by Mark Roman
“We build it all,” complained Andrzej. “Everything. But plans wrong. Nothing fit. English robots mess up. We give up.”
“GO!” the woman bellowed, brandishing her rolling pin.
All four turned and ambled towards the recharging room, dragging their feet and their caterpillar tracks as they did so.
“Oh, lads,” HarVard called after them, his holo-image having lost the rolling-pin and adopted a pleasanter mien. “Just one thing. Where’s Zilli?”
Maciek turned round and shrugged.
The battle-axe frowned. “But she went to fetch you from the Other Place.”
Maciek glanced at the others, but they merely shrugged back.
HarVard looked even more puzzled. “Curious,” she said. “I wonder what’s happened to her.” Then she looked up at the robotniki. “Off you go, then. The clock’s ticking.”
24. Furiouser and Furiouser
Commander Flint Dugdale was discovering that packing a suitcase in zero gravity is a bit like wrestling a feisty octopus. Each time he placed a new item in the case, many of the previously stuffed items would gently drift out of it. As he caught and replaced the escaping items, others would take their place. It was an activity that did not suit his fragile temper.
“Frack, frack, frack, bollocks!” he yelled as another pair of underpants drifted away, closely followed by a sock and a small face flannel. “Frack!”
With a supreme effort, and lightning movements, he managed to get everything back in, slam the lid shut, clamp his two giant hands on top of it, and press the overfull case down onto his bed. But, as he pushed, his weightless body rotated in the opposite direction and his arms extended further and further. With nothing to get a purchase on, he found himself floating away. All he could do was watch helplessly as the lid opened and the case’s contents vacated it one by one.
But for once his anger did not get the better of him. A sticker on the side of the case caught his eye and sent him careering down Memory Lane to the Club 18-30 Ibiza holiday of many, many years before. Standing on the balcony of his top floor room at Hotel El Paradiso, he had watched open-mouthed as his best mate, Banyard, had flung the contents of the very same suitcase over the edge for a joke. No problem with gravity back then. How they had laughed as they had peered down at the swimming pool far below and spotted a dozing German sun-worshipper festooned with Flint’s grundies. ‘Appy days, thought Flint, ‘appy days.
But, just as quickly, his thoughts careered back to the present and to the sight of his belongings exploding in super-slow-motion from the case. “Right, yer buggers, I’ll fix yer.”
He propelled himself to Commander Lionheart’s private writing desk and pulled out a roll of sticky tape. Tearing it with his teeth, Dugdale started taping the orbiting items of clothing to the case’s bottom. First, a layer of underpants. Next, his Hawaiian-print T-shirts, a pair of flip-flops, sunglasses and a giant bag of cheese-and-onion crisps. Essential items each and every one. As far as Dugdale was concerned Mars was one vast beach, albeit lacking sea, blue skies and bikini-clad babes. His time would be spent reclining in a deckchair, slurping Martian-brewed beer, and watching sports coverage beamed from Earth, content in the knowledge that his job was done. The rest of them would do his bidding, setting up the first Martian colony; growing food, cooking, cleaning, sewing, having babies and all the rest of that hippy stuff. He would be the famous one and milk the glory of being the First Man on Mars.
Next came his most treasured possessions: a football shirt that had once belonged to Billy Bremner, signed by the whole 1970s Leeds United team, Geoff Boycott’s cricket bat, with an unexplained bloodstain on one edge, a few cans of Newcastle Brown, and twenty packets of Granny Braithwaite’s Yorkshire Pudding mix.
As he packed two hundred Benson & Hedges cigarettes, a pang of homesickness pulled at his heart. Flint cracked the cellophane on a new pack and lit up. He was only an occasional smoker, primarily in moments of reflection. He inhaled a lungful, held it for a second and then, dragon-like, blew a stream of smoke across the cabin. His thoughts turned to his home in Huddersfield. His family. His children and their various mothers. The Muck’n’Shovel pub. Friday night darts and beer.
