by Mark Roman
Dugdale sighed. “I s’pose you can’t be any worse than t’last clown. Go on then, Leachy, strip off and get yer arse over t’goal.”
“Strip off? What kind of lady do you think I am, Mr Flint? If anything I shall be wearing an extra cardigan.”
“Whatever.”
*
With the captains in the centre circle, HarVard flipped a holographic coin to decide the order of play.
“Three penalties each. Then sudden death if you’re still level,” said the referee.
“Und heads it is,” said Helmut. “Deutschland wins ze toss! We vill go first. Good luck, Herr Kapitan, und try not to think of the many penalty shoot-outs England have lost over decades of German superiority.”
“Yeah, alright, Fritz, ‘appen we’ll see about that.”
First up was Andy Marsman. He carefully placed the ball on the penalty spot and flicked the mop of black hair from his eyes and twitched his toothbrush moustache. Miss Leach put her unfinished knitted bonnet next to a goal post and wandered to the middle of the goal as HarVard blew his whistle for the kick to be taken.
Andy gave a camp little wave to attract Emily’s attention and touched the corner of his mouth to indicate that her lipstick was smudged. Instantly she whipped out a tiny mirror and turned away to make the necessary make-up adjustments. Meanwhile the crafty German took aim and side-footed the ball with sufficient pace to send it over the goal line.
“Goal!” he shouted and punched the air.
One-nil to Germany.
“Oh, fiddle-sticks,” said Emily, retrieving her knitting.
Dugdale was about to make an objection about the German’s cheating, but was silenced by HarVard pointing to the pocket where he kept the red card.
Botany Base’s first penalty taker was Gavin. He sauntered to the spot with an air of cockiness and performed a few keepy-uppies before placing the ball down.
There was no need for Otto Bungelly to try and spook him – his extraordinarily large head managed that without the need for any tricks. Nevertheless, as a boy, Otto had seen enough FC Kaiserslautern matches to understand the sort of gamesmanship expected of a goalie. So, he crossed his eyes, poked out his tongue, stuck his thumbs in his ears, waggled his fingers, and began rhythmically thrusting his massive pair of shorts toward the teenager.
Full of the confidence of youth, Gavin ran at full pelt towards the ball and, at the last second, looked up just long enough to be put off by Otto’s ridiculous head and ridiculous performance. His toe-punt sent the ball straight into the middle of the German’s forehead.
“Ouch, shitzen-blitzen!” cried Otto, or at least, that’s what it sounded like.
“Good savings, Otto!” shouted Helmut.
The Botany Base crowd groaned. Back in the centre circle, Flint vented his frustration via the medium of swearing.
“Is only a game, innit,” said Gavin as he slipped into the long grass of the savannah sector of the BioDome.
Next up was Ulrich von Brokkenhorst, aka Brokk. As he faced Emily Leach she stared at him with her severest “Who’s been a naughty boy, then” expression. “Turncoat,” she muttered during his run-up. Perhaps it was that that did it. Or perhaps his conscience, or his former loyalties, or his complete uselessness at football. Whatever it was, he scuffed his shot and the ball barely reached the spinster.
“Did I put you off?” asked Emily, leaning down to pick up the stationary ball. She held it up to him. “Would you like another try?”
“No friggin’ way!” roared Dugdale rushing to her and snatching the ball away before handing it to Brian Brush.
The scientist looked nervous as he walked over to the penalty spot. The crowd were chanting: “You can do it, Brushy”, “Crush it, Brush”, “Don’t make us sad, Dad” and finally, from Mr Snuggles, “Chuffin’ welly it.”
Brian set the ball and adjusted his glasses. He had observed that Otto was right handed. Knowledge was power. He had read somewhere that 72% of right handed goalkeepers dive to their right.
Tweee.
