So It Begins (Defending The Future)

by James Chambers

  “Getting ourselves court-marshalled would probably add some small ray of happiness to the captain’s otherwise present dismal outlook.”

  “You machinist, you’re always so gloomy.”

  “That’s only the machinists who run around with Italians.”

  “Look,” replied Rocky, as he eased the shuttle out the side bay doors while Technician Second Class Thorner kept the perimeter radar jumbled so they might avoid detection, “we’re a couple of clever guys. We figure out how to smooth things so the Confederation beats the League and all the other bozos to signin’ up this bunch, and we’ll be spendin’ the rest of our days sittin’ around swimmin’ pools.”

  “With cleaning equipment,” responded a particularly glum Noodles under his breath. He did not bother to argue further, though. Once Rocky had made his mind up on something, it was rare the machinist was ever able to talk him out of it. The reasons why he went along with said schemes were many and varied.

  First, he liked Rocky and did not want to see him end up in more trouble than he could handle. Second, he was fairly certain the gunner had saved his life during one of their many drunken escapades, and so he felt a certain amount of obligation on that front as well. He also had to admit Rocky had a point. The Roosevelt on the whole would be in for tough times if Edilson decided to take a pass on joining the Confederation of Planets. Lastly, however, he went along with his pal’s crazy plans usually because it just always turned out to be more fun doing things his way.

  Machinists are a dull lot, he thought, keeping the notion as quiet within his noggin as possible. He would never admit to such a thing, of course. If questioned on the verve and vigor of his profession, he would point to the many fine activities he and the rest of the ship’s tool jockeys enjoyed, from their shipwide Call of Cthulhu LARPs and their free-style origami fold-offs, to the week out of every year they lived for, their Sexy-Robot-Building Competition. Privately, he feared Intelligence Officer DiVico’s assessment, “I’ve seen lead foil that was snappier than the average machinist,” might sadly be true.

  Regardless, it was but a matter of minutes after take-off that the pair of gobs found themselves loose in the capital city of the planet Edilson. After walking about more or less aimlessly for a half an hour, confident from their observation of various street signs and cafe notices that Edilson to Pan-Galactic to Earth Basic 9.8 translation was more or less working fine enough, Rocky approached a passing rubbery watermelon of an Edilsoni and asked;

  “So, what’s the story around here, chief?”

  Bending back and forth so that all the eyes ringing its head could scrutinize the individual addressing it, the random citizen decided it had no idea what this bizarre new species wanted and, doing its best to make a motion with its shoulderless body that would translate to an alien as a confused shrug, it went about its business. The gunner gave his buddy a look meant to convey his mixture of confusion and annoyance, then tried again with the next native to pass by. The results were the same.

  After that, both sailors attempted to communicate with the locals, trying this or that different idiom, working to keep their questions as simple as possible in case their problem was merely some translation difficulty. Nothing helped. Eventually, having been working on questioning a large flow of Edilsoni moving toward a stadium of sorts, they found themselves having been moved along with the flow to where they were indoors, awaiting some sort of performance. Frustrated, but hoping whatever was about to be presented on the field before them would give them some sort of clue, they managed to purchase a container of what seemed to be fried, bacon-flavored grass, and two milky fruit drinks which came in a kind of squeeze-bag affair. As they settled in, an announcer came out onto a small side stage and sang an introduction.

  Since it seemed that all that he was introducing was the formal presentation from some alien world or the other to the Edilson government, the need for a tune-filled introduction struck the two humans as odd. When it turned out the aliens making the presentation were Danierians, Rocky and Noodles both began to titter with amusement. Bulbous, dour, and as exciting as a panda in fishnet stockings, the boys chuckled over how utterly awful the following would have to be.

  “Danierians are gonna try and get these guys’ attention,” scoffed Rocky. “Now this, I’m glad I’m here ta see.”

  The chief gunnery officer’s joy was short-lived. As he and Noodles finished off the last of their Crunchy Goodness snack pack, a troop of some four hundred Danierian warriors, outfitted in full battle gear, marched onto the field from three triangularly situated entrances. Flags unfurled, horns blaring, drums setting down an impressively unshakable cadence, the troopers met in the center of the parade ground, shouting out in their lumbering cadence as they began to file into formation;

  “Denieria, it is our home,

  That roasting world, so far away,

  Denieria, its red sky and foam,

  It’s the best, on any day.”

  Looking first at each other, Rocky and Noodles then began to scan the crowd around them. Unlike their attempts to communicate with the Edilsoni on the streets, the Danierians were getting through to the natives. Indeed, as their simple forward marches began to intertwine, the crowd began tapping their tentacles to the martial rhythm.

  “We’re here to tell you about our world,

  How splendid it is, to live in peace,

  With Danierian banners, everywhere unfurled

  ,And all strife and despair made to cease.”

  “Noodles,” asked Rocky, “is this as bad as I’m thinkin’ it is?” When the machinist nodded in agreement, his partner answered, “Yeah, I was afraid of that.”

