Interstellar Caveman

by Karl Beecher

  He smiled. “Sounds like my idea of heaven.”

  “Oh, another thing: if anyone approaches you with talk of the True Origin Society, have nothing to do with them. Just firmly say no thank you, and move on.”

  “What’s the True Origin Society?”

  “Nuts is what it is. A religious cult far off the end of the spectrum. A broad tent for all sorts of extremists, Luddites, and conspiracy nuts. Just steer clear of them.”

  “But I thought Abrama doesn’t tolerate other religions?”

  “The Society believes in the same god as everyone else in Abrama. And, being scriptural literalists, they can take the high road and claim they’re stronger believers than the rest of society. That’s what protects them from persecution. That, and the fact that some of their beliefs are so deranged it’s impossible to take them seriously. I mean, could you take any group seriously that believes faster-than-light travel is a scientific hoax?”

  Colin’s mouth dropped open. “They what?”

  “Don’t ask me. They make themselves believe it somehow. In the past, the Abraman government saw them more as an embarrassment than a threat.” Tyresa paused for a moment, then spoke almost to herself. “The thing is, after the last election here, they might now be the government.”

  25

  The metallic roof of the spaceport hangar split into segments and opened up like a blooming flower. Through the gap descended the Ceti ship.

  Spudge watched it lower towards its assigned landing bay. What a beautiful sight: a Guinel-Simova Lightfoot in chrome. They didn’t make them like that anymore. Sleek, rounded, she looked like a giant silver hamburger, right down to the warp field accelerator, the dark band that bulged out the middle of the hull like a beef patty.

  Other apprentices of Spudge’s age made fun of him for liking those old, foreign ships. For them, new was all that mattered. But, as he would always reply, when you finally get something right, why change it?

  The whir of the landing jets echoed around the huge hangar’s grey walls as the Lightfoot lowered the final few metres towards the ground, kicking up some dust in the process. The ship finally touched down, and her engines cut out, leaving only the sound of the breeze outside brushing along the hangar’s exterior.

  Ah well, thought Spudge. No time to waste admiring the lady’s curves. Back to work.

  From his tool belt, he grabbed the roster, a sturdy handheld computer that logged everything about the ships arriving and departing Procya.

  “SS Turtle: check,” he muttered to himself, tapping at the screen and filling in the various forms for registering a ship’s arrival. “Arrival time: check. Assign job to Apprentice Technician Spudge: check…”

  A moment later, he heard the ship’s airlock. Spudge looked up and saw a door opening in the hull and an exit ramp lowering. Two passengers emerged from inside and began to descend the ramp.

  Spudge’s eyes were drawn immediately towards the figure in front: a woman, but not the sort of woman seen on Procya. For one thing, she was wearing her hair down instead of in a tight bun, letting her long red locks flow over her shoulders. She was dressed in sturdy, masculine clothes: trousers, boots, and a canvas jacket over a t-shirt. Spudge was used to seeing women wearing modest dresses that buried their bodies in several layers. He was reminded of something he’d only recently learned: women’s bodies were actually curved in oddly pleasing ways.

  He was getting that funny feeling again, the tingly one that made his palms moist and his heart beat a little faster. It was the feeling that was supposed to have been explained to him at some point but never had. For a couple of years now, Mama had been pestering Papa to have something known only as ‘the talk’ with him, but when she did Papa always rolled his eyes and slipped away, muttering about how he had to mend the drains or put up a shelf. After one particularly insistent pestering, Papa had mentioned something to him along the lines of “don’t touch it, or it’ll fall off.” Spudge’s first thought had been that Papa was talking about the new picture frame he’d put up, but certain experiences since then had suggested other interpretations.

  Out of habit, Spudge averted his gaze, even though the woman hadn’t even noticed him yet. Instead, he powered up his tool chest—a waist-high box on wheels—in readiness to perform a maintenance checkup on the SS Turtle. He began dragging the chest towards the ship.