Otto began his comic pelvic thrusts. But the shattered lenses of Brian’s glasses meant that, beyond the outline of the goal, he could see very little. With absolute precision he angled his foot so that the toe of his boot pointed just inside Otto’s left hand goal post and prodded the ball along its prescribed route. Sure enough, the German goalkeeper flung himself to his right. The net bulged on the left.
“Goal!” the crowd screamed and mobbed a beaming Brian.
One-one.
Twee, Twee, Tweeeeeeee.
“One goal apiece,” announced the referee. “One penalty each left and it’s the turn of the captains.”
Jogging down the pitch in his ridiculous long shorts, Helmut looked supremely confident.
“Don’t be concerned, Miss Leach,” he said. “I will kick ze ball nice and gently directly at you so it is very easy to save.”
“Thank you, Mr von Grommel. You are such a gentleman.” Emily hitched up her skirt revealing her frilly petticoat and crouched in readiness to catch a slow-rolling football.
Tweee.
With the skill of a seasoned professional, Helmut shaped a penalty kick that planted the ball in the top right corner of the goal; the ball was past Emily before she even had time to blink.
Two-one to Germany.
“Oops, sorry. I have accidentally scored the goal that will most likely win the Mars World Cup for the glory of the German nation. I can only apologise for my poor aim.”
“That’s perfectly alright. We all make mistakes.” Emily collected her knitting and headed back to her seat.
All eyes now turned to Commander Dugdale. The hopes and dreams of Botany Base, and indeed England, rested on their team captain who had already marched up to the spot and was making thug-like gestures at Otto.
This was the big one. To him, this was the single most important moment of his whole life. Far more important than becoming the first man on Mars, which, as it had turned out, he hadn’t been. The consequences of missing this were too horrible to contemplate.
Somehow, though, the British contingent knew what was coming. The signs were all there: the excessively long run-up, the confidence of the German players and, most of all, History.
So, when the ball ballooned over the crossbar in Waddlesque style and Flint dropped to the ground in a crumpled heap, no one was in the least bit surprised.
Part 3
1. Mars Bard
Harry Fortune sat back in his cabin nursing his football injury and admiring his work: a poem about the first ever international football match on Mars. He’d been working on it for a solid hour, writing and rewriting, but now he had managed to craft it as close to perfection as his talents allowed. As a smile played about his lips, he read it through one more time.
Greatest match e’er on Mars
In the BioDome beneath the stars.
Dugdale’s wager, most unwise,
With Mayflower III as the prize.
There we sat beside the pitch,
Coin was tossed and teams did switch.
Our best player, he was missin’,
Swallowed by a giant chicken.
Harry Fortune took his place,
Wow, that man’s the best in Space!
Mars’s gravity gave no traction
Lots of goals and lots of action.
Penalty shoot-out, we stood no chance
Them being Germany and not France.
Sure enough, their captain scored
While o’er crossbar our ball soared.
And with that the match was lost,
Just a game, but at what cost?
He flipped his blablet closed and looked out at the red desert beyond his cabin window. To think that he was the first ever Poet in Residence on a new world. A sense of pride filled him. He felt he was hitting top form, just when he needed to. Things were looking up.
2. Pseudy Garlands
“Mind if I join you?” called Brian Brush jogging to cat
ch up with his youngest son.
“Sure, Dad,” said Tarquin without enthusiasm as he crunched along the Martian sand. He paused, head downcast, until his father was level and then carried on walking, not once looking up.
“Where are we going?”
Tarquin gave a frown which his father failed to notice behind the tinted space helmet visor. “I’m following Mr Snuggles.”
“Oh, right,” said Brian, looking ahead where he spotted the little robot in amongst a small cluster of larger builder bots all moving in the same direction. “I obviously asked the wrong question, then. Where is Mr Snuggles going?”
Tarquin shrugged. “With the other robots. They’re teaching him wireless communication.”
Brian nodded. “Clearly, I’m still asking the wrong question. The first step to solving a problem is identifying the right question to ask. Albert Einstein. So, let’s try this one: where are the robots heading?”
