“Now this looks like it might be fun,” Cal began, but the image changed immediately to show a colorful studio set that Cal recognized. “Wait, wait. Hold on this one,” he said.
On screen, two mostly human-looking children were playing something like pat-a-cake—space pat-a-cake, probably—while two puppets attempted to copy them with very little success.
“This was on the ship,” Cal murmured, as the puppets misjudged the timing of a cross-pat and slapped each other in the face. Cal chuckled. “Classic.”
“No!” giggled one of the kids. “Do it like this!”
The children went twice as fast as before. The mouths of both puppets fell open as they watched, then they slowly turned to face each other and began flailing wildly with their hands, screwing their eyes shut as they slapped at each other.
“Now this is entertainment,” Cal remarked. “Couple of cute kids. Couple of puppets. What more could you want?”
“Hmm-mm,” agreed Loren, her eyes fixed on the screen.
“It’s pretty great,” Mech said.
Cal was a little surprised that Mech was in agreement, but didn’t dare look over at the cyborg in case he missed something good. It was all good, of course—this was classic television—but something truly amazing might happen and he didn’t want to miss it.
“This is awesome,” said Miz.
Splurt, who had been exclusively staring at Loren, rotated one eye to look at the screen. After a moment, the other eye turned, too. He rippled gently.
“Isn’t it, though?” said Cal without looking at him. “Who doesn’t love a puppet?”
“Normally, I ain’t a fan,” said Mech. “But these two? They got it. Those motherfonkers speak to me.”
At the back of the bridge, Tyrra watched the screen, the deepening lines of a frown creasing her forehead. “What are you talking about? This is terrible,” she remarked.
“Hush your mouth!” Cal gasped, still not turning.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Loren murmured. “This is great.”
“It is lowest-common denominator puerile nonsense,” said Tyrra.
“You’re lowest-common denominator puerile nonsense,” Miz told her, her brown eyes locked firmly on the screen. She wagged her tail and sighed happily. “I totally fonking love these guys.”
“Agreed,” said Cal. “Which is your favorite? Both, right? It’s both.”
“Both,” said Loren, Mech, and Miz at the same time. Splurt said it, too, albeit in the form of a gelatinous wobble.
“I’m afraid I must side with Mistress Tyrra on this one,” said Kevin. “I don’t see the appeal. There’s no narrative, no real driving conflict, and if it’s supposed to be funny, it’s missing one very important element.”
“And what element is that?” Cal asked.
Kevin said nothing for quite a long time. Quite how long, Cal couldn’t tell, because the antics of the puppets were keeping him so entertained that time had lost all meaning.
“Voice, switch it off,” said Tyrra. “Change to something else.”
Kevin said nothing.
“Voice!” Tyrra barked.
The screen changed to show the star system map again. Everyone who had been watching the screen leaned forward, as if they could somehow follow the puppets to wherever they had gone.
“Wait, no! Put it back,” Cal said.
“Yeah, man, not cool,” Mech barked. “Get that shizz back on.”
“Please, I need to know what happened,” Loren pleaded.
“It was just getting good!” said Miz, adding her voice to the choir.
Splurt trembled.
“You tell him, buddy!” said Cal. “Kevin, get the puppets back. That’s an order.”
“Timing,” said Kevin.
The protestations became a confused silence.
“What? What the fonk are you talking about?” Cal asked.
“Doesn’t matter, sir,” said Kevin. “Either you’ve got it, or you don’t. I do, they very much didn’t. And, alas, the signal has been lost. I’m afraid I’m unable to bring it back.”
Everyone who was seated sank back into their chairs like they’d just completed a marathon. Splurt sagged down, appearing to partially melt into a puddle. Even Mech’s metal frame drooped for a moment, but he was the first to recover.
“What’s the big deal?” he asked. “It was a damn puppet show.”
“And, like, it wasn’t even a good one,” scowled Miz.