  The passengers had both stopped at the foot of the ramp, looking around as if lost. Spudge’s instinct was to go and offer help, but he quickly remembered his place was not to bother visitors, foreign visitors, especially. The two exchanged a few words, before the woman disappeared around the side of the craft, leaving the man alone beside the ramp. Spudge quietly came to a stop beside one of the ship’s maintenance panels, then pulled a sonic wrench from the tool chest. As he did so, the man began to speak.

  “My name is Colin Douglass,” he said.

  Spudge peered nervously at the man through the corner of his eye. He didn’t seem to have noticed Spudge, and he was facing almost the opposite direction. There was no-one else around. Was he talking to himself?

  He continued. “I was born in Pepperton, United Kingdom, and raised by Arthur and Irene Douglass.”

  Maybe the stranger was talking to him. Maybe he was blind, or came from a planet where looking at other people was considered rude (although that was a complete guess, since Spudge knew little of cultures outside his own).

  The man known as Colin went on. “I grew up on Orchard Street, number eleven, and attended Wetwood Infants School from age five to ten… or was that five to eleven?”

  Spudge gulped. He didn’t want to offend by ignoring the man, but he didn’t want to break the rules either. He gripped the wrench nervously and took a few steps forward.

  “Are you talking to me, sir?” he said.

  Colin jumped and spun around. “W-what?” he uttered with a startled look.

  “Are you talking to me?” repeated Spudge.

  The stranger took a step back and shrunk. “Who, me? N-no.”

  “Well, there’s no-one else here.”

  The man eyed the hefty wrench in Spudge’s hand. “Look,” Colin stuttered, “I d-don’t want any trouble.”

  It suddenly dawned on Spudge that approaching a stranger while holding a great, hulking tool and asking, “You talkin’ to me?” might have given the wrong impression.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, sir,” he said, holding up the wrench. “I’m just a technician, giving your ship a basic checkup.” He put the tool back on the chest. “I didn’t know if you were talking to me or… well, yourself.”

  “Oh, I see!” The stranger looked relieved, which put Spudge back at ease too. “No, I was, uh… checking my memory.”

  “Checking… your memory?”

  “Yes. I have to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.”

  “Like your name?”

  “Um… yeah. You see, I have a… never mind, it’s not important. Don’t let me distract you from your—”

  “A-ha!” came a voice, echoing around the hangar walls and causing both men to jump.

  Spudge saw the woman had returned and was striding towards them purposefully. Spudge’s jittery nerves returned. If he’d still had his tool in his hand, no doubt he would have gripped it tightly.

  “Hey you!” she yelled at Spudge. “Can you help us?”

  Although her face wasn’t made up like most women around here, she was still kind of good-looking, albeit in a scary sort of way.

  “Sure,” he whimpered. “Um… what’s the trouble?”

  He suddenly became aware of his eyebrows, which had lifted so high up his forehead they were close to adding a couple of centimetres to his height. His jaw, too, hung slack, so he snapped his mouth shut so quick he almost bit his tongue.

  The woman seemed to notice. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she muttered. She produced a small black band from her pocket and began tying up her hair into a bun. She turned to her friend. “Women are expected to wear their
hair up here. Don’t want to inflame any ardours, right?”

  She nudged Colin with an elbow. He just rolled his eyes. For good measure, she also fastened her jacket shut.

  “Now,” she went on. “Our escort is supposed to meet us here, but there’s nobody around. Do you know where they might be?”

  Spudge shook his head. “Sorry, I’m just a technician. I don’t know anything about that.”

  “All right,” she sighed. “I guess we’ll wait.”

  Spudge nodded. He realised he now had the chance to get his hands dirty in the gubbins of a Lightfoot, if he played his cards right. “Um… I’m just doing the routine checkup and refuelling,” he explained. “But while I’m at it, do you need any other ship systems checking?”

  “No thanks, kid.”

  “Aw, shame,” he said, looking up at the Turtle. “I wouldn’t mind working on this one, to be honest. I love these old classics. It’s a Guinel-Simova Lightfoot, right? LF-21 model?”

  She nodded. “You know your stuff.”

