But, humanity had discovered that not only were they not alone in the universe, they were actually residents of a galaxy practically choking on a seemingly never-ending roster of other life forms. The activities of this cacophony of civilizations was overseen by the five great races comprising the ruling body of the highly esteemed organization known as the Pan-Galactic League of Suns. Or, should it be said, the “formerly,” highly esteemed organization.
“Pulsing detected, sir. Strong mounting—seventeen to the fifth, and growing.”
For, once the Roosevelt inserted itself into the actual workings of the galaxy, the League’s stranglehold on things had crumpled. Within weeks the Earth-led Confederation of Planets had been overwhelmed with applications for membership. Never ones to not press an advantage, those in charge of the Confederation had dispatched the Roosevelt on one dicey mission after another, which is what had put the flagship of the Earth Alliance on a research mission in a centrally located section of the galaxy unexplored by any other race.
“Suggest a rotational vectoring, sir.”
Not that no other race had ever sent a ship into the nebulous six-light-year across swamp of gas clouds and radiant shadows that hovered around the Milky Way’s ground zero. Plenty had tried.
“Give it to me yesterday, Mr. Michaels.”
It was just that none of them had ever returned.
At the order of Captain Alexander Benjamin Valance, science officer Mac Michaels keyed the controls in question, throwing The Roosevelt into a lateral come-about so unexpected a full third of the crew were thrown against the nearest floor, wall or ceiling. But, despite the resulting overloading of the ship’s medical bays, the maneuver had been worth it. Cracked ribs, broken fingers, scraped flesh, bruises, dents, dings, and lost blood aside, The Roosevelt found it way in between the competing solar winds and broke loose of the terrible current which had been thrashing it about so.
The instant the bridge instruments announced that control was back within the hands of the crew, the captain ordered an immediate reversal of their course. In seconds the Roosevelt was smoothly gliding once more through the darkness, backing off to a point safely away from the storm where the impossible manifestation could be charted, studied, and maybe even explained.
And, as one might expect, a great series of cheers, whoops, and unrestrained applauds went up from one end of the great warwagon to the other in praise of those who had once more pulled the crew’s collective derrières out of the fire. Those currently performing essential duties, of course, continued to do so. But, any who could stop for a meal, a smoke, a round of drinks, or anything else that might take their mind off the fact they had once again cheated six kinds of death by the proverbial skin of their teeth did so with all possible speed.
And, it was that unadulterated burst of relief and good cheer which started the terrifying chain of events that followed.
“Okay, which one of you slobs wants a mouthful of poison?”
From the staggering amount of positive responses following the offer for seeming self-destruction, it appeared fairly obvious the woman in white carrying an over-sized tray was not actually offering death. Indeed, so fervent were the screams and pleas of acceptance even an alien visitor with the most inadequate of translators would be able to figure out that the crowd swarming about the relatively short chef had not the slightest interest in self-destruction—hers or anyone else’s.
“The female does not actually offer the ceasing of life—yes?”
“No, no, sir,” Captain Valance responded, torn between amusement and exasperation. “That’s Chef Kinlock, and she’s just kidding around with the crew.”
The captain’s guest was Thortom’tonmas, the newly installed ambassador from Daneria to the Confederation of Planets. The Roosevelt had the dubious honor of the ambassador’s presence due to a brilliant idea hatched by one of the less competent members of the Alliance’s public relations department. Since it had been agreed the new ambassador should be transported to Earth by a Confederation ship, it was decided such “advanced” thinking should be compounded by saddling their greatest ship with said “privilege.” Then, the same genius decided that giving the Roosevelt a monumentally difficult task to perform on the way home would be the perfect vehicle for putting the war-like Danerians in their place.
Of course, what this obvious civilian had failed to take into consideration were the less self-congratulatory ramifications surrounding the idea of a high-ranking individual from the Confederation’s greatest enemies being given a tour of the Earth’s most advanced ship. Despite the nifty press release such news generated, carrying out such a stunt meant giving Daneria access to the Earth Alliance’s most closely guarded military secrets, as well as a perfect opportunity to embarrass the hell out of the Confederation if they failed to complete their next-to-impossible task.
