"Okay, but why are they speaking in Latin? That's so erratic."
"When you walk on snow you cannot hide your footprints. The chilloks love your earthling culture. You are, of course, familiar with the Myrmidons?" Melinda shook her head. "The Myrmidons were a troop of fierce warriors who fought under the leadership of the hero Achilles in your Trojan Wars. They were created from a colony of ants, who are naturally distant cousins of the chilloks." As Melinda stared in blank amazement, he added, "Also, they think Mortians don't understand Latin."
"But you do?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'll give it a go, but I hardly know any Latin."
"It matters little," said the leader. "They'll listen to you if you speak in English. I want you to give them a message from us. Tell them we pay tribute to the bravery and resilience of the chillok people. Assure them our prayers are with them and we will do everything in our power to apprehend and bring to justice those responsible for this atrocity." He shot a glance at Melinda and continued in an undertone. "And tell them anything else you think might help. Report back to me."
"I'll try," said Melinda, "Literally. I'll talk to them, but I can't promise they'll listen."
"The important thing is to hear what isn't being said," the leader concluded, as he trundled away. The salty smell of seaweed lingered behind, reminding Melinda of childhood trips to windy English beaches, amusement arcades, donkey rides and sandcastles. Drawing closer to the myrmecam, she rapped it with her knuckles as if it was an earthling microphone. "Hello?" she said tentatively. "Testing, testing."
A volley of Latin spat back at her, chaotic and confused at first, then congealing into a steady, insistent chant: "Minima maxima sunt! Minima maxima sunt! Minima maxima sunt!"
Melinda decided the best policy was to go with the flow, so, completely oblivious to what the phrase meant, she chanted along with them until they stopped abruptly and an awkward silence ensued. Racking her brains to come up with a suitable Latin phrase, she coughed and said, "Um, tempus fugit, and, er, vice versa." After a short, stunned silence, she added, "Habeas corpus?" One of the chilloks started chanting again. Encouraged, Melinda went ahead and delivered the leader's message in English, then waited for a response.
One of the chilloks spoke in a shrill voice: "Hoc est bellum. Audemus jura nostra defendere."
"Okaaay," said Melinda, dragging out the final syllable in preparation for her final foray into speaking Latin. "Status quo!" she blurted out. Perhaps it was prompted by a desire to lighten the mood, perhaps it was just a spontaneous, knee-jerk reaction to the phrase, but, for some reason, she found herself singing 'Whatever you want' in a weak, wavering voice as the chilloks looked on in rapt fascination. Bizarrely, first one chillok joined in, then another, then another, until finally they were all swaying and trilling in unison: "Whatever you want! Whatever you like! Whatever you say!" while Melinda conducted them with sweeping flourishes of her hands.
They moved on to 'Rockin' all over the world': "And I like it, I like it, I like it, I like it, I li-li-like it, li-li-like, here we go, rockin' all over the world!" and they were in full flow as smolin9 entered the chamber. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "Look at you! You're doing a great job here! I've been telling everyone you're going to make a brilliant Mortian leader and this... well, before you came on the scene, this lot were demanding restitution from our revered leader and it was all getting rather ugly."
The chilloks did indeed appear to be in party mood as they sang along, although it should be said they were under the impression they were reciting rabble-rousing incantations in protest at the leader's inaction and bland assurances.
Melinda tapped the button on the myrmecam and gave smolin9 a hug. "Thanks," she said, "but I've no idea what just happened. What are you doing here?"
"I've come to say goodbye." The jet-black of smolin9's eyes clouded a little. "I've just spoken to our revered leader and he's sending me off to find polkingbeal67 and yukawa3. It won't take long, I promise."
"You're being sent to arrest them?"
"The chilloks have taken their case to the Intergalactic Court of Justice, Arbitration and Conciliation. We're obliged to present them to the Court during this moon."
"Why you?" Melinda protested. "Arrest your own friends? That's harsh. Literally."
Smolin9 shrugged his shoulders. "Well, our revered leader says I'm the one person who can figure out where they've gone."
“Do you know where they've gone?"
