by Mark Roman
Flint swallowed hard and felt his buttocks clenching.
“Andy Marsman was born here, so it is all he is knowing. He was one of their first experiments – grown in Otto’s belly bun.”
Flint could take no more, and was about to stab the Off button when Helmut raised a finger in the air. “Ja, und one last thing. Once they realize we are escaping from their prison they will be as mad as the rabbits with the rabies. There’s probably an alarm ringing somewhere right now. And they will be going like a shitting ape when they find we have borrowed their Enlarging Ray. But please don’t be concerning yourself, Herr Kapitan. I am sure that when you are explaining the situation they will be very understanding ... NOT!” The picture wobbled as the cameraman stifled a snigger. “Laters.”
After a cheery wave from Helmut, the picture faded to black. Flint jabbed the Off button and leaned back against his pillow, eyes closed, his face a picture of misery.
Disa snapped on her ‘small space’ suction utensil and started up a gentle motor.
“Not now, luv. I told yer, I’m really not in t’mood.”
12. Street-fighter’s Ride to the Galaxy
The aliens arrived a few days later, entering through the door marked ‘KEEP OUT’. Five short, grey, bald creatures tramped out of a tunnel cut out of the volcanic Martian bedrock and across the study. They stopped at the bedroom door and stared at Flint lying sprawled on the bed.
He didn’t move a muscle, with the possible, involuntary, exception of those in his seating area. He stared back at the grey creatures, his mind racing.
The alien at the front wibbled something to the others, pointing at Flint and then at its handheld device.
The others wibbled back, waving their arms. Two were wielding what looked like cattle prods. For a moment, Flint’s eyes were drawn to the latter and he gulped. “Er, you got the wrong room, lads. Try down t’hall. The one marked ‘Arry Fortune.”
More wibbling as they poked fingers in their tiny ear-holes.
“He’s a right laugh is ‘Arry. You’ll gerron wi’ ‘im like a house on fire. Just don’t ask ‘im to read yer a poem.”
The first alien spoke in a squeaky, high-pitched voice. “Human language? English? Yorkshire?”
“West Yorkshire,” corrected Flint, and the aliens poked their ear-holes some more.
“Reet, then, yer great lummox,” said the lead alien. “Who th’ell are you?”
Flint rose from the bed to allow the full 6’4” of his frame to tower over the diminutive grey guys. “What’s it to you, shorty?”
The aliens barely flinched. “Last time we were ‘ere,” said the leader, “there was an old, wrinkly, scrawny bloke. Now we come back and find a bald-‘eaded porker instead.”
“Who you callin’ a bald-‘eaded porker?” Flint raised his shoulders and clenched his fists, feeling the thrill of the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“Name’s Kev, as it ‘appens. Now, it’s like this, Mr Porker. My associates and I are paid to do an important job. And that job involves collecting biological samples from alien species for them who pay our wages.” The others nodded in agreement and started to form a circle around Flint. The two holding the cattle-prods started to slap them gently into their open palms. “Now, if we were to return to our base empty-‘anded, how do you think our employers would judge our performance?”
Flint merely stared at him.
“Unsatisfactory,” said a slightly larger, less grey looking alien.
“That’s right, Scudda. They’d say our performance was ‘unsatisfactory’.”
Just then, a worried Disa, alerted by the noise, trundled out of the bathroom, trailing a length of toilet paper that had become tangled around one of her axles. On spotting the fierce-looking intruders, she rushed over to her human, stretching a hose nozzle into his hand.
The aliens made noises and gestures resembling laughter, pointing at the little cleaning-bot as they did so.
“Your girlfriend’s a bit of a minger, isn’t she,” said Kev, inspiring a repeat burst of mirth from the others.
“Cleanin’ bot,” corrected Flint, although whether the correction was for ‘girlfriend’ or ‘minger’ was not clear. He chewed harder on the lump of pipe tobacco in his mouth.
“Hey, you. Little sucky-sucky machine,” called one of the aliens. He tipped a full ashtray onto the floor and stamped the contents into the carpet. “Oops, there’s been a little accident. You’d better come and suck it up.”
“Sucky, sucky, sucky,” said the others with their arms in front of their faces as if they were dangling elephant trunks.
