Polkingbeal67 turned towards his excitable companion and spoke in a soft monotone. "Exile," he said. "They'd banish us. We'd have to drift from one unrecognised territory to another for the rest of our days."
Yukawa3 clapped his hands. "Exactly!" he declared, snatching his hat from his head and then replacing it again. "Is it? Are you sure?” He had been expecting a different answer. “Okay, well we might as well impose exile on ourselves! Let's go exiling around the galaxy! I can't tell you what a brilliant idea this is!" And, indeed, he could not.
But polkingbeal67 was beginning to appreciate some of the advantages of such a strategy. Sure, he thought, he would end up in exile either way, but he wouldn't have to spend months, possibly years, in captivity waiting for lawyers to crank up the big legal machinery and suck up as much money as possible from as many people as possible before the trial even took place. Yes, in many ways, going on the run made perfect sense.
"We'll be legendary outlaws!" yukawa3 enthused. "We could go to Noot, steal an argojet and cruise along the Daladax, or visit Lexis and drink the vitalmados pools dry!" Noticing the withering glance directed at him, he puckered his lips and took a different tack. "We'll make amends," he suggested, placing a hand on polkingbeal67's shoulder. "We'll go to planets where chilloks are struggling to get by and we'll help them. We'll teach them agriculture and all the useful stuff they're too smart to work out for themselves. We'll organise fund-raising events." His eyes widened and he swept his outstretched arm in front of him. "I can see it now, p," he said. "I can see it now! We'll sponsor a star-studded evening in aid of chilloks in need. I tell you - we're going to march home like heroes!" In a symbolic gesture, he went over to where the remains of the city of Niffis lay scattered, reached down, scooped up a pile of soil, mud and cellulose and raised it to his lips.
Polkingbeal67 weighed up the alternatives. On the one hand, day after day of humiliation and boredom incarcerated in a Mortian detention centre, or... He glanced in dismay at the animated cadet in front of him. Yukawa3 spluttered incoherently, his mouth dribbling moist slivers of Niffis debris, his arms aloft in a show of daring and bravado: "From these nnnnghh ruins, we will mnnnnggh rebuild and gnnnrrrl restore!"
. . .
Embarking on a new life is usually harrowing enough when it is the fruit of a rational process executed in a systematic and measured way by all the parties involved. When such a critical turning point is thrust upon you like an arrow out of the blue, however, it makes it all the more traumatic. Finding themselves so suddenly cast as hapless playthings of fate, polkingbeal67 and yukawa3 desperately needed time to come to terms with their plight. Unfortunately, time is a precious commodity that is seldom for sale. Polkingbeal67 was trying his best to make cool decisions about plausible destinations, but his thinking was disrupted by the antics of his younger companion.
"I've got to call the laboratory technicians who fused the gametes to produce me," yukawa3 howled, his face suddenly crumpled in distress. "I just need to tell them I love them. I just wish... I just wish there was something that would bring us closer." His high spirits had completely dissipated and he sloped off towards the 'Opportunity' spacecraft, holding his sou’wester hat in one fist and punching it with the other.
"Come back and listen!" polkingbeal67 hissed. He was loathe to allow yukawa3 time alone in the 'Opportunity' while his moods were swinging from irrational exuberance to abject self-pity and despair. Who knows what he might decide to do on an impulse? "Listen to me! This is difficult to bear for both of us. But we are where we are and we've got to make the best of it." As yukawa3 had not turned back, polkingbeal67 hurried after him and the two were soon ensconced in the cockpit of the spacecraft.
Yukawa3 replaced the sou’wester on his head and nodded like a woodpecker at a tree trunk. "I know we've got to make the best of a bad job," he said. "I know, I know, I know. I totally know that. It's just, well, I've never done exiling before and I'm a bit nervous. Hey, actually, I'm freaking out here. I'm freaking out and I don't know why. I think I'm freaking out because you're not freaking out. What will it be like, p? Sir? Is it okay to call you p, p?"
“Don’t call me peepee.”
“No, I mean just one ‘p’.”
“Swampy? I don’t think so. Listen, from now on we’re going to have new identities. You’re going to have to call me by a new name.”
