What Kind of Fool?: A Science Fiction Comedy (These Foolish Things Book 2)

by J Battle

  What Kind of Fool?

  These Foolish Things: Book II

  By

  J.Battle

  The usual front of book stuff is at the back, for a change.

  Preface

  - Or, what went before (just in case you haven’t read the first book. (You should though, really))

  In Favour of Fools

  A Sci-Fi PI Comedy Thriller set in a near future where instantaneous interstellar travel is available to everyone, as long as they don’t object to having their molecules tricked into thinking they are exotic massless particles that can be squirted to anywhere in the Galaxy.

  Phil is a PI; it says so in big print on his ID. He likes to work from his comfy chair in his office, waiting for a coffee from his Sister/Secretary/Cleaner that never seems to come. He doesn’t like to travel, or to chase people, and he avoids even the idea of violence.

  So how did he end up on a blazing hot planet, dozens of light years from home, searching for a man who didn’t want to be found? With a partner who won’t respect him in the morning, and imported thugs who don’t respect anybody.

  It all started when Phil received a visit from the ex-wife of a vicious gangster, concerned at his disappearance, or did it start much earlier, with the misplaced bullet? If you asked Millie, she’d say that it started with the joke that the Great and Stupendous Argu broadcast to his adoring fans on the Sirius leg of his Pan Galactic tour – I May Have Said I Loved You, But I Was Only Joking.

  Regardless of the starting point, Phil is hired to find the missing gangster and sets to work, assuming that the job can be completed at his desk with the help of his sneaky and barely legal search programmes.

  But, the more he looks, the more complicated things become, and it seems that there are actually two missing men. When he receives a visit from Strange, an associate of the ex-wife, his choices suddenly become limited to whatever Strange tells him to do.

  Using the wonder of Fool’s Squirt technology, they arrive on OK, an agricultural planet that provides the meat for Earth’s fast food restaurants; squirting it ready-minced into their kitchens. Whilst on OK, they come across their first dead body, a topless bar, a 3-legged pig and a mule called Brian.

  Then they are off to Greenhaven, a planet in its hot phase where daytime temperatures reach 170 degrees Fahrenheit and Phil arranges to meet the gangster, only to find his dead body. Realising that he is going to be framed for the murder, he escapes into the burning desert, protected only by his hat and mac.

  Whilst all this has been going on, The Angels on a Pinhead Devotion, the leading religion in the Alien Galactic Confederation, have sent their emissary to mess things up for mankind. Their religion is founded on balance; every good thing must be matched by an equal bad thing, and Argu’s joke was just so good.

  To redress the balance, Millie has been sent to steal mankind’s Gill-Juice, the most valuable commodity in the known universe. Any money she can make in the process will help finance her own plans to become the Lord High Fulcrum, the highest position in her church.

  In the guise of an eight year old girl she will charm and trick anyone who crosses her path, including the President of the newly established Earth and Off-Earth Empire Unified government. She offers him a deal that he just cannot refuse, as long as he shuts down access to the 21 planets of Earth’s Empire for 30 days; long enough for her to harvest all of the available Gill-Juice on Greenhaven.

  In a rousing finale, Phil dances through the night with the Sand Mirages, happens on a previously unknown sentient race, is captured and imprisoned by Millie, receives an unexpected and annoying passenger, is instrumental in foiling Millie’s plans and, very briefly, becomes the richest man in history.

  Much of the story is told in real time, uploaded directly from Phil’s brain and transmitted to the computer of his Narrative Facilitator, who has his own opinions on the failings of his MC and the qualities of the tawdry tale he is required to translate into the ‘light and witty’ text his publisher demands. He’d much rather spend his time on his own literary novel about Pixies, but he has bills to pay.

  Prologue

  Greetings, cherished and most persistent reader; your friendly neighbourhood Narrative Facilitator here. When we last met, I believe that I mentioned my new career in the retail trade. Alas, that did not work out as well as I had hoped. My supervisor (a twenty something, still spotty youth), had some issues with my performance. Apparently you are supposed to match the product you put on the shelf with the little label already attached, which seems to me to be lacking both in imagination and in opportunity for staff self expression, and there is the health and safety issue to be taken into account.

  I was positioning the stock based on size, with the largest on the bottom shelf and the size reducing with height, when I was called into the booth he called his office for a chat. We were having a fine old time, with him using phrases such as 'mismatched skill set' and 'regrettable attitude' and 'written warnings', and me making suggestions such as a mobile troubleshooter on roller skates and the giving away of all perishable stock as we approached closing time.

  The fun ended abruptly when he held up one hand and said, in a remarkably firm voice, 'Stop!'

  I stopped talking and awaited further developments with interest.

  I have to admit that I was surprised and I might even say mortified, at his next words.

  'You are dismissed; you are fired; your employment is terminated. Is that clear? Do you understand what I am saying? Or do I have to find more words to say the same thing?'

  'No, sir,' I replied. I don't think he recognized the irony. I don't think he could spell irony.