“Then what is she offering them?”
“You know,” Valance admitted, “I don’t actually know. Why don’t we go over and find out?”
Even as the captain and Thortom’tonmas approached the gathering crowd, Kinlock shouted;
“Okay, back off, you decksliders. I think you all know who gets first dibs on this batch.”
The batch, as all assembled could tell from the heavenly aroma wafting through the mess was comprised of the chef’s galaxy-famous chocolate chip cookies. And the one of their number who was to get first pick they all knew could be none other than Mac Michaels, the science officer who had kept the Roosevelt, and by extension her crew, from becoming just another statistic concerning investigation of Sector 84-Af7, the nebulous swamp of gas clouds and radiant shadows they had recently escaped.
“Open up, Michaels.”
Grinning, the Roosevelt’s chief razormind stretched his mouth wide as Kinlock tossed a cookie high into the air. Everyone held their breath as Michaels moved forward, snapping at his target as it came into range. Amazingly, he snagged the treat in mid-descent, managing to snare it intact without merely biting off a piece and sending the rest to the floor—or worse, missing altogether.
“All right, you bilge nasties—come and get ’em!”
A staggering wall of cheers echoed throughout the mess and down the halls in every direction. The first tray the chef had brought with her from the galley was emptied in less than a handful of seconds. No consternation followed, for ten more trays were brought forth by Kinlock’s crew, the contents of which were more than enough to make certain everyone received one—even Valance and Thortom’tonmas.
And, while the two debated the merits of chocolate chip cookies to the ones known as A Little Taste of Andromedas, the favorite dessert treat of the Danierian Empire, at the next table over, where Mac Michaels had planted himself, a similar conversation had also begun. Holding the remaining half of his cookie aloft, nursing the treasure like a middle-schooler savoring his first beer, Michaels said;
“These are really the absolute best ever.”
“Ohhhhh, I don’t know,” Chief Gunnery Officer Rockland Vespucci answered, known to pawn brokers and bartenders across the Confederation as Rocky. “My mom, she used to make the best canolis. I mean the cream was so rich, and she would use so many pistachios....”
“Awwww, that’s nothing,” Technician Second Class Thorner interrupted. “If you guys ever tasted my dad’s koogle, well then....”
“Forget it,” piped in Quartermaster Harris. “None of it can compare to the oatmeal raisin squares my grandma used to make.”
And so the conversation ran up and down the length of the table, one sailor after another defending their families’ or nationalities’ favorite dessert treat. After a while, however, after Rocky noted that his best friend, Machinist First Mate Li Qui Kon, more commonly known to wire and screw jockeys and robotics enthusiasts everywhere as Noodles, had not joined into the conversation. When he enquired as to “why,” his shipmate answered;
“Chinese families aren’t big on fancy desserts. It’s all orange slices and almond cooki
es and ginger candies—”
“Ginger candies,” asked another crewman, “what are those?”
“A reminder as to why China will never be at the forefront of the dessert industry.” As everyone chuckled over Noodles’ quip, the machinist held up a hand, adding;
“Hey, but don’t think Chinese can’t cook. Any culture that can create the Monkey King must know something about filling a table.”
When asked to explain his reference, Noodles told those assembled;
“Well, the Monkey King was a member of the Chinese pantheon, not a god really, but he mingled with the gods. He was the troublemaker in all the really good Chinese stories—”
“Like Loki for the Norse?” Intelligence Officer DiVico asked. “Or Coyote for the Native Americans?”
The machinist confirmed that the Monkey King was absolutely best described as one of the most mischievous god-figures ever, one who could just as easily work tirelessly for a noble cause as he might throw himself into tearing down an empire. Nigh invulnerable, monstrously powerful, and driven by a quirkier set of conflicting passions than a cocaine addict at a slow-dance marathon, he was totally unpredictable, and one presence no one—rich, poor, or somewhere in the middle ever wanted to see.