“Seriously?”
Polkingbeal67 nodded. For a short moment there, the two of them were nodding like dashboard figurines. "Listen to me. It is now our fate to wander among the stars, homeless and homesick, with a bounty on our heads, regarded throughout the universe as the scourge of mankind.”
Yukawa3’s face took on an expression of abject, panic-stricken misery. “I just want to clear up one thing,” he said. “When you say mankind, does that include, y’know, earthlings? I couldn’t bear it if earthlings thought of us as scourges.”
Polkingbeal67 ignored him. Actually, he thought the idea of being a renegade outlaw sounded quite heroic, in an antiheroic sort of way. “Anyway,” he said, “apart from that, we'll be okay. It'll be tough for us and, let’s face it, it’ll be tough for the rest of mankind too. I'm sure we'll be missed. We've just got to work out the best place to go, then launch the 'Opportunity' towards the starting point of the rest of our lives."
Daunted once more by the challenges that lay ahead, yukawa3 mulled over his mentor’s words but slowly became incoherent and agitated. "We'll be fine," he repeated, mumbling irrationally to himself. "We just tough out the best launch of our lives and the 'Opportunity' will be missed..." He clapped polkingbeal67 on the shoulder. "If you think I'm beaten by this... If you think I am going to allow this little setback to derail me, ... well, I am! I'm your man! So, where are we going?"
The logical option was to proceed without delay to The Pale Blue Dot, although polkingbeal67 harboured a few misgivings. The most troubling of these was the likelihood of yukawa3 failing to integrate in a suitable manner. In actual fact, the cadet had a bit of history with that particular planet. He had already made one abortive trip there as part of a short fact-finding mission. However, remote monitors revealed he had been spending all his time squirreling away all the sou’wester hats he could lay his hands on. So when polkingbeal67 proposed that they should take their chances with the blue planet dwellers, yukawa3's eyes lit up. Eager to supplement his collection of collapsible oilskin rain hats, he was quite willing to forego the lure of more exotic locations.
They climbed out of the 'Opportunity' and ambled over to a barren ridge well beyond the elongated shadow of the spacecraft. As the sun dipped slowly and serenely towards the horizon, they reclined together on the arid soil and discussed the issues pertaining to their new identities. "We've obviously got to blend in," polkingbeal67 mused. "We've got to be discreet and inconspicuous. You understand what I mean?"
Yukawa3 started nodding again. "I think so," he said. "I'm not sure. I mean, would it be possible for you to explain it in great detail? No, no, I can do discreet. Seriously, I can do that. I can be the foot of discretion."
"I think you mean the sole of discretion, and anyway it's not that kind of sole - it's soul, as in spiritual stuff and the phrase ‘don't tell a soul’."
"I won't."
"You won't? You won't what?"
"I won't tell a soul."
"Just shut up!" Polkingbeal67 sighed savagely and pointed to data displayed on his microwocky. "Choose a name for your earthling identity. I've worked out an algorithm to calculate the most prevalent first names and last names on the Pale Blue Dot."
"They have such weird names, don't they?" said yukawa3. "Why do their names contain more than one word and why do they use capital letters?"
"That's the sort of mess you get in if you can't devise a system for producing unique monikers. Anyway, choose from this list of common first names. I'm going for Mohammed."
"Okay, I'll go for Mohammed, too," said yukawa3, who was nodding again.
"No," polkingbea
l67 protested. It was strange, he thought, that when people have the freedom to do exactly what they like, they invariably end up copying one another. "You can't... I've got Mohammed. We can't have the same name. It'll be ridiculous. You can be Sophia." He tipped the device and more data scrolled down the screen. "Here's a list of the most popular second names and underneath is a list of the most common occupations. I'm taking Wang. I'm going to be a waitress called Mohammed Wang. That sounds good."
Yukawa3 took the microwocky, flipped it a few times and handed it back. "Okay," he said. "A second name and an occupation to go with Sophia? Hmm. I'm going to be a fisherman called Sophia Gonzalez."
Polkingbeal67 cocked his head to one side and tapped his eye patch. "Wait a minute," he said. "Fisherman isn't on the list."