  “Yeah,” he said, stroking the hull. He could feel the minute undulations in the plating, tell-tale signs the ship had served an active life. “They don’t style ’em like this anymore.”

  She laughed. “You sound like an old man! This ship must be older than you. What are you, seventeen?”

  “Eighteen,” he corrected.

  “It’s a shame for you that I’ve got my android on board working on things.”

  Spudge’s ears pricked up. “Android? You’ve got an android in there? Like a proper, real one?”

  “Sure,” she replied. “But don’t worry, I’ve told him to stay on board. I know you people aren’t keen on them.”

  That was kind of true. Real androids that looked and acted like humans were a rarity in Abrama, but Spudge didn’t share the prejudice against them.

  “Oh no,” he said, “I’m kind of intrigued by androids myself.” He looked around to make sure none of his colleagues were in earshot. “I’d quite like to see one, actually.”

  She squinted at him. “What’s your name?”

  “Spudge, ma’am.”

  “Well, Spudge, my name’s Tyresa. I tell you what: I’ll tell my android you can help him work on the ship, all right?”

  His heart lifted. A Lightfoot and an android. “Why sure!”

  “Okay,” said Tyresa. “Meantime, you help me with a couple of things.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “First, any ships registered to Erd come through here recently? Specifically, the Erd Tourist Board?”

  Spudge thought, but couldn’t recall any. “Don’t think so.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’d remember that. We rarely get Erd ships coming here.”

  “Uh-huh. What about this escort of ours, do you know him? His name’s—”

  “Hey!”

  The loud voice brought the conversation to a standstill. Spudge turned and saw, approaching from across the hangar bay, a middle-aged man dressed in blue overalls. He had a weathered face like the side of a cliff and a gut that made it look like he was smuggling a washing-up bowl.

  It was his supervisor, Grizzel. Oh boy, Spudge was in trouble again.

  “What’s going on?” he growled in that voice that sounded like he was gargling grit.

  Spudge swallowed as Grizzel came to a stop beside him. “I was, uh, I was just helping these people…”

  “You know better than to bother people,” he said, jabbing the lad with a sausage-like finger.

  Tyresa interrupted. “He wasn’t bothering us. It was me bothering him. I just wanted some information.”

  Grizzel turned to the woman. “Well, he doesn’t know anything,” he said with all the warmth and geniality of a rusty shutter.

  “All right,” she said. “Then maybe you can help us. We’re supposed to meet our escort here, someone called Brock T. Hanson. Do you know him?”

  Spudge let slip an involuntary chortle. He’d heard Grizzel talk about Brock Hanson before. Whenever he did, Spudge usually learned a new curse word.

  “Yeah,” said Grizzel stony-faced. “I know the name. He’s some kind of evangelist. Don’t know nothing beyond that.”

  “That’s funny, Mister Grizzel,” piped up Spudge. “Last week you said Hanson was a complete and utter shi—”

  “Quiet!”

  Tyresa ruminated for a second. “I guess this Hanson guy must be pretty happy at least.”

  Grizzel frowned. “Huh?”

  “What with the election result last week. Evangelists are a pretty conservative bunch. I guess his side won?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Grizzel. “Elections ain’t for the likes of me. Look, if this Hanson fellow said he’d meet you here, that’s your business, not mine. You can wait here for him, but please don’t go asking my technicians fool questions. They’ve got enough to do.” He turned and elbowed Spudge. “Come on!”

  Spudge gave the visitors an apologetic look and then trudged after Grizzel towards the tool room.

  “What have I told you before?” Grizzel rasped. “Watch your mouth around strangers. Don’t get drawn into conversations.”

  “Sorry, Mister Grizzel,” he muttered. “But I was only—”

  “But nothing! You’re always poking your nose in or gossiping with off-worlders.”

  “I was just curious. They had—”

  “One day, my lad, curiosity’s going to get the better of you, and you’ll say the wrong thing to the wrong people.”

  “What do you mean? They were just visitors from Ceti.”

  “Yes, but they’re here as guests of Brock Hanson.”

