Space Crime Conspiracy

by Gareth P. Jones

  ‘Big moment? I’m being arrested,’ said Stanley.

  ‘Yes, but you’re no ordinary criminal.’

  A set of doors had opened and they drove slowly into a high-ceilinged room. At the end stood a short, portly, official-looking man, flanked by more hairy Yeren officers.

  ‘That’s Commander Kevolo,’ said Officer Grogun. ‘I bet you twenty Armorian dollars that in his speech he mentions the firm hand of the law.’

  Opposite them a number of metallic spheres hovered in the air. As Stanley got nearer, cameras and microphones emerged from within the shiny balls.

  ‘Journobots,’ said Officer Grogun, by way of explanation. ‘They’ll all want an interview and a picture.’

  Officer Grogun stopped the car and looked at Stanley. ‘You ready for this?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  Grogun laughed. ‘My advice is don’t say anything. Let Kevolo do the talking.’

  The doors opened and Stanley was greeted by an explosion of flashes and shouts from the journobots, each announcing who they were before asking their questions.

  ‘This is the Armorian News Network 204. Where have you been hiding, Stanley Bound?’

  ‘Mundanian Breakfast News. Why did you kill the president?’

  ‘Universe Today. Are you working with the League?’

  ‘Galaxy Kitchen. What did you have for breakfast the morning you killed the president?’

  The journobots jostled with each other, tangling up the leads that protruded from their spherical bodies and bashing into each other in their desperation to get a good view of Stanley.

  Stanley shielded his eyes from the flashes. He felt an arm land on his shoulders and pull him close. He looked up to see Commander Kevolo. Up close he was large, sweaty, with a pungent aroma exuding from the armpit that he had just pulled Stanley into. He gripped Stanley’s arm tightly and spoke quickly out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Let me do the talking, OK? You might be a big-shot criminal, but when it comes to publicity you’re with the big boys now.’

  Stanley said nothing. Commander Kevolo addressed the journobots. ‘People of the universe, today marks a great day in Armorian justice. Stanley Bound, the murderer of President Vorlugenar, a very dear friend of mine, has been brought to justice, under a carefully devised and excellently executed operation conducted under my close scrutiny. Today the firm hand of the law came down hard on crime.’ Commander Kevolo raised a hand and dropped it down on Stanley’s shoulder so hard that Stanley felt his legs buckle. ‘The biggest challenge in the universe today is from criminals like the Marauding Picaroons, who think themselves above the law. They threaten all our freedoms. Let this be a message to them: no one is above the law.’ He finished with a triumphant wave of his fist.

  Once again the journobots burst into activity.

  ‘Armorian Constant News Channel. When will the trial be?’

  ‘Mundanian Evening Analysis. Who will be representing you in court, Stanley?’

  ‘The Intergalactic Fashion Channel. Stanley Bound, where did you get those shoes? They’re fabulous.’

  Commander Kevolo held up a hand. ‘Thank you, everyone. The press conference is now over. Officer Grogun, take Stanley to the incident room and find him a cell.’

  .

  10

  ‘Space pirates, looters – and Flaid’s the worst of them all’

  Stepping through a door at the far end of the holding bay where the press conference had been, the incident room Stanley entered now reminded him of those he had seen on TV cop shows. There were rows of messy desks, maps, charts and posters on the walls and countless policemen either sitting at the desks or busily walking between them. Even the computers looked like those on Earth. It was the officers themselves who were the biggest difference. Most were Yeren like Grogun, but around the edge of the room, in private glass offices and smarter uniforms, were humanoid officers, who, judging by the number of extra limbs, eyes and heads, were Armorian.

  Most were too preoccupied to pay Stanley any attention as Officer Grogun led him through the room, but a couple of the other Yeren officers waved or shouted congratulations to Grogun.

  ‘Have a seat while I find a cell for you.’ Grogun pointed at a bench and sat down at a nearby desk.