“They were just slapping each other,” said Loren. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Uh, everything. It was hilarious,” said Cal, although even he was starting to wonder if it really had been. “Kind of. I think.”
He blinked a few times, then shook his head which suddenly felt like it was full of cotton wool.
“I think… I think I hated it,” Mech announced. “Looking back, I mean. Yeah. I fonking hated it.”
“It totally sucked,” said Miz.
“Awful,” Loren agreed.
Splurt pulled himself together, rotated both eyes in different directions, and went back to watching Loren.
“It had its moments,” said Cal, still not quite ready to shizz all over what had, until it stopped, been the best thing he’d ever seen. “Anyway, looks like this system is big into TV,” he said. “Eight trillion channels. That’s a lot of choice.”
“Not if they are all as terrible as that one, sir,” said Kevin.
Cal closed his eyes for a moment. The puppets looked back at him from the darkness, their mouths slack, their plastic eyes staring blankly.
“Yeah, maybe,” he said, snapping his eyelids open again.
“You are all very strange,” observed Tyrra, leaning back in her chair.
Miz winced as she remembered what she’d said. “Uh, yeah. Sometimes. But, like, I don’t really think you’re lowest-common denominator puerile nonsense. I don’t know why I said that, exactly.” She sighed. “So, you know, sorry or whatever.”
“Apology accepted,” said Tyrra, after some consideration. “But you’re all still very strange.”
Cal straightened himself in his chair, still shaking off the foggy feeling in his brain. “We have our moments,” he admitted. “Lore—Uh, honey? Set a course for… whatever it’s called. The planets,” he said. “The planets we saw.”
“The Viarox system,” said Loren.
“There. Right. That’s it. The Viarox system. Let’s go there,” he said. He tightened his belt across his chest, ignoring the empty faces of the puppets that flashed up whenever he blinked. “And don’t spare the space-horses!”
Eleven
Cal and Loren stood at a mostly opaque wall at the far end of the docking bay, waiting for a security scan to complete. A cheerful animated face made up of a series of lights smiled back at them from the wall’s surface as a scanner beam gave them what was, by Cal’s count, a thrice-over.
“How long is this going to take?” he asked, once the scan had head-to-toed them both another few times.
“Results coming up in just a jiffy, pardner!” said the face, its animated mouth starting to move a full second after the voice began, and stopping a little too soon. “I’m Perko, your friendly animated assistant!”
“Yeah, you said that already,” Cal told it.
“Twice,” Loren added.
“Today’s security scan is sponsored by Ringclean Fresh Wipes. Smell the freshness. Feel the freshness. Taste the freshness.”
Cal and Loren exchanged glances, but chose not to pass comment. Splurt was nestled in his usual position on Cal’s shoulder, but half-turned so he could keep close watch over Loren.
“I’m fine, Splurt,” Loren said. “Seriously. You don’t have to keep staring at me.”
“Security scan complete!” Perko announced. “No narcotics, other contraband, or contagious diseases detected. You are now clear to… A, enter North Logus. B, ask for information. C, return to ship. D, hear these options again.”
&
nbsp; “What do you think? B?” Cal asked Loren. “Or A? Should we just go A and wing it?”
“You are now clear to… A, enter North Logus. B, ask for information,” Perko repeated.
“No, let’s be sensible for once. B,” said Cal. “Let’s go B.”
“C, return to ship. D, hear these options again,” said Perko, beaming from ear to digital ear.
“B,” said Cal.
Perko smiled expectantly.
“B,” Cal repeated, with slightly more emphasis. “Ask for information.”
“As you wish, pardner!” chirped Perko. “Where have you come from today?”
“What’s that got to do with…?” Cal began, then he shook his head. “No. We want to ask you information.”
“I’m Perko, your friendly animated assistant!”
“We know,” said Loren.
“B,” said Cal.
“You are now clear to… A, enter North Logus…”
“Jesus. Is it me?” Cal asked. “Am I saying it wrong?”
“B, ask for information. C, return to ship. D, hear these options again.”
