Will Destroy the Galaxy for Cash

by Yahtzee Croshaw

  I’d seen enough riots to know where this was going. I grabbed the backrest of one of my fixed seats just as a particularly violent tilt threw my feet right off the ground and I was pelted with a fresh shower of lost coins and sweet wrappers.

  Holding on to the furniture, I was able to stop myself from being thrown around as the tilt grew closer and closer to a full right angle, but there was nothing I could do about Henderson’s body, which was rolling around like a wet sweater in a tumble dryer. I was trying to grab the Quantunnel gate as it spun by my head, so I was taken by surprise when Henderson bodychecked me from beyond the grave.

  I lost my grip just as the ship rolled fully onto its side, and fell awkwardly into the section of wall behind the bench that was very swiftly becoming a floor. I heard the sound of plexiglass breaking and a cheer from the Biskottis. Deliriously, I searched my pockets for a mechanical pencil, before Henderson’s flying leg smashed my head into an electrical cabinet, and ­everything went black.

  Chapter 22

  Once again I beat the odds by getting knocked unconscious without suffering crippling permanent brain damage. The trick is to have lived a life of adventure, and have so many memories from it that you can lose quite a few before you start feeling the loss. In this case, I was apparently out for less than a minute, so I was probably only going to have to ditch a few more months of high school.

  It was long enough for the Biskottis to flood into the Neverdie’s interior, and things quickly became too confusing to keep track of. Multiple sets of matching hands covered my eyes and mouth and held me off the ground by all four limbs, ferrying me down staircases and along corridors, carelessly letting my head bang into multiple walls, railings, and door frames along the way, renewing the pain in my skull with each one.

  Finally I was heaved up, flipped onto my front, then thrust backwards into what felt and sounded like a wheelchair, which rolled a few feet before slapping into a wall. My head made heavy impact with a piece of horizontal piping, and I lost touch with reality again for a reassuringly small handful of seconds.

  When I regained awareness I was by myself, strapped to the wheelchair by my wrists and shins. A fifth strap held my waist, meaning I couldn’t even pelvic thrust the chair into movement.

  I was in a room that I took to be a small infirmary somewhere in the depths of the station. There were some empty cabinets directly in front of me, and an examination bench that looked like yet another perfectly functional object that the Biskottis had converted into an object of worship. This one was adorned with highly dribbled novelty candles that had originally been shaped like the Happiyaki Burger mascot.

  I could hear raised voices in the corridor outside. Raised about as much as Biskotti voices could be raised, in that they sounded like a middle-school orchestra arguing through their recorders and tambourines. A few moments later, the door opened and Ath entered, carrying a loaded plastic shopping bag that jingled metallically as he set it down.

  “Where are my . . . friends?” I demanded, hesitating as I sought a better word.

  “Hm?” asked Ath, picking through the contents of his bag. “Sorry, I’m a little distracted. It’s all happening so fast out there.” He bobbed on his heels and made a little clenched-teeth grimace that was loitering somewhere on the outskirts of being a smile. “Slightly faster than I can keep track of, actually. But, you know, lots of really positive energy, and that’s great.”

  He had produced a large butcher knife from his bag, which his small limbs held as if it were a two-handed bastard sword, and now laid it on the cold floor tiles with a loud click to punctuate his sentence. Then he returned to his bag and produced what looked like a pair of aluminium salad tongs.

  “Are you going to sacrifice me?” I stared at the knife.

  “No!” said Ath, offended. “This is the dawn of the Biskotti Renaissance. We are turning our back on the brutal and primitive superstitions of our past and dedicating ourselves to a new philosophy of reason, rationality, and science. We’ve already confiscated all the station’s remaining supplies, for . . .” He waved a hand vaguely. “Science purposes.”

  “So what is this?”

  “Thiiiiis . . .” He extended the word as he rummaged through his bag again, then triumphantly produced a school science textbook that must have come from an abandoned bookstore. “Is a ‘dissection.’ I think. I thought I could, in the name of science and learning, ‘dissect’ you and determine the secret of the Ancients’ immortality.” He hefted the blade and stared at it uncertainly. “Just let me know if you don’t think I’m doing it right. This is all new to me.”