  Among the charts and maps on the walls, Stanley saw a great many wanted posters. Some faces looked human, but others were distinctly more alien. A few were barely even identifiable as faces, looking more like malformed hands, purple blobs or bits of wood. He found his eyes drawn to one that appeared to be a large parrot’s head, with grubby, dishevelled blue and yellow feathers and a black bandanna above dark ruthless eyes.

  ‘Captain Flaid.’

  Stanley turned to find a small blue creature resembling a hairless chimpanzee, but with eight fingers on each hand and huge saucer-like ears. It was busy trying to crack a large nut-like object.

  ‘Er . . . Pleased to meet you,’ said Stanley.

  ‘Not me. In the poster . . . the featherhead. That’s Captain Flaid, the leader of the Marauding Picaroons.’

  ‘Commander Kevolo mentioned them. Who are they?’

  ‘Space pirates, looters – and Flaid’s the worst of them all. That’s why there’s such a high reward for his capture. Fifty billion Armorian Dollars – dead or alive. There aren’t many things I wouldn’t do for that kind of money, but trying to bring Flaid in is one of them. He’d cut your throat just to see what colour your blood was.’

  Officer Grogun swung round in his chair. ‘Hey, Boosky, leave my prisoner alone.’

  ‘We’re only talking. There’s no law against that, is there?’

  ‘Depends what you’re saying. Don’t go giving him any ideas.’ Grogun returned to his computer.

  Boosky successfully cracked the large nut and threw it into his mouth. ‘Talking of rewards, yours wasn’t bad.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘Yeah, look.’ Boosky pointed out a poster with a picture of Stanley on it. Or at least it looked like him, because it was taken from the footage of the president’s murder. Below was writing in a language that Stanley didn’t understand.

  Boosky let out an impressed whistle. ‘Twenty-five billion for anyone who brings you in alive. It’s a shame that it don’t count if you work for the AIP, eh, Grogey?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve done this, you and me are going to take a look at the new high-security solitary confinement cells.’

  ‘I’ve seen them. Last time they put me in after breakfast. I was out before lunch.’ Boosky turned back to Stanley. ‘So why did you do it?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. They’ve got the wrong person.’

  Boosky laughed. ‘Sure. There are forty-six thousand prison cells on the Bucket, and every single one of those prisoners is the wrong person too. Even I’m the wrong person, and believe me, I’ve broken laws that haven’t even been written yet.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘He’s a thief,’ said Grogun, without turning his head, still tapping repeatedly on his keyboard. ‘How many consecutive life sentences you serving now?’

  ‘Twenty-seven,’ said Boosky.

  Grogun swore at his computer.

  ‘But they just let you wander around?’ said Stanley.

  ‘Oh, they try locking me up every so often, but you see, getting out is what I’m good at. There’s no lock in the world that Boosky Retch can’t break. Between you and me, I think they like having me around.’

  ‘The only time you’re useful is when you’re ratting out your friends,’ said Grogun.

  ‘Aw. So you do appreciate me, Grogey,’ said Boosky.

  ‘You got no morals, Retch,’ snarled Grogun. ‘You’d betray your own mother for a packet of astro-nuts.’

  ‘You don’t know my mother. I got a lot more than that when I shopped her.’

  ‘But if you can pick any lock, why don’t you escape?’ Stanley lowered his voice.

  ‘Because they’ve tagged me, see?’ Boosky stuck his tongue out and St
anley saw a small silver stud attached to it. ‘I get out of Armorian jurisdiction, they set this thing off and Boosky goes KABOOMSKY! Still, I’ll find a way. I’m smarter than these apes and I know more about Armorian law than any of them, and I tell you what – before he starts asking you questions, you want to demand your phone call.’

  ‘My phone call?’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve got the right to one call. Hey, Grogun, how about letting the kid have his one call?’ said Boosky, cracking another nut.

  ‘Use the booth,’ replied Grogun, still preoccupied with the computer in front of him. ‘And, kid, I’d keep an eye on your valuables with Retch around, if I were you.’

  ‘Ignore him. Go ahead.’ Boosky held the door open to a booth by the wall and Stanley entered.

  In front of him was a row of buttons with symbols on, but none of them looked anything like numbers. ‘Can I call Earth on this?’ asked Stanley.