  Spudge frowned. “But you call him names all the time.”

  “Aye, but only to other non-believers. Hanson might be a puffed up prick, but he’s a believer. What if they go repeating to him things you’ve said? I watch my mouth around people I don’t know. You will too, if you know what’s good for you. You’ll learn, my lad.”

  Spudge sighed. You’ll learn. Grizzel always said that.

  26

  Colin watched the two technicians disappear through a doorway. The door slammed behind them. That little encounter had left him tense.

  “Did we do something to spook them?” he asked.

  Tyresa chuckled. “Maybe. Non-believers in Abrama can be touchy.”

  “They were non-believers?” Colin had already learned that a portion of Abraman citizens were non-religious and were effectively second-class citizens, but knew little more about them. “How do you know?”

  “They’ve got pretty dirty jobs,” she replied. “Only non-believers usually do work like that. Plus, when the older one said that elections were no business of his, that gave it away. Non-believers in Abrama aren’t allowed to vote.”

  “Wow,” said Colin. “They can’t vote just because they’re not religious? That seems harsh.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “But technically we’re non-believers too. So, what was the old fellow’s problem?”

  “We’re foreigners,” said Tyresa. “The worst that happens to us if we blaspheme is we’re told to leave. For non-believing citizens, the consequences are a lot worse, so they tend to live their lives on guard. They don’t want to get caught saying anything blasphemous or critical of believers. The old guy might even have suspected we were actually undercover religious police.”

  “Wow. Still,” remarked Colin. “The young chap, Spudge, he seemed nice.”

  “Hmm. Consider what you just saw a ‘before and after.’ Give it a few years and young Spudge will be as cynical and weary as his boss.”

  Just then, Colin heard far-off footsteps. Tyresa gave him a nudge in the ribs.

  “Look sharp,” she said. “This must be our escort.”

  Colin saw that a man had entered the hangar and was approaching them. He was tall and wore a fine-looking, tweed suit not dissimilar to an old-fashioned Earth suit: trousers, waistcoat, and a long jacket.

  Tyresa straig
htened herself up and whispered to Colin as the stranger came into earshot. “Remember these are insular, conservative people. They don’t like outsiders. They’ll be brusque and unwelcoming and try to make us feel inferior. Just stay civil, no matter how arrogant they are.”

  The man greeted them. “Well, good morning to you folks,” he said in a pleasant, rhythmic voice. “Brock T. Hanson Junior is the name. So glad you to meet you. Welcome to our humble planet.”

  The man gave them a wide-eyed, toothy smile that stretched from ear to ear and made him look like a second-hand car salesman on speed. He held out his hand vaguely in Colin’s direction, but it was Tyresa who took it.

  “Thank you,” she said, shaking his hand. She sounded uncertain, presumably wrong-footed by this warm welcome. “Doctor Tyresa Jak, Megalopolitan University of Ceti. Pleased to meet you.”

  Colin noticed the briefest wavering of the man’s smile as he looked at Tyresa, but the half-moon smile stayed plastered in place.

  “Ah, yes,” said the man. “Pleased, no doubt.” He turned to Colin. “And you must be Mister Douglass?”

  Colin confirmed. Hanson’s smile grew wider until it threatened to tear a split in the man’s lips.

  “Mister Douglass, welcome.” He took Colin’s hand and shook it like a can of spray-paint. “It’s an honour to have you here. I’ve been appointed as your guide to Procya. That makes me responsible for your well-being during your visitation, so consider yourself my guest. It’s also my happy duty to escort you to our wonderful facility at Saint Barflet’s.”

  Colin smiled. “Oh, thank you very much. It’s very kind of you.”

  Hanson placed his hands submissively on his chest. “Not at all. It’s our humble duty as Abramans to welcome those in need. Our planet is yours. If you’d like to follow me, I have a car waiting.”

  He grabbed Colin by the elbow and ushered him towards the exit. Colin exchanged a brief glance with Tyresa. She was following and clearly struggling to hide the suspicious look on her face.