But, no matter what he was up to, no matter in what story the Monkey King was starring, sooner or later things came down to food. Simply put, the guy loved to eat. Noodles regaled his shipmates, and, through extension, the captain and his guest, with a seemingly endless list of the mouth-watering meals that the myths reported had been consumed by the mythic trouble-maker. Pies and pork, apples and ambrosia, shrimp, salads and sorbets, plus a thousand other dishes, each one more wonderful sounding than the one before it had all been consumed by the legendary simian.
Noodles made the Monkey King’s typical menu sound so wondrous that after a while all those gathered at the table were driven by hunger to race off to the dinner queue. Even the captain and the ambassador felt their differently constructed stomachs growling viciously enough to follow suit. Indeed, the machinist had made the mounting list sound so absolutely magnificent that all within earshot had deserted the area to fill themselves a tray and get down to enjoying a meal on a more fulfilling level than simply hearing about one.
All, that was, except for the single crewman at the table who, if any of the others had asked, it would have been discovered had never before been seen by anyone in attendance. That sailor, or at least, what appeared to be just another sailor, the only being in sight to not take a cookie, instead kept to its seat, thinking. It did this for some time, finally making a decision after some eighteen minutes of contemplation.
After that it smiled, a very malicious thought filling its mind with a glee it had not known in centuries.
“By the blessed blue suede shoes of the King, what’s in Hell is that?”
Noodles was even more surprised that his pal, Rocky. On their way to the galley for breakfast the day after all the swirling nebula excitement, they ran into a humanoid figure in the hallway that froze both of them in their tracks. It did not stand more than four feet tall, though size was not important to it. The thing had merely chosen a convenient height for walking the world of man.
“By the Buddha’s mint julep, it can’t be....”
The creature grinned at the two sailors from its perch atop a small but animated cloud floating in the middle of the hallway. It was a cumulus wispy thing, seemingly nothing more than steam, but still substantial enough to carry a passenger. The cloud, however, was not what was causing the swabbies’ concern.
“Can’t be what?”
The creature possessed a body short of leg and long of arm, one clad in a wardrobe of the finest Chinese silk—resplendent robes covered in delicate designs, stitched with thread made from the purest gold and silver. Its knuckles were hairier than many a man’s dome, topped by a head with a simian face and eyes that saw men’s souls as just so many leaves, pretty things that fell and dried and danced at the merest whim of the breeze. Barely able to speak, knowing that his mind could not possibly be correctly interpreting the data it was receiving from his senses, still did Noodles shout;
“Shiu Yin Hong!”
And at that gesture of recognition, the creature smiled, for despite all logic, it was indeed the great and powerful Monkey King which floated peacefully there in Connecting Corridor 17-L. Rocky and Noodles looked one to the other in a helplessness so utterly complete they could not have been more useless if they had just come across an eighteen-foot-wide breach in the hull or been asked to identify the capital of Oregon.
“What in the aurory, the borey, and the whole damn allus are we supposed to do with him?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Hey, he’s your damn god of mischief.”
It was not actually a fair piece of logic, but even Noodles had to agree it was the best they had. Deciding that not doing anything at all was probably the worst way to proceed, the machinist thought for a moment, then remembered what his father had told him about facing problems head on and always doing the most sensible thing in any situation—pass the buck. Sucking down a deep breath, Noodles asked;
“Hey-ah, so...how would you like to go and meet our captain?”
The look of sinister glee that filled the Monkey King’s tiny eyes did not gift either of the sailors with encouragement. More than that, other crew members had begun to gather, their forward motion in either direction impeded by Shiu Yin Hong and his floating cloud. All were willing to wait a moment and let the trio pass. Well, almost all.
“What,” cried out one of the ship’s compliment of Marines, “the ever-lovin’ hell is that thing?”