  I swallowed. “Terrorgorn will destroy you the moment you stop being useful to him. Let us go and we can help you.”

  Ath was struggling to hold up the knife in one hand as he leafed through the textbook. “Well, my rationality and reasoning skills are telling me that you’re just saying that because you don’t want to be killed. Therefore, in the name of science, I must refuse.” He lowered his arms and looked me in the eye. “Terrorgorn has brought much-needed change to this community. Exactly the kind of change I have always wanted. I’m very happy with it.”

  He was nodding so quickly that I had to vibrate my entire head to maintain eye contact. I narrowed my eyes and waited for the nodding to slow to a stop. “Are you really?” I said.

  He chewed on his lower lip for a second, then blinked. “Yes. Shut up. The Ancients will never drag the People’s Enlightened Republic of Biskot back into the dark ages.” He returned to his textbook, then frowned and examined his knife. “That can’t be right, can it? Wouldn’t it smell bad? Hang on, I’m going to look in the other book.”

  The door opened and the bustle outside began anew as Ath slipped out. I caught a glimpse of a number of other Biskottis arguing about the initial direction of the new world order, as well as another wheelchair waiting in the hall, into which Sturb was strapped. Derby couldn’t have been far behind, judging by the slightly refined edge to some of the background shouting.

  I desperately continued vibrating myself in an attempt to dislodge the straps, but it was pointless. They must have been used at one time for keeping cargo in place, and Speedstar were never ones to ply around when it came to keeping hold of their property.

  I cast another look around the empty infirmary, and noticed that my blaster was lying on top of the row of cabinets directly opposite from me, as well as my phone, Sturb’s phone, and Derby’s wristlet.

  “Nelly!” I whispered, leaning forward as far as the strap could allow. I decided there wasn’t much point in keeping quiet; these Speedstar modules had sturdy walls. Also, there was a mad little bracket coming back soon who was going to slit me up in one of my smelly places. “NELLY!!!”

  The wristlet opened from the other side. From where I sat, all I could see was a glimpse of slender hand, and a silhouette of half a head. “Captain? Is it safe?”

  “What have you got that can cut these straps from over there?”

  “Er . . .” The lid closed for a few seconds as she went over the inventory. “How important is it that it doesn’t damage anything other than the straps?” A brief pause. “You know what, never mind, I think I know the answer to that one. I’ve got, like, this pen-laser thing, but it’ll take about a minute to cut through.”

  I wasn’t convinced that we had a minute. “All right, what kind of weapons have you got? The Taser?”

  “I could push it out, but the trigger’s on, you know, the bit that comes out,” she said, flustered. “So I can’t trigger it from in here and I can’t aim it. Really sorry. Not my fault.”

  The wristlet was propped up against the wall rather than lying flat. I considered the geography of the situation. “What’s the longest, heaviest thing you’ve got in there?”

  “Er . . . probably the big wrench. I can barely lift it. So I don’t know why we have it at all, but Uncle Dav said—”


  The volume of shouting in the hallway outside was growing again and I could hear the pitter-patter of approaching tiny feet. “Hide!” I hissed.

  The wristlet clapped closed just as I heard Ath’s hand fumbling with the door handle, and then he came back in hurriedly, pausing a moment with his back to the door. “Whew! Everything’s still. Er. Very exciting out there. Mr. Terrorgorn’s just bringing the last few of the misguided Luddites of the old ways to, erm, their senses.” He made an expression like something in his mouth didn’t taste nice. “Very exciting time. Very happy with how things are going.”

  “Good,” I muttered.

  He hefted the knife again and began to approach slowly. “So. It turns out bad smells are one of the things you just have to deal with when you’re doing science. So it’s fine. I’ll, er. I’ll start dissecting now, then.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” I asked as he drew close. “Because it sounds like it might be a bit of a WRENCH!”