Flint’s blood boiled. He pulled Disa tight up against his leg and narrowed his eyes as he glared at the alien. Then, with the menacing, whispering voice of one of his childhood heroes, he drawled a half-remembered monologue. “I know you fellas are joshing wi’ t’lady. But she’s startin’ to get the distinct impression that you’re laughin’ at ‘er. And she don’t like it when people laugh at ‘er. So ‘appen if each of you apologize, like I know you’re gunna, we’ll let t’matter drop.”
The looks of the aliens hardened, their eyes flitting between Dugdale and Kev whose stares were fixed on one another.
A tense silence fell.
Flint stopped chewing and, leaning forward, spat a black gob of tobacco juice at Kev’s foot. It landed with absolute precision, splattering over his silver space boot. The eyes of the aliens widened.
In a flash, the slightly larger one to Flint’s right, swung his prod. The commander dodged it and the metal device hit Kev full on the side of the head. The shock of seeing their leader stumble gave Flint time to carefully lift Disa onto a high shelf, out of harm’s way, and even to remove the toilet paper wrapped around her axle. Then he delivered a well-aimed boot where he guessed the extra-terrestrial’s sensitive reproductive organs might be situated, followed by an elbow into the soft belly of another. In no time the five little grey baldy guys were writhing on the floor, moaning, and nursing various injuries.
Still groaning, Kev raised his arms in surrender and got to his feet. “Alreet, alreet. Enough.” He dusted himself down. The others rose, one by one, and did the same. “You’re pretty useful in a scrap.”
“I can look after meself,” responded Dugdale with a roll of his shoulders and a jut of the jaw.
“You know, we could use a guy like you.” Kev offered Dugdale his hand. “What’s your name?”
“Flint Dugdale.” He shook the alien’s spindly, clammy limb.
“Ever done anything in the ‘collecting’ line of work before?”
“’Appen, I ‘ave,” said Flint, casting his mind back many years. “I were a debt collector once. Persuadin’ foolish folk to cough up th’instalments for all t’furniture they’d bought at Land of Leatherette. They did a lot of coughing after our conversation.”
A couple of the aliens gave respectful sniggers.
“The power to persuade is a very useful talent,” said Kev. “I think you’d be an asset. We come across a lot of natural reluctance, on the part of the subjects, to providing us with the substances we require.”
“Reluctance,” echoed one of the others, slapping the cattle prod.
“Not a surprise,” said Dugdale, “given t’size of them chuffin’ anal probes!”
The alien looked at the item Dugdale was referring to and shook his head with a laugh. “That’s no anal probe, Flint. It’s a club. One of our instruments of persuasion. The probes are delicate devices.”
Then Kev introduced the aliens, one by one. “Scudda ... Crazy Horse ... Mad Freddie and ... Cecil.”
“Did you say ‘Cecil’?” asked Flint. “How did he come about that name?”
“A hard name for a hard guy,” said Kev, giving a matey punch to Cecil’s upper arm.
“Not where I come from. Nancy name, that.”
Kev frowned. “Really? Well, I never.” He turned to Cecil. “You’re going to have to come up with summat a bit harder, pal.”
&
nbsp; Cecil looked dumbfounded. “Cecil’s a hard name!”
Dugdale shook his head, and Kev joined in.
Cecil sighed and stroked his chin in thought. “Alright, how about Alistair?”
Dugdale and Kev continued their shaking.
“Nigel?”
“No,” said Dugdale, raising a hand to silence him. “Howsabout Nutjob?”
“Better,” said Kev with a nod, turning to Cecil.
Cecil sighed. “OK, then.”
“Nutjob it is.” Kev smiled and clapped his hands together. “What d’you say, then, Flint? Will ya come with us? It’s a great life. Pay’s good, you get to see the Galaxy, meet interesting aliens – and take samples from them. And the birds on Umparumpa 3 are amazing. You wouldn’t believe what they can do.”
“Birds, eh?” asked Flint with interest, but then became aware of Disa’s optics fixed on him. “Nice plumage? Is that it?”
“’Appen, it is,” agreed Kev. “Bit of an ornithologist, are yer?”
Flint stammered, “Er, yeah.” To change the subject, he asked, “Do yer get the Darts Channel on yer spaceship?”
“Natch. There’s a 200” TV in every room on t’mothership, with access to 33 million free-to-view sports channels, movie channels, you name it, throughout the Galaxy.”
Flint beamed from ear to ear. “Friggin’ Nora. In that case, count me in.”
*
Unable to listen any more, Disa sloped off to the study. Flint found the small vacuum-cleaning appliance perched on the edge of the sofa, her domed head slumped and a low powered motor spluttering. Dugdale sat next to her and slid her mop back an inch or two, tucking her curls behind an audio-flap so he could better see her baby blue optics.