"I've got a hunch or two," said smolin9. "They can't have gone to Earth, since polkingbeal67 has your heart and can't survive there. So, that narrows the options. Don't worry, I'll find them and I'll be back within the moon."
The pair left the chamber hand-in-hand as the chilloks marched up and down on the podium, warbling furiously: "I li-li-like it, li-li-like, here we go, rockin' all over the world!"
. . .
A couple of hours later, when the second of Morys Minor's suns was setting behind the main pods of the Intergalactic Space Station, throwing sharply-defined shadows across the launch site, Melinda was saying goodbye to smolin9 as he prepared to embark on his voyage aboard the 'Crusader'. Her mood had darkened slightly when it had dawned on her that all the Mortians she knew well would be away from the planet and she would have to fend for herself. She glanced at her mood ring and was not surprised to find the liquid crystal molecules had taken on a deep, dark amber hue. Taking smolin9's hands in her own, she looked into his lustrous black eyes and spoke in a melancholy tone. "Why does it have to be you? Why couldn't he send nipkow4 or one of the cadets?" While smolin9 fiddled with his microwocky and considered his reply, she fired another question at him. "Can I come with you?"
Smolin9 shook his head.
Melinda lifted his face with her fingers to make eye contact. "We've hardly had any time together since we got back from Earth."
"I know, I'm sorry." Smolin9 smiled faintly. "Like I said, our revered leader regrets the imposition but he doesn't have much choice. He's having to spend all day at the moment sitting and thinking."
Melinda could not resist a barbed remark: "Are you sure he's not just sitting?"
"He's under a lot of pressure, not just from the chilloks and the ICJAC, but also from the planetary affairs committee."
"The what?"
"The ICJAC is the Intergalactic Court of Justice, Arbitration and Conciliation."
"No, I mean the planetary committee thing."
He detected a note of incipient irritation in her voice. "Do you want the long explanation or the short one?"
"I'll take half of the short one," Melinda replied.
"Okay, well, the planetary affairs committee is the hub of government here on Morys. Most of the policies have to pass through it. The serious ones anyway. It meets every five kins, er, days and its remit is to examine the expenditure, administration and policies of the various Mortian public bodies. The committee approves proposals from our revered leader. It also chooses its own subjects of inquiry and seeks written and oral evidence from a wide range of relevant groups and individuals..."
Melinda pulled a face and interrupted. "Are you sure this is the short version?"
Smolin9 responded by speaking more quickly. "It's chaired by our revered leader's virtual opponent, who has the power of veto over all the proposals..."
Melinda raised her hands as if to ward off his words. "Wait, wait, wait!" she said. "Did you say virtual opponent? Virtual?"
"Yes, well, you see," said smolin9, knowing there was no way he could make this sound good to an unenlightened earthling. "The functions of Mortian government are carried out by sophisticated artificial intelligence systems in accordance with the flavour of ideology determined by the electorate."
"So you're saying his political opponents are not real people? Really? Literally?"
"But you don't understand." Smolin9's brain wrestled vainly with the realisation that his argument might appear to an outsider to have more holes than a colander. "You see, that makes
it harder for our revered leader. It's not easy to win a debate against artificial intelligence..."
"Oh?" Melinda opened her eyes wide. "It seems to me artificial intelligence has been no match for natural stupidity here!"
If smolin9 had had hackles, they would have bristled. "And, anyway, to be fair, his political allies are also virtual." As soon as he had said it, smolin9 realised he had taken a plasma gun to the colander. “You have to understand that everyone got fed up with politicians running the planet. They were seen to be corrupt, self-serving and power hungry. The people clamoured for an alternative, so we devised a new system of government – one that would give us truth, integrity and intelligence.”
"So, let me get this straight. You've got to leave me here alone on this bizarre little planet because your revered leader is under intense pressure from, well, precisely no one. A virtual representative of a person. So, in fact, no one at all."
"You're forgetting the chilloks and the ICJAC," said smolin9 sheepishly.
"Oh yes, so it's pressure from no one and a few ants and some quango that hardly anyone's even heard of. Wait! I'll bet... Are there any real people on this ICJ... whatever? Are they virtual too?"
"Of course not," said smolin9, "Well, some of them, not all of them." Forced into a corner, he felt obliged to play his trump card. "Anyway, it's your fault!"