  ‘You can call whoever you want as long as you’ve got the number,’ said Boosky. ‘But if I were you, I wouldn’t waste your call on anyone but a lawyer. You got a lawyer, right?’

  Grogun appeared behind him and grabbed him by his ears.

  ‘Oww,’ complained Boosky.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ snarled Grogun, throwing Boosky out of the way. ‘You call who you want, but he’s right, you are going to need a lawyer.’

  The door swung shut and Stanley pulled out Eddie’s card from his back pocket. He flipped it over and saw that the rows of numbers on the back had changed and now matched the symbols in front of him. By the time he had finished dialling the number, his fingertips felt sore. After a couple of rings, a hologram of a woman’s head appeared.

  ‘You’re through to Eddington Thelonius Barthsalt Skulk’s office. How may I assist you?’ she said with a professional smile.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Eddie Skulk,’ said Stanley.

  ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Stanley Bound.’

  ‘One moment, please.’

  The woman’s head was replaced by Eddie’s. His beard was gone, but the bowler hat was still on his head.

  ‘Stanley Bound, good to hear from you. I see you’re calling from the Bucket, so unless you’re applying for the AIP police academy, I’m assuming you’ve been arrested,’ joked Eddie.

  ‘Don’t sound so happy about it.’

  ‘I saw your press conference on the news. I thought you looked rather good. Kevolo was as self-congratulatory as ever. Can I assume you want me to act as your lawyer?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Good. Please follow these instructions. Do not answer any questions until I arrive. Do not write anything down. You have the right to be taken to a cell and held without being charged until I am present for your interview. I should be with you by tomorrow evening.’

  ‘What should I do until then?’

  ‘Do? You shouldn’t do anything. You should do exactly nothing until I arrive. You’re in an extremely serious situation. Mistakes at this stage could cost you your freedom and even your life. The death penalty still exists for presidential assassination. Do you understand?’

  ‘Do I understand? Well, no,’ Stanley shouted. He had had enough. ‘I don’t understand anything. I don’t understand why I’m here. I don’t understand how I’m supposed to have killed someone I’ve never heard of. I don’t understand how this morning no one knew who I was but now I’m stuck in a room full of weird hairy alien policemen, in a space station that smells of cabbage and farts.’

  Eddie laughed. ‘Don’t worry. Just keep a low profile until I see you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to be getting on the wrong side of those officers. OK?’

  The hologram disappeared and Stanley stepped out of the booth. The whole of the incident room had fallen silent and every AIP officer was now staring at him.

  ‘They’re not soundproofed, those booths, you know,’ said Boosky.

  ‘Right, Mr Popular, I’ve found you a cell,’ said Grogun. ‘Let’s get you in there before you get torn apart by one of these weird hairy alien policemen, shall we?’

  .

  11

  ‘Me Stanley. You freaky talking mushroom thing in my stew’

  Grogun opened the door to the prison cell and pushed Stanley inside. The room was empty except for a hard metal bench and a small TV in the corner.

  ‘Someone will be round in a while with some food,’ said Grogun.

  Stanley noticed a hole in the floor at the far side of the room. ‘What’s that for?’ he asked.

  Grogun laughed. ‘That’s for your waste.’

  ‘What? Like food I don’t eat?’

  ‘Yeah, and the food that you do.’ Grogun laughed and slammed the door shut.

  Stanley walked to the hole and looked down. The smell that hit him as he leaned over it almost knocked him backwards. He steadied himself and sat down on the bench. He felt utterly miserable. He tried to remind himself that he was in space and that this should be exciting. But it didn’t feel exciting. It felt like being imprisoned in an uncomfortable, smelly, windowless room.

  He checked his wrist to see how much time had passed, but his watch had gone. ‘Boosky,’ he muttered angrily.

  The TV screen in the corner was showing the news. The newsreader was replaced by footage of Stanley and Commander Kevolo. Stanley found the volume button and turned it up.

  ‘. . . No one is above the law,’ concluded Commander Kevolo.

  It went back to the studio.