On the ceiling-mounted screen above his head a CGI-generated avatar was frantically and silently signalling to him. Early in the mission Flint had switched off the annoying voice interface of HarOld, the ship’s computer. Since then, important messages like ‘watch out for that meteor shower’ or ‘the toilet disposal unit is blocked’ or ‘FIRE!’ had been relayed by the silent avatar through the medium of mime. Right now, it was dancing a message of disaster, miming out, as best it could, the consequences of Dugdale’s smoking. But, even when Flint glanced up and caught sight of the avatar through the billowing clouds of smoke, he merely looked straight through it. His thoughts had locked onto the sacrifices he had made and the indignities he had suffered to become the first man on Mars.
And then, in accordance with the frantically mimed warnings, the cabin sprinkler system activated, extinguishing Flint’s cigarette, destroying his magic moment of reflection, and soaking his belongings.
“Chuffin’ bollocks!” he yelled.
25. Lifts and Separates
Mayflower III was buzzing. Partly from the excitement of packing and preparation for the first steps on Mars, but mainly from the ship’s ion drives which were channelling a vast flow of energy to the high-intensity laser beam that formed an induction cable for the ship’s Space Elevator. This was how the colonists would be descending to the planet some 58,000 feet below. Not a choice made by the brilliant NAFA boffins, but rather by NAFA’s less-than-brilliant Chief Accountant who had calculated it to be by far the cheapest solution.
Most of the colonists’ luggage was now packed and stowed in the Assembly Room, there not being sufficient room in the space elevator both for colonists and their possessions. The elevator was to be sent back up to collect the baggage.
A slightly damp Dugdale poked his head into the cockpit where a very downcast Willie Warner was twiddling his thumbs.
“Wonka,” growled Dugdale.
Willie looked up, sudden hope in his eyes. “You’ve changed your mind?”
“About what?”
“Me coming down to Mars?”
“Not friggin’ likely.”
Willie’s face sagged.
“I’ve gorra job even you can’t cock up.”
“Great.”
“When t’elevator’s safely on its way, get yer skinny bum along t’me cabin and pack me clobber in t’suitcase. You’ll find it all floatin’ about the place. And soppin’ wet.”
“What an honour. I can hardly wait.”
“Mind you just pack the floatin’ stuff. Touch owt else and I’ll kill yer. If yer open any drawers, I’ll kill yer,” he said with a look that convinced Willie he wasn’t joking.
“That’s pretty clear, thank you.”
“Once yer’ve finished, go t’Assembly Room ‘n get rest ert bags together. I’ll send t’elevator back up and you shove ‘em in. Then press ‘Down’ button. Can yer manage that?”
“I really think I should go down with you, sir, instead of Zak,” Willie said one final time. “I know something that no one else does.”
“Yeah,” responded Dugdale. “Yer know how to be a completely useless tosser. Now shut yer cake ‘ole and act like you’re doin’ summat useful.”
*
In her cabin, Emily Leach had a huge decision to make. Most of her belongings were now packed inside her huge, coffin-sized leather trunk, with a few odds and ends tucked into the handful of hatboxes she had brought with her. But there was one thing that remained. She pushed herself towards her bunk and stared down at the item, still lying strapped to it, silent and immobile. A wicked smile played about her lips. Should she take him? She chewed her lower lip and said aloud, “To bring, or not to bring?”
/> Whatever she did, she’d have to get rid of the evidence. What if someone were to find her ... companion? What a palaver there would be! What embarrassment.
She exhaled deeply, shook her head and fluttered her eyes. “Oh, Mr Darcy,” she said, almost in a swoon, taking in the rippling muscles showing through the flimsy clothing. As she stroked the dark, flowing hair, always slightly damp, she made her decision. Her stroking stopped and her bony fingers gently probed the crown of the head. Finally, finding what she was looking for, she edged her fingernails under the cap and pulled it free. A rush of air gushed out through the valve, hissing and sputtering as the doll slowly deflated. The chest caved in, then the head, and at last the legs lay flat too.
“Ah, Mr Darcy,” sighed Emily as she gazed over the collapsed surface of the wet-look shirt and well-packed riding breeches. “Not so hard now, are we, sir.”
*
With most of the air out, Emily removed the straps keeping the Mr Darcy doll pinned to her bunk and started rolling him up, Swiss-roll style, beginning from the feet. She had to be careful of the sensitive self-inflate switch, disguised as one of Mr Darcy’s shirt buttons, as the slightest touch would fully inflate the doll within two seconds.