“Don’t be upsettin’ yerself, Di. ‘Appen I’ll be back. Maybe not later today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for t’rest of yer warranty period.”
Disa buried her head in Flint’s shoulder. He stroked her gently until Kev popped his head out of the bedroom. “Time to go, Flintster. We need to get some samples from Arcturus Gamma 4.”
“I’m there,” said Flint, getting up from the bed and giving his ladybot one final pat on the head.
“I’ll call yer,” he mouthed from the door, making his hand into the shape of an old fashioned telephone.
Not seeing the need to say goodbye to the other colonists, nor indeed offer them an explanation of what he was doing, he followed the grey aliens to their spaceship, hovering a few feet above the ground outside the German base. They climbed through an open hatch on the side and Kev gave the command to depart.
Flint grabbed a handrail and crouched next to the open hatch and took in one last look at Mars. As the ship began to rise he spotted the lonely yellow shape of Disa through the swirling dust. She had come to see him off. A tear formed in a corner of his eye as he waved to her and she waved an attachment back.
“Beer?” asked Kev behind him.
Flint turned round. “If you twist me arm.”
“Darts?” asked Kev, switching on a vast wall screen.
“Now yer talkin’”
“Massage?” The alien flicked a switch on the side of a recliner and invited Flint to lie down.
“Bugger me, this is the life!” Flint sat back with a huge grin on his ugly face. “Arcturus Gamma 4 here I come!”
In that instant his life fell into sharp focus and Flint realised that this was what he had been born to do. To explore the Milky Way with a bunch of short, grey, bald alien sample-collectors – a menace to alien societies everywhere.
No longer was he the Worst Man on Mars.
He had been promoted.
To the Worst Man in the Galaxy.
Epilogue
Epilogue
One year later
The robot congregation of St Zilli’s Abbey struggled up from their pews, metal feet scraping on the concrete floor, as the electronic organ launched into I’m too sexy by Right Said Fred.
Eve gave Tude a wink.
But Tude’s awkwardness was a mere snowflake in comparison to Mr Snuggles’s iceberg-sized mortification at his adoptive mother’s behaviour.
With the hymn finished, Reverend Rock invited the congregation to sit. As he was about to begin his sermon, the main door creaked open. A sudden gust of wind whipped up a hail of small stones, peppering the robots in the back pews with a sound like machine-gun fire. The door banged shut and a scantily clad Disa scurried into a dark corner, with one of Zak Johnston’s dreadlocks snagged on the sharp edge of an earlobe. But she was not fast enough to escape detection. The sound of swivelling plastic neck joints filled the church and electronic messages crackled through the air.
From the pulpit, Reverend Rock raised his palms for radio silence. With a look of saintly patience, he waited until all faceplates were pointing his way. Then, he began.
The reverend gave a nod to his curate, Dura, who promptly pulled back a heavy dividing curtain to reveal Karl, seated on a massive throne of solid gold, picking bits of plaster off the walls and systematically ingesting them. Suddenly aware of the curtain’s movement, Karl swung a clunky camera toward the gathering and was startled to see the vast array of optics staring at him. He tapped the wall as though checking its structural integrity.
Reverend Rock continued with his sermon
Hearing his own words being spoken, Karl emitted a rumble of approval that set all the congregation’s body-shells rattling.
There was an uck-uck-ucking of agreement.
The ucking turned into raucous cheering which startled the King of the Robots so greatly that he overbalanced from his throne and crashed to the floor in front of his followers. The fall dislodged Webster from his hiding place, sending him skittering across the floor on his back. He waved all eight legs in a desperate attempt to right himself.
Reverend Rock cast a baleful look at the tiny arachno-bot as a mass of robots rushed to lend their assistance to their fallen King. Taking advantage of the commotion, InspectaBot strode down from the pulpit and headed towards the tiny Webster. he w
hispered, raising his cybertronic foot and letting it hover for a second over his main competitor for King Karl’s attentions. Then there was a sound of squashed metal on concrete floor.
With the King back on his golden throne, the service resumed.
First off the mark were warehousebots Stan and Olli.
Karl drew back from the onrushing mechanoids,
There was a stunned halt to the stampede.
InspectaBot gave a cough and suddenly regretted having disposed of Webster.
One by one the robots nodded. The translation sounded perfectly plausible.
*