  ‘Commander Jax Kevolo was, of course, referring to his ongoing struggle with the most feared Marauding Picaroon, Captain Flaid, whose ship, the Black Horizon, has been responsible for many of the recent attacks. This film from a security camera captures one such raid.’

  Grainy footage taken from the corner of a spaceship showed several bird-headed creatures bursting in through a door. There was no sound on the footage but it was clear that, had there been, it would have been the terrified cries and whimpers of the crew.

  ‘The picaroons carry illegal weapons designed for on-board combat,’ said the newsreader’s voice, as one of them rammed the end of a long stick it was carrying up against the throat of a crew member. The picaroon pulled a trigger and sparks flew from the stick, causing his victim to collapse to the floor. At this point the picaroon noticed the camera. He walked up to it, raised his stick and the picture disappeared.

  Stanley turned the TV off. Without a watch he had no way of knowing how long he had been sitting there feeling miserable, when a slit opened at the base of the door and a tray slid inside.

  ‘Grub’s up,’ said a voice from behind the locked door.

  On the tray was some kind of grey stew that looked as unappealing as it smelt.

  ‘What is it?’ he shouted at the door.

  No one answered.

  A movement in Stanley’s stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for some time and that this was no time to be fussy. He looked back at the stew and noticed a long mushroom with a red and black top. He picked up the tray to get a closer look at it and realised that the mushroom wasn’t a part of the stew. It was eating it.

  ‘Hey, get out of it,’ said Stanley. ‘If you want some food, get your own.’

  The mushroom turned around. Underneath its red and black top it had a small face with tiny features. It straightened up and Stanley could make out spindly arms and legs.

  ‘Want some food?’ said the mushroom, in a small squeaky voice.

  ‘What do you mean, do I want some? It’s mine.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘No, mine.’

  ‘What’s mine?’ asked the mushroom.

  ‘The food,’ replied Stanley.

  ‘Yes, but what is this mine?’

  ‘It means it’s for me.’

  ‘Who is me?’

  Stanley was getting confused, and not just because he had fallen into an argument with a mushroom. ‘I’m me. Me Stanley.’ He pointed to himself. ‘You freaky talking mushroom thing in my stew.’
>
  ‘This spore is this spore.’

  ‘Spore? Is that your name? Well, Spore, that stew you’re standing in is mine, for Stanley. Not for Spore. You understand?’

  ‘This spore understand.’

  He stepped out of the stew, wiped his feet on something resembling a slice of bread and jumped off the tray.

  ‘Thank you.’ Stanley was so hungry now that he didn’t care who had been standing in his dinner. ‘How did you get here anyway?’

  ‘This spore climb up there.’ The odd little creature pointed at the waste hole at the far side of the room. ‘Spores live at bottom, but this spore climb up.’

  ‘Here, you can have it.’ Stanley placed the tray back on the floor in front of Spore. However hungry he was, he did care that his dinner had been trodden in by something that had just climbed out of the waste hole.

  ‘But you say food not for this spore. You say stew is mine.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s yours. Help yourself.’

  While Spore greedily guzzled the stew, Stanley explained how the words ‘me’ and ‘mine’ referred to different people depending on who used them.

  ‘So when this spore says me, me means this spore, but when Stanley says me, me means Stanley,’ said Spore, dribbling the last of the food down his tiny chin.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘This spore learns quickly.’

  ‘Yes, but why do you keep calling yourself this spore? Isn’t Spore your name?’

  ‘Spore is what I am. Mother spore. Father spore. Brother spore. They live down below. Except for brother. He gone.’ Spore jumped up on to the metal bench with remarkable dexterity and sat down with his twig-like legs dangling off the edge.

  ‘What do you call each other if you’ve all got the same name?’

  ‘This spore the only speaking spore.’

  ‘How can you speak if no other spores can?’

  ‘Don’t know. This spore climb up chute to look for brother. Brother spore gone missing, you see. After that this spore speak. After that this spore left home. After that this spore met Stanley. After that Stanley give this spore food that wasn’t . . . mine. After that, this spore jump up here. After that is happening now.’