  I left his booth with all of the dignity I could gather together and then I left the store. Nobody called farewell, or wished me luck as the door whooshed to close behind me with a little too much eagerness for my liking.

  When the call came from the publisher, I have to admit that I was as eager as a puppy, to take their money at least.

  So here we are; you the eager reader, and me, the reluctant Narrative Facilitator. All we need for a full set is a certain Mr. Phillip Humphrey Chandler. N.F.

  Prologue II

  'How long is a day?'

  It was an unusual question, even for Sam.

  '24 hours?' I suggested.

  'Nope.'

  'It is; I'm sure. We even have a 24 hour clock to measure it.'

  'You're still wrong. They want you to think it's 24 hours, so you don't know what you are losing.'

  'Who are they?' I knew the answer of course, but I was just helping him along to the punch-line of this particular confusion.

  'The AI's, of course! It's always the AI's.'

  I nodded agreement, because, yes, with Sam, it was always the AI's.

  'Go on then, Sam. Explain to me how a day that is made up of two periods of 12 hours isn't 24 hours long.'

  He pulled his chair closer to my desk. Actually, it was Julie's chair, now that she'd moved her work station into my office, but she was out shopping; probably.

  'They tell us that the Earth revolves once every 24 hours,' he whispered, adjusting his tinfoil hat.

  'Yes, I believe I heard something like that at school.'

  'Well, it's a lie.'

  There's a surprise.

  'The Earth actually makes a complete revolution in 23 hours and 56 minutes.'

  'Oh my, is that true?'

  The AI in my head took that question as justification for piping up again, although we had an agreement for one hour on, one hour off, and we were only half way thro
ugh my quiet hour.

  'Sam is quite correct, if you allow for the usual human inaccuracy. It is actually 23 hours: 56 minutes: 11 seconds.'

  'Thank you and now shut up.'

  'I merely responded to your questions.'

  'I was asking Sam.'

  'True; but you didn't believe him.'

  Sam was staring at me as if I was the one who'd lost the plot. It's very hard to have an internal discussion with an adjunct of the What If Something Really Bad Happens? AI and still maintain a reasonable facsimile of a conversation with a third party, even if that person is Sam.

  'Sorry, Sam. I was just stunned at the very idea. But it's only four minutes. It can't make much difference.'

  He shook his head.

  'It's four minutes a day; two hours a month. In six months, your watch will tell you it's midday, when it's actually midnight outside.'

  'But that…'

  'Yes, Phil. I think you are getting it.'

  'But that doesn't happen. My watch matches the day.'

  'Exactly!'

  He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Then he nodded.

  'Exactly…what?'

  'They're stealing four minutes from us every day, and we don't even notice. Every day of your life, Phil. Every day of mine. Every day of each of the six billion people on this planet. Just think what that adds up to, Phil. Just think.'

  ‘But aren’t they giving us an extra four minutes a day?’

  The condescending look was quite hard to take from Sam.

  ‘Phil, you always look at the positive side of things, but why would they be giving us something for nothing? Life’s not like that.’ He nodded, as if his logic was irrefutable.

  'And what are they doing with all that time?' These things can get hold of you, can't they?

  'That's the big question, Phil. That's what you should be using all of your investigative skills to find out. The Big Question; not all of these missing people, and pets. You're too good for that.'

  Whilst it's always a pleasure to have someone talking up your skills, I decided that it was time to bring it down to a more mundane level.

  'Coffee?' I suggested.

  Prologue III

  She surged through the low waves and giggled as the cool water splashed at her legs.

  Her superior was lying at the edge of the water; half submerged when the waves came; his glistening, well fed body revealed when they rushed out.

  ‘You have heard Argu’s latest?’ With his head turned away to show that no insult was meant by the question.

  ‘I have.’ She spun around in the waves, throwing water in a wide circle around her.

  ‘I would suggest it is sufficient.’

  ‘Perhaps; it was very funny. One of his best.’

  ‘Sufficient?’ Again his head was averted.

  Millie studied him for a moment; hardly fooled by his position.

  ‘I think so, but he presents his latest joke tonight. I shall wait until after the show before I make my final decision. If this one meets expectations, then I shall have plenty of scope as I attempt to redress the balance. I believe that I will need scope, to achieve my own intentions.’

  They were both members of the Angels on a Pinhead Devotion, and the main tenet of their religion required a balance between good and bad in the Universe. When the Universe was in perfect balance, then entropy would be defeated.

  The Devotion was prepared to go both ways, if the situation required them to do so. But Millie and her companion were Stolys, and it was their nature to leave doing good things to other species more suitable for that role. They instead focused on the dark side; it was a rather better match for their skill set.

  ‘Before you go, it has been suggested that you should not travel alone this time.’

  ‘Suggested? Who would suggest such a thing? I am a loner; I do my best work without interference.’

  ‘I believe it was the Lord High Fulcrum himself who decided that it would be a good idea.’