  “The galaxy is filled with lies,

  Other races present intentions, but disguise

  Their true meaning,

  There’s no gleaning,

  What, oh what, is an innocent race to do?”

  Rocky shuddered, thinking he had a good idea what was about to be suggested.

  “Face front! And join

  The United Coalition Of Danierian Worlds.

  Be a member of the winning team,

  It’s a lone and vulnerable planet’s

  Dream come true!

  As the marching and singing continued, Noodles was struck by how the Edilsoni were responding to the ever-more-intricate step-pattern the warriors below were developing. With increasingly complicated side turn, with each spin of their weapons and the tossing of banners from one team to another, the native inhabitants gave out with more and louder appreciative whistling noises. And then, the warriors offered up their next-to-final chorus;

  “Others offer chaos,

  We bring rules,

  Those who turn down order,

  We slaughter as fools!”

  Eliciting cheers from every corner of the arena. As the Danierian Dress Guard broke into an even tighter, and it must be said rather snappy (well, snappy for Danierians), close order drill, chanting “Go Danieria” on every left step, the Edilsoni began singing to one another and performing a variety of three-legged jigs which left the two sailors both astounded and, it had to be admitted, a touch frightened.

  “Submit to our will,

  It’s for your own good,

  Don’t wonder if we kill,

  Just do what you should.”

  “Little buddy,” whispered Rocky, “I’m thinkin’ we’d better get back to the Roosevelt. The captain’s gonna wanta know about this.”

  “He’s not going to want to know it,” answered Noodles, reaching for his bag o’juice, “but he needs to.”

  And with that, the swabbies returned to their borrowed shuttle craft, even as the Edilsoni picked up the admittedly catchy chorus of “Submit, Submit, just do it,” sending its singular message wafting out over their capital city in all directions.

  “So,” asked Rocky quietly, “just how much trouble are we in, captain?”

  “Vespucci,” sighed Valance, heavily, “you only did what you did for ship an
d homeworld, and you did good, so let’s just say you two have a bit of credit in reserve against your next knuckleheaded shenanigan—all right?”

  “Sweet deal, sir.”

  At that point the Roosevelt’s commanding officer moved into as high a gear as his hangover would permit. With confirmation of the true nature of Edilsoni communication in hand, as well as intelligence on how effective had been the Danierians singing and marching negotiation, he dismissed the two gobs while ordering a channel opened to Earth High Command at once. Quickly outlining his overwhelmingly insurmountable problem, his desperate honesty was rewarded with the worst type of military logic.

  Since his was the only ship in the area, the mission was still his. And, since he was the ranking officer, he and his diplomatic staff would simply have to dance and sing their way into the hearts of the planetary government and win the day. In the meantime, while Valance and his command staff were reduced to trying to form a not-completely-painful-to-listen-to barbershop quartet, Rocky and Noodles headed for the galley to wash down their planetside snacks with something a little more substantial than milk juice.

  “Listen,” said Noodles, after finishing his fourth tall and frosty mug of something-more-substantial, “you know, I wonder what the captain’s going to do.”

  “Not our concern,” answered his pal. “Hey, we’re heroes for once. Little tiny minor heroes, sure. But, considerin’ the esteem we’re usually held in around here, I’ll take it.”

  The machinist nodded, non-commitally. Rocky was right. The two of them had pushed their luck within the bounds of Navy regs to an extreme not seen since a drunken Admiral Chester William Nimitz had attempted to steer an aircraft carrier up the Venetian canals in search of a combination pizza parlor/chianti distributor/bordello he had been assured by Enrico Curuso was “really primo.” Still, it was not in the machinist’s internal make-up to simply allow nature to take its course. Running his finger around the inside of his mug to get the last delightful bits of foam, he licked up the delicious residue, then said;

  “So, you think the captain can handle things?”

  “Well, sure,” answered Rocky automatically. Draining his own mug, he added with an equal lack of thought, “the captain’s aces. Ain’t he got us outta every mess we ever got ourselves into? He don’t ever need any help—he’s always got the answer.”

  “Not to be contrary, Rock, but . . . if the captain didn’t ever need any help, then he wouldn’t need a crew.”

  It was not so much Noodles’ words, but the tone with which he delivered them that caught the gunnery officer’s attention. Squinting hard, as if that might instantly negate the effects of his own eight tall portions of more-substantial, Rocky finally answered;

  “You mean, you think the captain maybe can’t handle singin’ these guys into the Confederation?”

  “Do you remember his trying to teach Christmas carols to those kids back on Embri?” The gunner shuddered at the memory, his fingers unconsciously reaching up to his ears to see if they were bleeding.

  “So,” asked Rocky, fairly certain he knew the answer he would receive, “you’re sayin’ that ah . . . you want us to steal a shuttle on the same day we already stole one shuttle, and then use said shuttle to head back down to the planet so we can interfere with the most important mission the Roosevelt was ever given?”

  “Yeah—you want’a?”

  “Hey,” answered the gunner, grinning from ear to ear, “does the Buddha drink Mint Juleps?”