“I’ve decided to bring you with me to Mars, Mr Darcy,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, as she opened the lid of her trunk and set about trying to squeeze the literary sex-symbol into it. After a few frustrating minutes, he was safely stowed with all her clothing, and the trunk was shut again. Emily panted to get her breath back and then checked her bun in the mirror. After a little adjustment she was ready to face the Red Planet.
*
As teenagers Gavin and Tracey approached the space elevator, pulling themselves along by the corridor rails, they halted to survey the scene. The lift doors were open and most of the colonists were already squashed inside, bobbing about gently in its cramped confines, avoiding eye contact and eschewing all conversation. Outside, Dugdale was hovering and impatiently ushering people in. The thumb of his other hand was firmly pressed against the lift-call button to keep the doors from closing. “Gerra move on, you two spotty ‘erberts. We ‘aven’t got all day.”
They observed the faces of the colonists already in there, faces betraying looks of discomfort and trepidation.
“No way is I gettin’ in there, bruv,” Tracey said, shaking her head and starting to back away.
“Get a grip, sis. It’s just a lift,” said Gavin. He paused. “Although me is finkin’ it looks more like a broom cupboard, innit.”
“Black hole of Calcutta, more like,” added Tracey.
“Space elevator,” growled Dugdale, fixing them with a deadly stare. “Now, gerrin.”
A muffled voice from inside the lift, belonging to the other teenager, Oberon, said, “No, this is deffo a lift. Smells of piss.”
Delphinia clapped her hands over Tarquin’s ears.
Gavin had made up his mind. “No room, chief,” he said, indicating the human sardines before him. “Youse go ahead, mate. We’s is perfectly fine ici. We’ll get the next one.” He grinned.
“Yeah, E.C.,” said Tracey, before bursting into a fit of giggles.
Dugdale glowered and fumed. “In there. Now!”
As Gavin and Tracey approached there was unwilling shuffling and rearrangement of bodies inside the cramped space elevator.
“Can you shove up a bit,” moaned Brokk to Zak Johnston. “Your bony elbows are digging into my ribs.”
“Take a chill-pill, dude. There ain’t much room in this space tomb. And the poet dude has his head in close proximity to my masculinity,” retorted Johnston.
This was true. For some reason, perhaps due to his artistic leanings or maybe because he had approached the lift at the wrong angle, Harry Fortune was oriented upside down, his legs and space clogs poking above the heads of the others, his head uncomfortably close to both Zak Johnston’s trouser zip and Delphinia’s ample bottom. “There’s a poem in this,” he kept saying to himself to take his mind off the view. But the only lines that kept forcing themselves into his brain, over and over again, were: ‘There once was a spaceman from Mars, In a lift he was faced with an ....’
“Friggin’ well SHUT YOUR FACES!” roared Dugdale as he shoved Gavin and Tracey into the scrum with the aid of a hand, a shoulder and a knee. As he did so, the greasy thumb of his other hand slipped off the lift-call button. A loud ding issued from the lift and a recorded voice announced, “Doors closing”.
Instantly the lift was an echo-chamber of screams and cries: “No, not yet!” “Wait!” “Aaaaaargh!”
In the panic and struggle, both Gavin and Tracey found themselves ejected back into the corridor, narrowly avoiding the pincer-grip of the closing doors.
Dugdale stabbed the button with his thumb and the doors opened again. There was a collective sigh of relief.
After a second short struggle, involving even more compaction of the bodies in the small compartment, Tracey and Gavin were accommodated within the crush.
“Is that all of yer?” demanded Dugdale, unable to perform a head-count on account of not all heads being visible.
“One missing,” someone shouted from deep inside the scrum.
“Who’s that?”
“Brokk.”
“You mean t’gormless twonk wi’t goaty beard? I saw ‘im get on,” retorted Dugdale to the voice.
“Yes, I’m Brokk,” said the voice.
“Well yer can’t be missin’ then can yer, dumbnut?”
“No, I’m Brokk and I’m not missing. Obviously. I’m the one telling you someone is missing.”
“Who the frig is it, then?”
“Brokk,” said another, squeakier voice, sounding suspiciously like Oberon Faerydae.
Dugdale roared. “Who. The. Chuff. Is. Missing?”
“Miss Leach,” said several voices.