Melinda put her hands on her hips and inclined her head. "My fault?"
"Yes, well, not your fault exactly. Let's just say it's because of you."
"What? It's not my fault, but you're blaming me?"
"No. Yes. The fact is, our revered leader has become very unpopular for appointing you his successor..."
"Unpopular with these nobody virtual people?" Melinda glanced at her mood ring which had turned reddish purple.
"Yes. No. Unpopular with the planetary affairs committee. And I’m unpopular too, by the way, because I brought you to the planet. Anyway, the committee wanted the next leader to be a native Mortian." Smolin9 broke off while the main engines were test-fired. "The chairman can veto any proposal he thinks our revered leader is keen on. It's an ugly business. There are feuds, power struggles and shabby deals. No one can do anything about your appointment, but they can keep other proposals hostage. They may release them later, but only if they're granted favours in return..."
"Yes, I get it, he's in hock to these virtual nobodies," Melinda snapped. "How can computer nonentities have feuds and do shabby deals? It's insane. But I tell you what, this isn't going to happen when I take over as leader, I promise you! Literally. You tell me you people actually vote for them? Really? You vote for nobodies and nonentities?" It did occur to her that the situation on Earth may not actually be so very different, but she resolutely dismissed the thought. "I'll invite them all to a meeting," she went on. "And if they don't turn up in person, which they won't of course, I'll sack them!" As they talked, several technobots wheeled around industriously, preparing the 'Crusader' for flight. Humming and whirring, they went methodically through their checklists and other procedures. Some went in and out of the cargo bay doors carrying provisions and equipment, others stood around examining and adjusting the various systems they operated remotely from their specially customised microwockys.
"I'm sorry Mel, I have to go." Smolin9's aching heart distorted the sound of his voice and made him sound callous and truculent. Knocking him sideways, the pain impelled him to stifle his feelings and withhold affection. "I must get my suit ready for the launch. I'm sorry, but we Mortians have a strong sense of duty."
"But what about your duty to me?" Melinda protested. They stared at each other for a moment, both equally stunned.
Smolin9 uttered a strange snort that sounded like a stifled laugh. "I guess we're having our first fight," he said.
It was actually their second fight. When Melinda had first arrived on Morys, she had taken umbrage when smolin9 had neglected to tell her that the required modification to her heart precluded a return to Earth.
Melinda clasped his arm. "Okay," she relented. "I... I know you've got to go. It's just, well... You must know how much I gave up to come here and how much I've left behind and how much of a risk I've taken. Literally. And I'm not saying I want to go home or anything like that, but..." Her voice trailed off and smolin9's heart sank at hearing her stifle a sob. "Well, it's just, y'know, I kind of feel a bit, um, what's the word? Vulnerable. Yeh, I'm gonna feel really vulnerable when you leave me here now. When I was a little girl, I always thought I'd like to make the world a better place. I didn't realise that would entail me swapping it for another world! That takes some getting used to! Don't get me wrong. I don't have any regrets. Literally. It's all been just wonderful. Wonderful and weird. And then there's us - I can't..., I can't be me without you anymore and because of that, and because all this is so insane, I don't know if I'm ready to cope with being me on my own at the moment. Not here. I haven't adapted to life here yet. We haven't even, y'know, decorated the house, sorry, pod."
"Decorate? What do you mean, Mel? What do you expect me to do? I can't... I can't take you to Ikea!"
"Why not?" Melinda protested. "I mean not Ikea obviously, but it would help so much if we could choose blinds and curtains and stuff. I mean it!"
A look of perplexed astonishment washed across smolin9's face. "But the windows adjust to the light and you can make them opaque at the flick of a switch. So why would you...?" A technobot approached, reminded him it was nearly time to initiate the launch sequence, then pirouetted and withdrew.
Melinda released smolin9's arm and almost beseechingly asked her husband, “Why can't I go with you?"
"You're too important," smolin9 explained. "The thing is, it's likely that our revered leader will be summoned to appear before the ICJAC on Lacuna to answer questions about Niffis. If that happens, you will have to stand in for him here on Morys."