"I know, but I really want to be a fisherman," said yukawa3, slyly, banking on his mentor being unaware of the brouhaha surrounding his previous trip. "It's a very common occupation in coastal areas of the planet. Come on, p, let's go to the seaside! Any questions?"
Polkingbeal67 stretched and propped himself up on his rubbery elbows. At this point, he was not prepared to get into an argument about their precise destination. Although, actually, the more he thought about it, a beach lifestyle might be quite suitable. The earthling stories he loved best were those about pirates fighting on the decks. He was confident that he and yukawa3 would integrate well amongst the eccentric characters who made their living on or by the sea. Furthermore, despite some concerns he had about the composition of the sea-life food chain, the prospect of spending his exile surfing, snorkeling, fishing and swimming was a fairly appealing one.
Out of the corner of his eye, polkingbeal67 noticed that the chilloks had returned and had formed a pattern of concentric rings around the site of their former city. "Look!" he said. "It must be some kind of ceremony commemorating the dead."
Yukawa3 raised his head from the ground just enough to witness the fascinating spectacle. "A wake?" he asked.
"Of course I'm awake, you fool. I wouldn't be talking to you if I was asleep, would I?"
Yukawa3 pointed to the chillok ritual. "No, no, I mean Keshiak."
"Keshiak? Awake? I'm afraid not. I just told you - it's a funeral ceremony. No, I'm afraid Keshiak is sleeping in the comforting cellulose clouds of the great chillok paradise in the sky. Good grief! What am I talking about? What a load of swivel-eyed drivel! Must be some sort of vitalmados deprivation. Why, I'm beginning to sound like smolin9! Keshiak is dead, crushed by the nether parts of 'Opportunity'. And that's that." Realising that it would not be the height of diplomacy to proceed with a take-off while the ceremony was in progress, he stepped gingerly over the assembled chilloks and fetched a handful of vitalmados capsules from a storage cubby just below the cockpit window.
Vitalmados was an intoxicating liquor as defined in Section 3C of the Morys Minor Health Statutes. It was unlawful to manufacture for sale, sell, offer or keep for sale, possess or transport it, except upon the terms, conditions, limitations and restrictions enumerated in the statutes. Effectively, this meant that it may not be used for any purpose except, under very restricted circumstances, as fuel or ammunition. The law was almost universally ignored by the Mortians.
A by-product of Morys Minor's construction industry, vitalmados was actually derived from pulverised goopmutt waste, fermented in methane. In contrast to the debilitating effects of earthling alcohol, it distorted the user's perception of reality by manipulating and vitalising the brain. Available in quick-release tablets and capsules, as well as in liquid form, rectal ingestion of capsules was by far the most popular way to ensure rapid absorption. Ingested orally, it had a distinctive, slightly tangy taste. Essentially, it induced a euphoric state of mind, particularly in those predisposed to depression. Certain characters on Morys tried to make themselves as miserable as possible so that they had an excuse to ingest it.
The following morning, polkingbeal67 and yukawa3 were still under the influence of vitalmados as they plotted their course and still far from clear-headed when they landed the 'Opportunity', erratically and bumpily, a few metres from the lapping waters of a secluded cove on the Pale Blue Dot.
They had both forgotten something quite serious. When polkingbeal67 had swapped hearts with Melinda, enabling her to visit her home planet, he had inherited a modified organ that rejected white blood cells and therefore confounded the defence system required to fight earthling infections and diseases.
. . .
When news of the Niffis massacre filtered through to Morys Minor, its impact was immediate and overwhelming, not least because the planet's leader was playing host to a delegation of chillok Muqu rebels seeking intergalactic condemnation of Naaffab atrocities. As we know, Niffis had been the scene of brutal sectarian violence in the power struggle between the Naaffabs and the Muqu minority for some time before the 'Opportunity' came knocking. The Muqus' joy at the demise of President Keshiak was more than offset by their grief over the annihilation of their martyred brethren. Dismissing the Mortian leader's apology as ‘a hollow, half-hearted, face-saving rhetorical statement’, they were convinced that the city's destruction had been ‘a deliberate, blundering, heavy-handed intervention, conceived and carried out with the express intention of erasing the Niffis crisis from the intergalactic agenda’.