The mere mention of the name made Dugdale shudder. Powerful though the urge to leave without her was, he stayed his ground and his blubbery face contorted to a shape that conveyed the message, I might have known.
At that very moment the echo of a faint female voice sounded from round the bend at the far end of corridor. “Yoo-hoo,” it called. “I’m coming. Would you mind holding the lift, please.”
“Space elevator,” Dugdale murmured under his breath.
A silence fell as they waited for Emily to turn the corner and join them. Dugdale checked his watch. A couple of teenagers giggled somewhere at the back of the lift. And then Tarquin said, “Mummy.”
“Yes, my little storm trooper?”
“It says here: ‘Lift. Max. cap. 8 pers.’”
“Space elevator,” repeated Dugdale wearily, unaware of the ripple of unease that Tarquin’s words had set bouncing back and forth within the tiny compartment.
“That means: Maximum capacity 8 persons,” explained Delphinia, stroking his head.
“I know what it means, Mummy. It’s just that there are ten people on board already, not counting Mr Snuggles. When Commander Dugdale and Miss Leach are on board there’ll be twelve, and with Mr Snuggles, thirteen. Which is not only very unlucky, but is more than the maximum capacity, isn’t it, Mummy?”
Delphinia tried to laugh her son’s question off as the sense of unease in the lift became more tangible. “I think they just forgot to take the sign off.”
“You see, son,” put in his father, Brian. “This lif ... er ... space elevator was bought, second-hand, by NAFA from the Penge Shopping Centre where it had had many years of useful service.”
“That would, like, explain the smell of piss,” put in Oberon from the back. “Innit.”
“The clever chaps at NAFA,” continued Brian undeterred, “spent most of the lift budget on a brilliant laser beam induction system in place of a cable and there was only enough money left for a cheap lift carriage.” There was a pre-panic murmur from all around him. “But, there’s no need to worry, everyone. They’ve done a marvellous job of refurbishing it, making it airtight and p
ainting the outside with two coats of anti-radiation emulsion.”
“And look, my little plumchops,” added Delphinia. “They’ve even added a tiny viewing window in case you feel claustrophobic or travel sick.”
The ripples of unease were working themselves up into a tsunami of concern.
“Besides,” added Delphinia. “Don’t forget we’re weightless. So it doesn’t matter how many persons we have in here.”
“But there’s gravity on Mars, Mummy.”
“How right you are, my clever little sausage.” She grinned proudly as she fondly squeezed her little boy’s cheek. “But you surely know that gravity is a lot weaker on Mars. So, 13 persons weigh a lot less. Say, as much as 8 persons?”
“But, Mummy, when the lift starts decelerating, won’t we weigh a lot more than 13 persons?”
Delphinia forced a loud laugh as she looked around at the terror-stricken sets of eyes around her. One pair belonged to her scientist husband, Brian. “That’s enough showing off, my little Einstein.”
“But ...” said several of the colonists before a commotion in the corridor outside distracted them.
It was Miss Leach, floating toward them with her man-sized trunk and a small flotilla of hatboxes, attached to it by pink ribbons. The elderly daughter of nonagenarian zillionaire Sir Geoffrey Leach, made her awkward, weightless way towards them.
The needle on Dugdale’s rage gauge turned swiftly towards the red zone. “I thought I told yer: no boggin’ luggage!”
Emily fluttered her eyelashes and tried to play the helpless female card. “But, Commander. A lady cannot be without her personal nick-knacks. I’m sure we can find a little room to squeeze in a ladies’ travel-case or two.”
Dugdale stared at the trunk and hatboxes in disbelief. “No boggin’ luggage. End of!”
Still she advanced towards the lift, pushing against the corridor rails with her feet. She had built up quite a pace before tragedy struck. Her long pearl necklace, dangling weightlessly behind her, snagged on a service valve and pulled her up short. As she grabbed at it to prevent strangulation she, naturally, let go of the trunk’s handle. Its momentum kept it heading towards Dugdale, catching him unawares and bundling him up against the wall, like a burly policeman apprehending a drunk, smearing Dugdale’s greasy face across the stainless steel surface. “What the fwaolloah?” was all he could say, using both hands to forcefully push the trunk off him. In the process, his thumb released the lift button.