The Fifth Correction

by Robert Wingfield

  Rescue and Capture

  Kara goes Derring-do

  Tom goes Sightseeing

  T

  om was settling down to a quiet night by the fire with a double ‘Gin Rummy’ (Gin, Rum and bits of cardboard shaped like hearts and spades) and Kara was at his elbow, dressed in her favourite mini-toga. He was trying to ignore the insults she was sniping at him, when his personal communicator crackled into life. He jumped because it was only a short-range device and he hadn't had a signal since all the local relay masts had been replaced by dolphin hitching posts.

  “Hello?” He thought he would begin simply, to avoid any complications if it was someone trying to tell him there was a problem with his computer that needed fixing remotely.

  “Hello there.” It was a voice he did not recognise, but it had the rather guttural tones of a Skagan.

  “Who’s this please?”

  “Me.”

  “I know that,” said Tom. “I meant that you should tell me who you are.”

  “Is that our glorious leader, Two-Dan $mith (sic)?”

  “Might be,” said Tom. “Now you tell me your name.”

  “Groat,” said the voice, “At your service. Spigot and I have brought the good ship ‘Fukedds Belle’ to rescue you from this Phoist-forsaken place.”

  “I thought you’d stolen it. Why have you come here?”

  “Tell, you the truth,” said Groat. “We’re having a bit of trouble with the flying, and we really can’t work out how to discharge the weapons.”

  “Weapons; I thought we agreed that the flagship wasn’t to be armed?”

  “Er, it’s not,” said Groat quickly. “Did I say weapons, I meant rubbish; we can’t discharge the rubbish and it’s getting very smelly in here. Really we need a bigger crew, and someone who knows how the thing works.”

  Kara pricked up her ears. “Ouch,” she said, “this home piercing kit is not working as it should.” Then she looked interested and said, “I know how to fly the ship.”

  “This could be what you are looking for then,” said Tom. “A ship, a crew, no weapons so that you can’t do any damage…”

  “What good is that in a pirate ship?” said Kara.

  “Practice; perhaps you could learn to trade eventually. In return though, I need those raw materials… and a mate for Cat—he’s getting a bit too amorous with the sofa, according to the latest furniture requisition Amber signed off.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll take the people from the forest with me; all those that want to come of course.”

  “See you in a few months then. Er,” he peered at the gynoid beside him, “you will come back won’t you? I’ve got more ideas for the company and I could do with your help.”

  “Would I leave you in your many hours of need?”

  “Usually.”

  * * *

  Tom waved off the departing ship that had taken Kara and most of the rescued criminals away. One or two of the less immoral ones stayed with him while he waited for the Magus to sterilise the Pig-Ugly to take him back to Fukedds. They thought that they might be able to integrate back into the society around Duck Town, which was less attached to game shows, and were already enquiring about property in the area.

  Tom spent time thinking how best to tackle the Imperator and remove the threat to Kara and himself. When she had informed him that the crew of the ‘Fukedds Belle’ was half composed of ex members of the Temporal Conduct Authority, he half made his mind up to leave the man alone. With only Zeta remaining on the TCA staff, Foilside was harmless, and Zeta had promised not to try to kill him in exchange for the Publicity job on the Committee of SCT.

  Without Foilside’s team, his arch-enemy, the Imperator, Badloser, was harmless, but he needed to be dealt with. Tom’s first priority however was to get back to the safety of the Island, assuming there were any people left to protect him. He was trusting the Magus to get that relief ship over to him.

  “We should be away from here in less than a week,” he said to Zeta, who had decided to return with him, even though it was going to be cramped in the back seat of the car. “What is there to do in Duck Town while we wait, other than this of course?” He was watching the gunfights in the street, the gentlemen with soggy headdresses shooting arrows, and the inevitable lone dolphin dragging its rider through the mud by one stirrup.