Melinda, now Morys Minor's leader-in-waiting, had been summoned to the planetary leader's palace for an urgent briefing. As she waited in the opulent antechamber while the leader adjusted the seaweed garland hanging around his neck and drizzled himself with various oils and aromatics, she reflected on the implications for polkingbeal67. You would naturally expect there to be a special bond between an organ donor and a recipient, doubly so in the case of an exchange, and, although polkingbeal67 believed he had been tricked into swapping his heart for an inferior earthling organ that had been clumsily modified to circulate Mortian blue blood, Melinda, for her part, could not have been more grateful for the Mortian muscle that beat so steadily in her chest, given that she could never have been able to visit her home planet without it. Whereas polkingbeal67's attitude towards her was one of resentment and anger, Melinda felt a singularly deep and enduring attachment to the gruff old Mortian warrior and she was acutely concerned about the ramifications of the Niffis incident.
The leader shuffled through the portal and bade Melinda follow him into the presidential chamber. Apart from the seaweed festooned around his neck, he wore a tattered robe of yellowish oily fabric gathered at the waist and fastened with a clip constructed from goopmutt horn. "Blimey!" Melinda thought. "It must be casual Friday."
"Where I lead, you will follow," the leader intoned. Unsure if this was a reference to her succeeding him as planetary leader, or a warning to let him boss the discussion, or simply his way of saying 'follow me', Melinda made no reply and strolled behind him until he reached a low dais upon which he sat cross-legged. He motioned for her to sit across from him, but she was disinclined to park herself on the floor, so she remained standing. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable as the leader sat silently and motionlessly in front of her, his arms outstretched, Melinda wondered if he was waiting for her to join him in performing some obscure Mortian ritual. Self-consciously and hesitantly, she raised her arms to mimic his stance and waited for guidance. Suddenly he spoke in a grave tone, "I will be your teacher and I will open the door, but you must enter by yourself."
"Okay," Melinda responded breezily. "Where are we going?"
"Only he that has travelled the road knows where the holes are deep."
"Tell me about it!" said Melinda, nervously trying to get the conversation flowing. "Back home in Glastonbury, you just would not believe the potholes! And can you get the council to come out and fix them? Like hell you can! Literally. I suppose it's the same here?"
"My first lesson is this," the leader continued huffily. "It is said that the smallest insect may cause death by its bite, and..."
Melinda interrupted him. "I know! You're not kidding! I
got bitten by one the other night and you would not believe the size of the bump on my arm. I swear it was the size of half an apple. So itchy and, y'know, embarrassing. Literally."
Squirming in irritation, the leader muttered "Talking doesn't cook rice." He lowered his arms and pointed to a miniature podium behind him. To her astonishment, Melinda noticed the plinth was covered with animated termite-like creatures, which she now realised were chilloks. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Has one of them bitten you?"
"Insects cannot enter a shut mouth!" the leader admonished gravely, making a gesture of silence with his forefinger.
Melinda, blissfully unconscious of his signal, was starting to relax. "Well," she said. "It's funny you should say that. I read somewhere that, on average, every person's mouth gets about seven insect visits a year, while they're sleeping. While they're sleeping! I know, right? Literally! Can you imagine?" Noticing that the leader's face was beginning to take on an expression of anger and vexation, she faltered and her voice became weaker. "Well, maybe it only affects earthlings. Or, anyway, if I'm eating them in my sleep, there's less for you to eat! Ha ha. Literally."
Installed in front of the podium was a myrmecam - the sophisticated optical-audio device that combined a magnifying lens with a real-time language translator, enabling humanoids like the Mortians to communicate with the chilloks in a decidedly effective way. The leader turned around and touched a button on the device, unleashing a tumultuous din of high-pitched voices speaking in what Melinda thought was rapid-fire Latin.
"Is that Latin?" she enquired.
The leader nodded. "You must speak with them," he said. "They will not speak with Mortians. They think we deliberately destroyed their city."
Through The Wormhole, Literally Page 16