  I had directed the last word over his shoulder, but the wristlet stayed shut. Ath looked behind him, following my gaze, and smiled nervously. “Um. Possibly.”

  “WRENCH!” I yelled, louder. “What a WRENCH it would be if a WRENCH came out and caused something to WRENCH!”

  “Wrench?” He looked to his textbook for answers, finding none. “Look, you need to understand, we are living in a rational universe guided only by the principles of science. Wrench isn’t going to answer your prayers. There probably never was a Wrench to begin with.” He raised the knife.

  The wristlet finally snapped open and two feet of industrial-grade, ­orange-painted metal were thrust into existence, neatly clocking Ath about the side of the head. His entire body toppled stiffly over like a bowling pin.

  “Did I get him?” asked a breathless Nelly, after she had pulled the wrench back into the little world inside the wristlet. “Sorry it took so long, it’s really heavy.”

  I looked down at Ath. He was still unconscious and didn’t look to be coming out of it any time soon, not having had as much experience as me when it came to getting biffed on the head. I looked up. “Pen laser!”

  “What?”

  Derby and Nelly’s blinking code was seeming like a smarter idea by the moment. “Pen laser! On the straps! Now!”

  “Oh, right. You’re welcome, by the way.” She disappeared, then came back to the little porthole with what looked like a red whiteboard marker made of reflective steel. She awkwardly poked it through the hole, holding it with the tips of her fingers as she tried to aim without blocking too much of the view with her own hand.

  A glowing line of energy scored through the dim artificial twilight and struck me in the chest. The heat was intense, but the dot was jiggling around too much to cause any sustained burn. After a few false starts, she was able to focus on the strap that held my left wrist in place, and the tough fabric began to fray and smoke. Shortly, enough had been burned away that it tore apart with a sharp yank, and I endeavored to snatch my arm away from the little glowing circle of pain.

  “Is Uncle Dav all right?” asked Nelly. She had pressed her face right up to the Quantunnel hole, so without context I appeared to be talking to a brass disk with a human mouth.

  “I saw him outside,” I relayed, my tone turning thoughtful as I realized that the crowd outside the door was no longer making crowd-style noises, or indeed, any noises at all. Once I had freed myself from the wheelchair, I pressed my ear to the door, then pulled it open the tiniest crack, toying with the idea of talking our way past the Biskottis by holding up Ath’s carcass and putting on a squeaky voice.

  But the corridor outside was empty but for two occupied wheelchairs, some chocolate wrappers, and a dislodged poster advertising the merits of “coffee and Biskots.” I drifted out, checked the corners, and went to release Sturb and Derby. I noticed Derby had been gagged again, this time with a handful of fast-food restaurant serviettes that his saliva had already started turning into a single solid lump.

  “Where’d they go?” I asked Sturb, as Derby was still dislodging wet ­papier-mâché from his gums.

  “I don’t know.” Sturb massaged his liberated wrists. “One minute they were all arguing over how to display our bodies in a way that best emphasized their commitment to scientific reason and progressive values, then someone shouted something, and they all ran out. That way.” He pointed up the corridor.

  “I assumed Mr. Terrorgorn emitted a particularly passive-aggressive sound,” said Derby in his usual dry tones.

  “Do you think we can fix the ship now?” asked Sturb. “You can get at the damaged underbelly, so we can fix it now, right? If we work together I’m sure we can get it done in no time.”

  Exasperated, I made a passive-aggressive sound of my own. “I can fix the reactor and the engines, yes.” I sighed. “Not sure about all the new issues it acquired from being turned upside down. And then we’d need to flip it back over, unless we’re planning to take off through solid floor.” I gave him a second to look pathetic, then came to the rescue. “I had a better idea. What about the portable Quantunnel?”

  Realization and hope swept across his face in waves as he, too, remembered that we had that. “Yes! Assuming the other side is still intact, it should take us straight back to Ritsuko City! That’s a really good idea, Captain. And I’m not sure how you escaped from your chair just now, but I’m sure that took some really top-rate thinking as well.”