“Our best guess at the moment,” Noodles answered, “is that it’s a godling from Earth legends known as the Monkey King.” The towering jarhead snickered, laughing as he pointed at Shiu Yin Hong as he said;
“You ain’t foolin’ nobody, Kon. That’s just another one of your idiot robots. And a fairly stupid lookin’ one at that.”
Its head turning toward the Marine, the Monkey King responded with a quite authentic simian howl of derision. Jumping down from its cloud playfully, Shiu Yin Hong ambled on its bowed legs to where the Marine was standing. Putting out a paw as if asking to shake hands, the Monkey King smiled widely. As everyone in the hall laughed at the ludicrous sight—the four-foot-tall chimp-thing facing off with a six-and-a-half-foot marine—the soldier decided he had better places to be. And so, not wishing to look the bully, he stuck out his hand to simply shake and be on his way.
Shiu Yin Hong took the man’s hand, and then with merely two fingers, twisted it violently, forcing the marine to his knees. The soldier screamed wildly, the pain he must be in obvious to all as they heard the bones within his hand snapping. Several thought about moving on the godling, but as each did the Monkey King turned in their direction, eyeing them with a malevolent glee which froze all in their tracks.
“Shiu Yin Hong—”
Turning toward the sound of Noodles’ voice, not releasing the Marine’s hand, the Monkey King focused on the machinist, waiting for him to speak. Forcing himself to remain calm, to not allow his voice to crack, Noodles said;
“We were going to see the captain—yes? I mean, if you want to play with this fellow, by all means...but I thought, surely someone as important as you would want to meet the most important person on board ship. Right?”
The simian form considered the machinist’s words for a moment, then suddenly released his grip on the marine while letting out a piercing whistle. As he did so, the soldier fell backward into the bulkhead even as the Monkey King’s cloud flashed across the hall and lifted its master up from the floor. Seated cross-legged, the god-thing then floated over to Noodles, its expression indicating he was ready to leave.
Reaching out to the nearest wall-com, the machinist routed a call to Valance, requesting a moment of the captain’s time. When asked what he wanted, Noodles responded;
“Captain, sir,
Rocky and I, we ahhhh, umm...we’ve got a god on board, sir, and he seems eager to meet you.”
Alexander Benjamin Valance had endured quite a lot since assuming command of the Roosevelt—so much so that the brass back home considered him the one field officer they had who could be counted on to handle anything. Still, when he hesitated a full three seconds before responding to the fact that a supreme being of some sort wanted to come by for a chat, none thought it an overly long period of time before he could quite figure out how to make his mouth work once more.
“Oh, yes—of course you do.”
Considering the notion he was aware that both Chief Gunnery Officer Rockland Vespucci and Machinist First Mate Li Qui Kon—the crewmen not only responsible for shaving the sacred monkeys of Templeworld, but for also conning the guards of the Pen’dwaker Holding Facility into allowing them to transform the prison into a gambling den for their Intergalactic Crap Shoot of the Millennium tournament (just two items on their ever-increasing roster of chicanery)—were involved, the fact he answered at all only proved once more to the crew how incredibly cool under pressure their captain really was.
Indeed, during their tour of duty together, more than one of the ten thousand men and women under his command had announced that Valance was the one man they would willing follow into Hell.
“Well, don’t keep god waiting. Bring him to my ready room and let’s see what he wants.”
As news spread from one end of the Roosevelt to the other of what was happening, more than one of them found themselves wondering if they were about to get their chance to do so.
What Valance discovered “god,” or at least the closest thing to one presently spending its time on any Earth Alliance vessel, wanted seemed to be to play an endless series of practical jokes. Shiu Yin Hong had shaken the captain’s hand with a frank seriousness and then pulled his pants down around his ankles, caused bananas to rain from the ceiling by the thousands, and switched the ship’s intercom from keeping the crew informed on daily goings-on to playing “I’m a Believer” non-stop.
By Other Means (Defending The Future) Page 27