  ‘The Lord High Fulcrum?’ Millie grunted; she was stumped. Not even she would refuse a direct order from the Lord High Fulcrum. He was at the pinnacle of her religion, and one day she hoped to achieve that exalted post herself.

  Without the intervention of a human male named Philip Chandler, she would already have had the finances in place, but he’d prevented her from securing a virtual monopoly on the supply of Gill-juice.

  And for that he would pay.

  The payment would be extracted in installments; each extraction more painful than the last, until the Universe was back in balance, and her funds were equal to her desires.

  ‘Who shall accompany me?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘I’m afraid it must be I,’ he replied, bringing his head around to face her. The frail human child body she presented disgusted him, with its slender limbs, long blonde hair, ridiculously inefficient button nose and party dress. When he thought of her real beauty, in her true form, with those amazing flotation sacks, he sighed.

  ‘What form will you take? Your own fine form will not do,’ asked Millie.

  ‘I thought this would be suitable, and would be appropriate to your form.’

  Millie looked down at him and nodded.

  ‘That will do fine.’ She bent and picked him up and held him to her chest. She squeezed him tightly.

  ‘I love my teddy!’ she squealed, and ran through the waves.

  Chapter 1 Now, Oh no, not again!

  I'm speaking very quietly to myself because I'm hiding in a cave on another blasted planet, and I really, really don't want to be found.

  I can't believe this is happening to me again; I'm supposed to be a sit at home, feet on my desk sort of P.I. Not running around the universe like some skinny Buck Rogers.

  They won't even tell me the name of this planet, so I'm just going to call it Water-world, or WW for short.

  It's not the sort of place you'd send a post card home from, unless you're a sailor, I suppose. Yes, it's perfect for sailors, as long as they don't need a port, or a harbor, or somewhere to stretch their legs. There's a definite scarcity of that sort of thing here, I can tell you.

  WW is a world covered in water, as its name suggests. The only land is this massive impact crater; something like twenty kilometres across and surrounded by a caldera hundreds of metres high in places.

  'If I could just interject here, Philip, the walls of a volcanic crater are called…'

  ‘Listen Neville, I don't want to be bothered by all that. Anything I get wrong, my Narrative Facilitator will correct when he writes it up.’

  (The walls of a volcanic crater form its caldera. For an impact crater, the wall is called the Rim, or as in this case, simply a Terraced Wall. N.F.)

  'Please don't call me Neville.'

  ‘I can't keep calling you Adjunct of The What If Something Really Bad Happens? A.I.’

  'Perhaps we could agree on a more resounding name together?'

  ‘Maybe later.' The point I'm trying to make is that there is no life on this planet, or there wasn't until we arrived, and now a spaceship has landed a couple of hundred metres from us, and I now think there's far too much life on this planet.

  'You are probably perfectly safe.'

  ‘I'm not risking my lily-white skin on your probably.’

  'I could give you the odds, but you don't like figures, do you Phil?'

  ‘That's not all I don't like.’

  When I get home, I'm giving up being a P.I. I'm going to take up something less stressful. I'm going to take up knitting; that's what I'm going to do. Just click, click, click and you've got a pair of socks; or click, click, click and you've got a comfy chair.

  How hard can it be?

  I can hear footsteps, so I'm moving further back into this cave. I think they're footsteps; I hope they're footsteps. I don't want to be dealing with any slithery slathery alien aliens; without faces, or a sense of humour, or proper shoes.

  Right, I'm settled in the back, in the dark, behind this curve
in the cave wall. They'll never find me here; not as long as I keep as quite as a mouse who has just finished his Ph.D. in Silence is the New Gold.

  'Huh. Huh.'

  Oh no; that doesn't sound good, does it?

  'Excuse me?'

  What the f…?

  'Is there anyone in there?'

  He sounds like a teacher I used to know. I'm not saying a word, but I take a quick peek at him.

  He's human shaped, but he's really quite tall, and his legs don't match the rest of him; too short I think. He is dressed in a silvery spacesuit; the sort you might see in a 1950's Sci-Fi B movie. He doesn’t have a helmet but I can't see his face because the light’s behind him. I can see that his head is almost flat at the top; sort of triangular, I think.

  My NF will clear up all the descriptions and what have you later for the book.(Will I? N.F.)

  'Hello!' he calls as he takes a couple of steps into the cave.

  I feel myself shrinking in the dark.

  'Hello; I know you're there.'

  Oh, bother, I think, but I'm still not exposing my pretty little head to his alien view. If he wants me, he's going to have to come and get me.

  Did I really say that?

  How did I get here, on another alien planet, with just my wits and an AI in my head? And how am I going to survive this little interaction with a possibly vicious alien?

  'Vicious? Do you think so? I thought his 'Hello' was quite polite.'

  ‘He could be viciously polite; or politely vicious.’

  Anyway, as I was saying, I know the answer to the first part of my question.

  'How you got here?'

  ‘Thank you, but I could do without your input.’

  If you have any suggestions, dear reader, as to how I answer the second part of the question.

  'How you survive?'

  ‘For heaven's sake, keep quiet for a moment, if you can.’