Tarquin walked on without responding.
“Well?”
“The Wianki Festival.”
“Ah, the Wianki Festival,” mused Brian, nodding his head. “And what, pray, is that?”
Tarquin sighed. “It’s a Polish thing. The robotniki celebrate it every year. Tude and Eve are taking Mr Snuggles to show him. They like him hanging out with them.”
“Excellent! Be good for him to make friends with his own kind and learn a new language.”
Tarquin didn’t respond.
Up ahead, Mr Snuggles, holding hands between Tude and Eve had started exchanging back-slaps with some of the other bots. These escalated to matey pushes and what appeared to be robotic laughter.
Brian’s smile vanished on seeing his boy’s downcast head. “Oh, I think I get it. You feel you’re losing him, don’t you. He has a new family of his own kind and doesn’t spend so much time with you anymore.” Brian sighed. “Well, son, when I was your age I had a friend. Steve Plum was his name. We did everything together – experiments with our chemistry sets, assembling electronic devices, re-enacting famous historical battles. Then, one day, for no reason I could fathom, Steve started hanging out with girls. Became obsessed with them. I couldn’t see what the attraction was.” He gave a shudder, but then quickly added, “Until I met your mother, of course.”
For a moment Brian lingered on the sadness he had felt back then. He reached out a space-gloved hand to ruffle his son’s hair, but could only pat the top of the boy’s space helmet. A small tear formed in the corner of his eye.
*
They walked on in silence for a while, stepping over rocks and stones, following the posse of robots ahead.
“Dad?” said Tarquin at last. “Did we really lose Mayflower III to the Germans?”
Brian gave a laugh at the unexpectedness of the question. “Sure did, buddy. But it’s not so bad. They take our spaceship, we get their vast, fully-equipped base, with air, food, water and giant chickens. It’s a win-win. We stay here for two years, as planned, and then get picked up by Mayflower IV.”
“I guess.”
“And,” added his father, looking around to make sure no one could hear them. “We can have a closer look at that base of theirs. Maybe work out how, who, or what constructed it. I am very interested in working out what is really going on there!” He went to tap the side of his nose, but merely ended up poking his helmet’s faceplate.
Up ahead, the coggle of robots had reached a cave entrance in the rocks and were trooping through it. Brian and Tarquin increased their pace to catch up.
Inside, a rough passageway, lit by a string of fluorescent lights that the robotniki had hung from the rock ceiling, descended to a large cavern. There, a gang of Polish worker bots were preparing for the festival, smearing Brasso metal cleaner over each other’s battered metalwork and buffing it up to a sparkling shine. Tude and Eve joined in and started working on Mr Snuggles’s chrome plating. The sight made Tarquin look away.
“So, tell me about this Wianki Festival,” asked Brian, to distract his boy.
“HarVard told me ‘wianki’ is Polish for garlands of flowers. They are placed on a river and allowed to float downstream. It’s some sort of fertility ceremony. Because we’re on Mars, the robotniki don’t have any flowers so, instead, they use garlands of brightly coloured electrical wiring.”
“I see. And ‘because we’re on Mars’ – what do they use for a river?”
“Er, they use a river?” responded Tarquin, pointing to an eroded channel in the cave floor through which a lively stream of darkish water was coursing.
“Gung!” exclaimed Brian, his eyes nearly bursting out of their sockets. He reached for his camera and started filming. “This is a major scientific discovery – right there, Tarq! Before our very eyes. Flowing water on Mars! An underground river!”
*
Oblivious of the major scientific discovery, the robotniki busied themselves with their bodywork. Maciek smeared Brasso up and down Witek’s thigh panels until he detected the pleasing reflection of his own faceplate.
Witek cracked a smile.
Witek, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, edged away down a side tunnel towards the main festival.