  “We could go to see the capital city, ‘Basilopolis’,” said Zeta. “I’ve found this leaflet advertising all its attractions. It looks spectacular, with massive walls, riches beyond desire and streets paved with cobbles, not mud as usual. It is built on seven hills and most of the water and effluent washes down into the nearby lake, so it doesn’t smell as much as most places. They’ve nicknamed it ‘Auld Skiddy’, so rubber soled shoes are a must. There’s a big church there I’d like to see. I think we might be able to catch the stage-boat leaving in half an hour.”

  “Basilopolis,” said Tom. “Where did that name come from?”

  “It says here that it was renamed in honour of the 55th emperor, the dyslexic Basil the Second, also known as the ‘Burglar Slayer’. He conducted a campaign against the burglars, around about the turn of the first millennium, and completely removed all crime in the City. The people were so pleased that they named it after him. It is the safest place on the planet now and a magnet for tourists.”

  “Sounds interesting;” said Tom, “a bit of culture while we wait will do us some good. I’ll get my hold-all.”

  “And I’ll get the magnets—apparently they use them to prevent slipping down into the lake. The cobbles are made of ironstone.”

  * * *

  The boat bumped and splashed along the rutted track. The water-buffalo pulling it didn’t seem to mind, and soon the lawless regions of Duck Town, Oratory, Rhetoric and the Parched Desert were left behind.

  “Parched Desert,” said Tom. “Odd name for the area; I mean, it doesn’t seem to stop raining there.”

  “It was one of those tricks that the ancestors used to play,” said Zeta consulting her guidebook. “You know, like they called Greenland that because they wanted people to think it was a rich and verdant place, and settle there in their droves, farming and reaping.”

  “It seems to have worked,” he said, looking at the plains dotted with plankton ranches, and the mack fisheries where they cultivated waterproofs. “How long until we get to the city?”

  “A couple of days,” said Zeta.

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Be glad that we had enough money to pay for seats inside the boat and are not sitting up on top.”

  * * *

  Later in the day, the light was fading when an arrow thudded into the window frame. There was a cry from the driver above them. “Intonians! Keep your heads down. We should be able to outrun them. We will get away if we can make it to the high ground; their steeds won’t be able to follow us.”

  The other passengers ducked low but Tom stole a glance out of the window. Surrounding them was a troop of young men dressed in smart black suits, astride the sturdy plains dolphins favoured for that environment. They were chanting and whooping and yelling and throwing empty wine bottles. One or two smashed against the hull of the boat.

  “This doesn’t look good,” said Tom.

  “Don’t worry, these attacks are expected,” said one of their fellow passengers; “we still have an emergency escape plan.”

  “It had better be quick,” said Tom. “If they get much closer we will be able to smell their breaths.”

  “I can already,” said Zeta as the tang of gin floated through the window.

  There was the squeak of a lever being operated, the rattle of chain and the shriek of a young woman, followed by a thump behind them and a sudden increase in speed. “They’ve released the decoys,” explained the passenger. “And with a bit of luck, not our suitcases.”

  The Intonians gave a whoop of delight and broke off the chase as two bundles bounced from the back of the bo
at. The posse whirled around and then hefted the bundles on to their saddles and swam away in the opposite direction.

  “What was in those packages?” asked Tom.

  “Romariastan illegal immigrants,” said the passenger. “They think they’re going to surprise some nice farmers with a ‘Cleopatra in the Carpet’ act.”

  “Oh dear, poor girls.”

  “Not really, the Intonians will fight amongst themselves to marry them and give them a good home, and then they can get divorced with half the assets and send the money back to their families; much more lucrative than plankton farming. That’s why they do it.”

  * * *

  Two days later, damp and dirty, the passengers in the stage-boat were tipped on to the sparkling clean streets of the city.

  “Still raining then,” said Tom.

  “It’s a nice day,” said a passer-by. “You should have seen it yesterday when we had a cloudburst. We lost a few people in the lake, but it’s good for the sales of waterproofs and magnetic rubber-soled shoes.”

  “Thank you,” said Tom, shivering. “Any ideas where we can get cleaned up and find a room for the night?”

