when all the shops reduce the prices of old or obsolete stock to something slightly more than it’s worth and double what it’s shown in their inventory, and a load of greedy thick bastards kick each other to death thinking they are getting a bargain that they can sell on E-Buygum, the on-line stolen-goods fencing platform.”