"Well, it's nice to be important, I suppose."
Smolin9 took her in his arms and said, "It's important to be nice too." They both smiled. "I'll be back just as soon as I possibly can."
They parted with a kiss and Melinda watched the launch with a heavy heart. Could she have known that they would never see one another again?
. . .
"Where are we?" yukawa3 asked woozily, kicking at the sand with his feet.
Polkingbeal67 poked a finger at his microwocky and squinted at one of the miniature screens. "We're somewhere on the south west coast," he said.
"The south west coast of what? Are we on the Pale Blue Dot?"
"Of course we are, you prokaryote! We set the routefixer for the nearest coast to where Melinda used to live. According to the log, this should be Burnham On Sea, but you were steering so erratically when we switched to manual for the landing, we may have gone off course."
"It wasn't erratic," yukawa3 protested morosely. "I had to swerve to avoid some trees."
Polkingbeal67 slapped the cadet on the top of his head. "They weren't trees, bobblehead! That was the air freshener Melinda gave you! I told you not to hang it in the flight deck!"
The waves were lapping against the hull of the 'Opportunity' and a pair of gulls arced and skimmed over the blue-green water towards them. One of them perched on top of the craft, then hopped and fixed yukawa3 with a hard, inquisitive look that demanded an explanation. Or food.
"We've got to hide the craft," yukawa3 decided, rather superfluously.
"I know," said polkingbeal67. After weighing up all the options, he felt compelled to put his trust in the Craterkite cloaking device, even though it was still subject to beta testing back on Morys. "We'll use the Craterkite," he told yukawa3.
As his mentor activated the device, yukawa3 tried to display as much comradely curiosity as he could muster. "What model is the Craterkite?" he asked. "Mark 2?"
"Mark 3. It's the latest prototype."
As the 'Opportunity' vanished in a greenish fog, yukawa3 scrutinised the nothingness left behind. "I can't see any difference. How is it better th
an the Mark 2?"
Yukawa3 had no idea why he found himself on the receiving end of another one of polkingbeal67's slaps on the top of the head. Battered and crumpled, the yellow sou’wester slipped over his eyes. "I wish you wouldn't do that," he complained. "I like to think of us as mates, y'know, sort of outlaw buddies, bros, comrades, partners in crime. I've always felt we could be special together, always hoped that deep down you were, y'know, secretly nice."
Polkingbeal67 was sorting through a travel bag of essential items. He took out his plasma gun and repeatedly set and reset the trigger mechanism. "I am nice," he said absently. "I'm a very friendly guy."
"If you were nice, you wouldn't keep flattening my sou’wester!" yukawa3 retorted. "A friendly guy would talk to you as an equal and never look down on you, maybe take you fishing, maybe buy you a new sou’wester..."
Polkingbeal67's eyes took on a slightly evil glint. "Tell me, have you heard of the expression 'friendly fire'?"
Friendly or not, polkingbeal67 replaced the plasma gun in the bag and retrieved the biomimetic mutators. He was anxious to get on and tackle the next task ahead of them. Having concealed the spacecraft, it was imperative that they disguised their own identities before they encountered any earthlings. "Right, pay attention," he said, configuring the mutators. "From now on, we are no longer polkingbeal67 and yukawa3 from Morys Minor. I'm a waitress called Mohammed Wang..." He paused as his physical appearance mutated. "And you," he continued, "you are a fisherman called Sophia Gonzalez."
Yukawa3 inspected the transformation of his limbs. "Okay, p," he said.
"Mohammed," polkingbeal67 corrected him, straightening his apron. "You can call me Mo for short."
Yukawa3 was delighted with his new identity. He stroked his goatee and flexed his puny biceps, grinning from ear to ear. "Look at me!" he beamed, spinning around in his ill-fitting turtle neck sweater while his white duck trousers flapped incongruously around his bony legs. "I'm just the most stereotypical earthling fisherman of all time! I'm going to sing a sea shanty right now!" Realising he did not know any sea shanties, he yelled "Yo ho ho!" lustily a few times and performed a bizarre jig that involved kicking his legs out and hopping erratically on one foot.
Through The Wormhole, Literally Page 17