  “Assuming we can power it,” sneered Derby, brushing off his sleeves. “Assuming we can fight our way through an entire station full of crazed zealots plus the most dangerous entity in the universe.”

  “Look, we just need to distract the Biskottis, get the gateway off the ship, and take it to a power outlet.” I looked around. “And the Biskottis seem to be pretty easily distracted.”

  Derby pointed to his arm stump like a stern father pointing to an incomplete stack of homework. “Where’s my wristlet?”

  I ducked back into the infirmary to get it, and stopped when I saw that my phone was buzzing. The screen identified the incoming caller as Daniel Henderson. So as the phone intermittently attempted to vibrate its way off the shelf, I took a few moments to weigh the pros and cons of picking up.

  What the hell, I thought. Let’s dig ourselves as deep as possible. At the very least, it would deter grave robbers. I took the call. “Daniel?”

  “Hi, Jacques!” he said. I could practically hear the relish leaking out of his mouth as he exercised his first-name privileges. “I’m at the station now. Sorry it took a while, I stopped at, like, three empty ones before this.”

  “You’re here already?” I tried to sound impressed, rather than harassed. I had already hurried back to the corridor and chucked Derby his wristlet.

  “Yeah, I think I got lucky with those catapult-gate things you have. Is that your ship? Did you know it’s upside down?”

  I cast a look around for the quickest way to the exit, swiftly concluding that it was probably the way indicated by the EXIT signs, and gestured to Sturb and Derby to follow before breaking into a jog. “I’m aware, Daniel, thanks. We’re on our way up to the landing pad. Whatever you do, do not touch down.”

  “Oh,” he said, before sucking noisily on his teeth to fill the awkward silence. “I might’ve already done that.”

  “Okay,” I said, upgrading the jog to a run. “It should be fine. Just don’t open the airlock until we get there.” After a moment’s thought, I added: “The galaxy is depending on you.”

  “Oh, sure! Cool! Right on!” He managed to wait in silence for all of eight seconds. “So, is my dad with you? Does he think my new ship looks cool?”

  Of course Speedstar had apparently thought that the lowest plying level of the station was the ideal location for the plying infirmary. I swung around another flight of stairs, gripping the banister tightly. “He thinks it’s cool, Daniel. He thinks it’s ver
y cool.”

  “Cool!” From Daniel’s end of the line, I heard the faint sound of a businesslike knock. “Oh, that’s probably you. See you in a bit!”

  “Daniel, that’s not me! Keep the door shut!” I yelled, but he’d already rung off. I upgraded my run to a sprint, taking the steps three at a time and grabbing and yanking on the banister as I went for the extra bursts of speed.

  By the time I reached the top-level concourse, my knees were aching and my thighs felt like kippers that had been left on the grill for too long. I stumbled to a confused halt when I saw that the concourse was completely empty. Even the food offerings had been removed to reflect the Biskottis’ rejection of the old faith, although some of the particularly old and whiffy plates were still there.

  There was a high-pitched cry, and a Biskotti fell from above, hitting the concourse with an upsetting wet sound. I looked up, and saw the edge of the Biskotti mob, mumbling and squeaking indistinctly as it tried to stay on the landing platform.

  “Up,” I suggested, more to myself than anyone else; I wasn’t about to stop and check that the others were following. I bolted for the steps that surrounded the central pillar, my knees complaining like rusty hinges.

  When I reached the landing pad, the first thing I saw was Daniel’s ship. His first ship had been the decadent and cumbersome Platinum God of Whale Sharks, and he had apparently learned from that experience and invested in a blood-red Hemingway EZ Cruise 9, the narcoleptic three-toed sloth to the God of Whale Sharks’ overfed hippopotamus with bowel cancer. I think he may have customized it to an extent, but it was hard to tell, because most of it was covered in Biskottis.

  Countless yellow bodies had packed together into a single anvil-shaped cluster that was wrapped around the Hemingway’s nose cone, like a swarm of ants trying to bring down a giant wasp. The ship shuddered violently as it tried to lift off, but the thrusters were losing the battle against multiple hands and feet clinging to the landing pad with a death grip.