“B!” said Cal, enunciating it as clearly and as loudly as he could. “Fonking B.”
“Great choice!” said Perko.
“Finally!”
“You chose… D, hear these options again!”
“No! No, I didn’t! I chose—”
“A, enter North Logus. B—”
“OK. Fonk it. A. We choose A,” said Cal. “We’ll figure it out when we’re in there.”
“Ask for information. C, return to ship—”
“A! A, A, A. We choose A,” said Cal. He thumped a fist on the wall. “Just open the fonking door.”
“Sorry, pardner, I’m afraid I didn’t get that,” said Perko. “Would you like to ask me for information?”
“Yes,” said Loren.
“No,” said Cal, who now just wanted the whole hellish ordeal to be over.
Loren turned to him. “What? I thought we were going to—”
“Great choice!” chimed Perko.
“Christ, what now?” Cal groaned.
“You chose… C, return to ship! Very well! Have a nice day, pardner. Come back real soon.”
The face went dark. Cal and Loren both stared in silence at the spot where it had been.
“I fonking hate this place,” Cal muttered after a while.
At the sound of his voice, the face reappeared. “Hi there! I’m Perko, your friendly animated assistant.”
A light appeared above the face and began to wash over Cal and Loren. “Today’s security scan is sponsored by Ringclean Fresh Wipes. Smell the freshness. Feel the freshness. Taste the freshness.”
“Yeah,” Loren sighed. “Me too.”
Several long, frustrating minutes later, Perko eventually grasped their desire to choose ‘A! Option fonking A, you animated piece of shizz!’ He slid aside and the wall parted, revealing a much larger room filled with people and, through the windows beyond, the towering splendor of North Logus.
Tall, twisting spires stretched toward the azure sky, their surfaces shining like polished silver and gold. Flying vehicles, no larger than cars, weaved between them, gliding smoothly in their hundreds, all banking and twisting in turn like the body of a giant metal snake.
It all looked so clean. So high-tech. So futuristic.
“Now, this is more like it,” said Cal, buzzing with excitement. “This is what I call an alien city. Fancy towers. Pointy bits. Flying cars. This is what I’ve been waiting for. This place is perfect.”
He let out a gasp. “Wait! I bet they have one of those mind-reading restaurant places. You know, like Nana Joan’s? Man, that would be awesome. I’m going to think about Five Guys, just in case.” His eyes widened. “No, wait! In-N-Out Burger! No, wait! Both!”
Loren’s eyes crept to his stomach. He’d switched out the bloodstained Betty White t-shirt for one featuring a cartoon image of a semi-naked Danny DeVito, and had assured Loren that it was hilarious. Miz had made some comment about it being a self-portrait, but Cal had laughed it off. They were nothing alike. DeVito was shorter and had less hair, for a start.
“Maybe you should really concentrate on a salad bar,” Loren suggested.
“It’s travel weight,” Cal insisted. “It’ll—”
“Fall right out of you. Right,” Loren replied. “Let me know when it’s going to happen and I’ll stand back.”
Keen to change the subject, Cal looked around the room. It resembled an airport arrivals area, with hundreds of people bustling around, most of them dragging floating suitcases behind them from clips attached to their wide belts.
The belts were a common theme. In fact, the fashion of the place looked quite samey in general. There were a lot of shiny jumpsuits, spiky haircuts, and high collars going on, and Cal wondered if there was some sort of reunion happening in town for former members of 1970s Earth glam rock bands.
Aside from a few outliers who Cal guessed were probably tourists, everyone was wearing bulky goggles on their faces. They covered them from midway up the nose to halfway down the forehead, and when Cal got a better look at a pair as someone swept past him, he noticed that there were no lenses, just a blank sheet of metal or plastic.
“How do they see?” wondered Loren, watching the crowds.
“Probably with their ears, or fingers, or some weird alien shizz,” said Cal. “Best not to dwell on it or it’ll creep us the fonk out.”