  “Try down the backstreets,” said the passer-by, “It’s called ‘Lost Weekend Hotel’, but don’t fork out for the medicine, even if you do have double-pneumonia.”

  “Lovely,” said Tom, “are you laughing at us? I suppose we do appear a bit funny with our off-world clothes and stage-boat grime.”

  Zeta looked at his expression, and giggled.

  The staff at the hotel were pleased to see the travellers. “My name is Lloyd Cole, said the Maître-D. Can I offer you one room or two?”

  “Really should shack up together,” said Zeta. “Save a bit of money and you are my boss. I suppose I have to sleep with you if I want to get anywhere in the company.”

  “Did you have to sleep with your boss at the TCA?” said Tom.

  Zeta shuddered. “Fortunately not; which may have been why I was always the filing clerk; I want quick promotions in my new job.”

  It doesn’t work like that,” said Tom. “People get posts in SCT on their merits alone…”

  Zeta looked frustrated. “But I thought you were sleeping with your HR Director, and she’s left you now.”

  “Intellectual Capital, IC not HR,” said Tom reflectively, “and she was very good at her job. We went back a long way; I felt that I could trust her…”

  “She still left you,” said Zeta.

  “Probably best if we have separate rooms,” said Tom, fighting the feeling inside.

  “You insult me,” said the woman. “I’m not that bad am I?”

  Tom regarded his companion. She really wasn’t ‘that bad’, and the old Tom would have been delighted to take advantage, but he was still raw from losing Caryl. “It’s not that…”

  “She’s not coming back you know.” Zeta tried to chip away at his resolve. “You won’t have another chance.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Tom. “Perhaps once we get to know each other better?”

  Zeta turned away, her face dark. “Two rooms,” she said to the grinning man behind the reception desk.

  * * *

  Later, bathed, and in dry clothes and magnetic wellingtons, Tom and Zeta stood under a large umbrella outside the black and white squared walls of the main cathedral of ‘Hiya-Gloria’37. It had changed hands and religion many times during its chequered history, but was currently being managed by the ‘Ninth Day Opportunists’, worshippers of Clarkson, the Patron Saint of Powered Wheeled Vehicles.

  The Opportunists had realised that tourists came to see the art and the icons, and were prepared to pay for it, so hadn't scrubbed off all the paint and replaced it with pictures of the ‘Baby Stag of Triumph’ and a collection of car stickers. There was however a Holy Unruffled Wall discreetly placed in one of the outer buildings to compare the worthiness of various vehicles, and this was a regular place of pilgrimage for the celebrants who would visit to rub their genitals on it and compare sizes.

  “They worship cars?” said Tom incredulously.

  “Wheeled vehicles are as rare as engineers’ pay-rises on this planet, what with the rain and the mud,” said a passing guide. “Some people think they are entirely mythical, so why wouldn’t they be worshipped? Enjoy your visit, and that will be 600 Drachma.”

  “Beautiful,” said Zeta after they had paid and were admitted to the cloisters.

  “Awesome,” agreed Tom, “and so easy-going on the eyes.”

  “Shall we go and look at the cathedral now?”

  “Good idea; I’ve seen enough of the Unruffled Wall.”

  Inside it was even more impressive. The huge dome stretched up almost as far as the eye could see, and the haze of incense made them sneeze. The guidebook suggested they should spend some time studying the saliva on the tomb of Henry Dangler, a dogging specialist from out of town, but they declined that. Instead, they went up to a gallery which overlooked the main aisle and was the best place to view the mosaics below. Tom noticed graffiti carved into the ancient stonework. “What’s all this mess?” he said.

  “It dates back over a thousand years,” said Zeta, reading from the guidebook. “The then emperor couldn’t trust his own troops not to cut his nose off, so he brought in mercenaries. He was big into astrology and made a special point of only employing people born under the sign of the bull. They were a dedicated, but rough lot and had no respect for anything other than women and drink…”

  “I’d have liked them,” said Tom, “I respect women, and drink.”