*
Brian was busily photographing the underground river and taking samples of the water using the test tubes he had happily remembered to bring with him. Every now and then he would pause to let one of the garlands of electrical wiring float by.
“Dad, what’s this?” Tarquin called out from behind him.
“Just a sec,” said Brian, plugging his latest sample with a stopper. Then he turned around to see what his boy had found. “Gung!” he exclaimed, staring at the wooden crate Tarquin was pointing at. “First impression, Tarq, is that it’s a crate of high explosives!”
“That was my first impression, too, Dad, given the large lettering on the side saying ‘HIGH EXPLOSIVES’. But I didn’t want to be unscientific by jumping to any unfounded conclusions.”
Brian gave his boy a curious look, but said nothing. He stepped over to the crate and unhooked the latch. Using the smallest of movements, he raised the lid. The first thing they saw inside was a plunger-type detonator and a roll of wire atop stacks and stacks of dynamite.”
“Gung!”
“Wow!”
Brian replaced the lid. “I think the Commander will be very interested to see this little haul.”
“What do you think it means, Dad? Does it belong to the Germans? What are they planning to do with it? Why is it here? Are there more like it?”
Brian raised a hand to stop the flow of his boy’s questions. “Let’s get the bots to carry it back to base, shall we. And then we can try to puzzle it all out.”
3. A Touch of Wind
For several hours an anxious Bernard had been swirling and whirling around Botany Base, observing the Bloodbag invaders and their Panhead allies. In his windy hand he held a letter he hoped would end the war and bring peace in his time. As he whistled around the base’s perimeter, he tried to summon the courage to deliver it. But when, at last, that courage came, he could find neither a letterbox nor a convenient flowerpot to safely leave his important missive.
He flew to the entrance and, with dusty air-fists, pounded on the outer airlock door. He twirled, waiting for an answer. But there was no answer.
As he drew back, Bernard spotted a miniature Bloodbag gazing mournfully through one of the base’s windows, a tear crawling dow
n its cheek. Even though the small Bloodbag was looking straight at him it did not show so much as a flicker of acknowledgement of the Great Leader of the Wind People. Furious, Bernard waved his letter at the young boy and blew sand against the window pane. “Over here, mini-Bloodbag. Duh, like, open the door.”
For a second or two, Tarquin seemed to follow the spiralling flight of the letter before snapping back into gloomy contemplation. Bernard tried throwing more sand and even small pebbles to attract the boy’s attention. But nothing.
“How rude these Bloodbags are!” he hissed, whooshing off in a huff. He whirled high into the sky. “Blow peace! Blow it, I say. These barbarians clearly aren’t interested in concord and friendship. They leave me no choice but War!”
As he stormed off towards the Wind troop encampment in Windy Point Canyon, something caught his attention, making him apply his air-brakes. Perched on a ledge above the mighty canyon was a large box he knew had been built by the Panheads. It gave him an idea. Perhaps the hard-skinned Panheads would be more amenable to receipt of the letter. Perhaps they would even pass it on to the invaders from E’Arth.
Bernard spiralled down towards the structure with his letter spinning in his turbulent wake. Through transparent walls, he spied several hard and shiny Panheads. Although not as hideous as the Bloodbags, these creatures were still repugnant to a lifeform that measured beauty in the purity of the swirling patterns it made in the sand. Another Panhead was approaching from afar, battling its way across the wind-swept desert. Sensing a golden opportunity for the delivery of his peace treaty, Bernard spun in a tight vortex above the Panheads’ lair and waited for the lone creature to come nearer.
Finally, when it had reached the door and was knocking with its metal appendage, Bernard seized the moment. He swept down and arrived at the door just as it was opening. “How do, friend? I am Bernard, leader of the Wind People.”
The Panhead stopped and looked over its shoulder, first one way and then the other. Bernard thrust out a turbulent gust that rippled the air around the Panhead’s appendage, giving it a shake of greeting. “I come in pea ...”