Standing on his tiptoes, he peered over the sea of spiky haircuts. “I think I see the way out,” he announced. “There’s a door right over…”
He stopped when a metal box the size of an old-style portable TV came flying up and stopped in front of them.
For a moment, the screen remained dark, then a series of lights appeared, forming an irritatingly familiar face.
“I’m Perko, your friendly animated assistant!” it announced. “Welcome to Immigration Control. Please answer the following multiple-choice questions.”
Cal groaned. “Jesus.”
“Question one,” began Perko. “Of twenty-six…”
Back on the Currently Untitled, Tyrra and Miz sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table in silence. Miz drummed her claws on the tabletop. Tyrra used her tongue to dig around in the gaps between her teeth.
Somewhere further back in the ship, Mech stomped around doing whatever repairs he could while he waited for the new warp disk.
“So,” said Miz. “
Tyrra finished exploring her tooth gaps and looked across the table. “So.”
“You want to, like, do something?” Miz asked.
Tyrra gave a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know. Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like, training, or whatever?” Miz suggested. “Like fight training?”
Tyrra thought about this, then shrugged again. It was even less enthusiastic than the last one had been, which was really saying something.
“I guess so.”
“We don’t have to. We could, like, do something else. Or, you know, just do nothing.” Miz’s snout furrowed. “I don’t really care. You’re the one who kept going on about training all week.”
“Yes. It is vital. To fight is the Symmorium way,” Tyrra said, almost on auto-pilot. She shifted awkwardly. “It’s just… it gets kind of…”
“Kind of what?”
“Boring,” said Tyrra, the word slipping out despite her best efforts to stop it. Once the box was open, though, there was no closing it again. “I know I asked you to help me train, but I’m bored of fighting all the time. I do not even take joy in hurting the human now. I merely pity him, like one would pity a pet, or an idiot.”
“He will totally love hearing himself described like that,” Miz said, her lips curving into a smirk. “You should tell him that when he gets back.”
“I will,” said Tyrra.
Miz adjusted her slouch into a different, not quite as slouchy one. “So, what do you want to do instead of training?
”
“I don’t know,” Tyrra admitted. “Training is all I have known.”
Her dark eyes met Mizette’s. They were usually devoid of most emotions except those immediately connected with violence, but now there was something almost hopeful about them.
“What do you like to do?” Tyrra asked. “When not in battle, I mean.”
Miz opened her mouth to respond, then hesitated. What did she like to do?
She quickly made a mental list of her favorite activities. It was quite a short list. ‘Sitting down’ featured in it twice, and the rest of the entries were mostly variations on the word ‘sarcasm.’
“Oh, you know, the usual stuff,” she offered.
Tyrra leaned closer, her voice taking on an excited breathless edge. “Like what?”
“Just, like, you know,” said Miz, waving a clawed hand.
The Symmorium girl gave a brief shake of her head. “I do not know. What? Name some things.”
Miz stared back, like a rabbit that had been caught in headlights while taking stock of its life choices. Or, more accurately, it’s lack of them.
Seriously? Did she do anything? Surely she enjoyed something that didn’t involve making disparaging remarks about others or resting in a chair.
“Might I suggest something you enjoy, ma’am?” asked Kevin.
“Uh, yeah. Sure. Whatever,” said Miz, trying to hide her visible relief.
“I seem to recall you mentioning that you were fond of star charts,” Kevin said. “I believe you said you found it therapeutic to plot courses between distant systems, avoiding as many naturally occurring obstacles as possible.”
Miz gazed blankly up at the ceiling.
“You got really rather animated about it,” Kevin insisted.
Miz continued to stare.
“Or was that Mistress Loren?” Kevin wondered. “You know, on reflection, I think it was. Apologies for the intrusion.”
Mizette rolled her eyes—something else that had made it onto her short list of hobbies—and then reluctantly lowered them to Tyrra. The girl was still watching her expectantly, waiting for an answer.
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