  “You should leave a message,” said Zeta, “if you think you would have been one of them; something for people to see and marvel at in a thousand years’ time.”

  “Do you really think I should?”

  “It would be criminal not to, with all this history here. It says you must do it, instead of signing the visitors’ book. See…” She showed him the introduction in the guide book. ‘Visitors are advised that it is essential to damage the fragile stonework with graffiti.’ “Look, here’s the chisel and mallet I got in the gift shop.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s in the book. You might be arrested if you don’t.”

  “Strange customs,” said Tom. “What should I carve?”

  “Your name perhaps?”

  “Good idea. Is that a security man over there?”

  “Yes, he’s here to make sure none of the other tourists jog your arm and spoil the carving.”

  “That’s good. I won’t use my real name though; my ‘multiversal’ name, Two-Dan, is better.” He started chipping. He was part of the way through the upright of the ‘T’ when he stopped. “Oh dear.”

  “What?” Zeta tipped her head on one side to view the carving.

  “There’s not going to be enough space for my whole name.”

  “What about using the number ‘2’ instead of the word?”

  “Good idea. I’ll chip the bits of the ‘T’ away and start again.

  * * *

  “There,” Tom stood back to admire his work. “Is this okay?” He called the security man over.

  “Very nice sir,” said the man. “You appear to have chiselled ‘½-Dan was here’ into our masonry.”

  “No, that’s ‘Two-Dan’. I crossed off the bit at the beginning; it’s just the number two.”

  “My apologies sir, but you have desecrated stonework that has been here for thousands of years. To me, that looks like vandalism. I will call my colleagues.” He blew a whistle and Tom was grabbed by the arms as security men appeared from all directions.

  “But it says that I am supposed to carve into this wall... in the guidebook. Show him, Zeta.”

  The little woman opened the guide and passed it over. “I’m sorry, but I think I may have accidentally had my thumb over the word ‘not’.”

  “Zeta, you betrayed me,” wailed the struggling Tom as he was dragged away.

 
“Old habits die hard,” said Zeta bitterly. She withdrew a reward notice. ‘Dead or Alive’ it said at the top, and there was a pencil sketch of Tom’s face. ‘Wanted by the TCA and The Nishant Corporation for Crime’s (sic) against the Multiverse.’ “That’ll teach you to turn me down, you shit,” she snarled.

  * * *

  “I’m not paying the pro-forma,” said Tanda. “They’re going to let their guns off if I do.”

  The Pig-Ugly, becalmed having stopped running, was surrounded by the ships from NSA Military PLC.”

  “Are you going to do something?”

  Vac stopped humming his battle-dirge and looked across at her. “We could have a last shag.”

  “Dogging in space,” wondered Tanda. “Could it hold them off long enough for us to have a miracle rescue?”

  “Worth a try,” said Vac, undoing his trousers. “I’ll come over there; the wheel’s in the way here.”

  “No need to,” said Tanda, “I’ve got the tissues.”

  * * *

  “What are they doing now?” asked the Admiral of the NSA Battle Fleet.

  “Seems they’re shagging,” replied one of the ship captains, looking up from his video phone. “Don’t give the order to fire until they stop. I’m getting some great footage here to put on X-Tube.”

  “Foot-age, and a lot of arse-age, I guess. You’ll go blind.” He sighed. “I suppose we should see what we’re up against. Pipe the feed into the other ships and we’ll wait a bit before we shoot.”

  Two hours later, the crews of the attack ships were still clustered around the viewing screens when their communication units all resounded simultaneously with a voice. “Attention all ships of the DSO Federation. Stand down your weapons or you will be destroyed.”

  “Who the fuck is that, disturbing us at this stage?” said the Admiral. “They haven’t finished down there yet.”

  “It’s a big spacecraft,” said someone who could be bothered to look, as he returned from the toilet.”

  The Admiral looked. “A very big ship,” he said. “Good, it will make a nice target to practise on. Open a communication with them.”