  “Isn’t that usually my line?”

  “Ahhhh, tell it to the board of inquiry.”

  “Oh yeah,” laughed Noodles. “Good thinking.”

  And, with no other pints of more-substantial in sight, the two swabbies got down to planning their course of action.

  ¨¨¨

  In all honesty, Captain Valance would never have believed it was possible for four people to sweat so intently. Indeed, the puddle growing around his feet, as well as those of the Roosevelt’s intelligence officer, her diplomatic attaché, and the ship’s doctor, was spreading with such vigor, it left the Edilsoni to wonder if the human contingent might not actually be melting. To be fair, the makeshift quartet had tried their darnest, calling upon the spirit of a thousand long-sung sea chanteys to aid them in their hour of desperation.

  Sadly, though, King Neptune had not seen fit to shower them with any such bounty. In fact, it had to be admitted that their feeble attempts to harmonize had failed so miserably that the Edilsoni’s visceral reaction to their singing was the only thing that kept the aliens from noticing how utterly terrible the humans’ lyrics were. Finally, when the four paused for a breath at the same moment, although it was obvious they had only covered a third of their points, the Edilsoni prime minister practically fell over his podium as he leaped forward to interrupt, asking if that concluded the Earth Confederation’s presentation. Valance was just about to throw in the proverbial towel, considering losing the planet and his commission favorable to provoking interstellar warfare, when suddenly a shout was heard from the back of the amphitheater.

  “If you kind and noble Edilsoni will permit,

  I’d like to step up, while you sit . . . ,”

  As Valance stared in disbelief, he saw Machinist First Mate Li Qui Kon actually doing a handy little two-step, making his way in between the central two rows of spectators down toward the staging area where he and his fellow officers had been dying by inches.

  “And discuss with you the ramifications,

  Of inter-galactic political integrations.”

  Reaching the captain and his officers, Rocky urged them to vacate the stage, telling them in an exaggerated stage whisper;

  “Don’t worry, sir. I think he knows what he’s doin’.”

  “But Vespucci,” answered Valance, “singing and dancing . . . a machinist?”

  “With all due respect, a Chinese machinist, sir.”

  “There are species descended from fish and bugs,

  Others that crawled up from oozing slugs,

  Some came from birds and some from rats,

  Insects, clams, giraffes and bats,”

  “Chinese moms, sir,” added Rocky. “How’d he say it? They expect their kids to . . . well, they have to be a credit to their family.”

  “And they’re all fine, in their own way,

  But they’re kind of singular, I must say,

  Bred for a certain uni . . . form . . . ity,

  They lack that one human odd . . . i . . . ty.”

  “Mrs. Kon, you see . . .”

  “The thing that makes us the ones to choose,

  That quality that guarantees you never lose,

  It’s our single greatest facility . . . Our hard-won, irritating . . .

  “Un . . . pre . . . dic . . . ta . . . bility!”

  “She wanted an entertainer in the family.”

  And then, at a hand signal from Noodles, waiting in a lurkercraft hidden in the clouds, Technician Second Class Thorner began their free-air music broadcast, as well as sending down a blinding purple spotlight, illuminating the machinist in an iridescent glow as he warbled—

  “Oh, everything’s better with monkeys,

  We’re the best bet in the show,

  I’m certain you’re getting a lot of offers,

  But trust me, simian’s the way to go.”

  While Noodles spun around, setting himself up for the next stanza, Rocky caught the captain’s ear once more, telling him;

  “Five years of tap and jazz dance, six of voice training, and apparently eight years of piano which, from what he says, were a really serious mistake.”

  “Yes everything’s better with monkeys,

  They’re curious, funny, and true,

  They’ll stand by your side, go along for a ride,

  And they’ll make sure you get what you’re due.”

  As Noodles went into a complicated dance routine, one that seemed to Rocky he had seen in a revival of “My Fair Lady,” the two of them
had been lured into by promises of a different type of entertainment, the gunnery officer and his captain began to notice that the crowd was responding favorably to the performance. Indeed, those who had been previously fleeing from the caterwauling of Valance and his officers actually seemed to be returning to their seats. While the captain dangerously tempted Fate by allowing his hopes to rise from actual imprisonment to a simple court-martial, Rocky sent the signal to Mac Michaels up above with Thorner to both turn up the music and begin the fountain of lights display. As the crowd began to “aaaaahhhhhhhhh” in synchronized harmony, Noodles went into his big finish.

  “Yes, we earthlings, we make mistakes,

  We’ve got our bad eggs, who will always disgrace,

  We spill our own blood, and we’re not always smart,

  But the one thing I can assure you is . . .

  The human race has . . . got . . . heart!”

  And then, in that instant, even as the entire ship’s company of the Roosevelt Machinist’s Saturday Evening LARP Society surrounded the stage, decked in full costume from their upcoming Bambi versus Godzilla extravaganza, accompanied by all the final entries in the Sexiest Robot of All Time competition, all around the stadium Edilsoni began to jump up from their seats. Unable to restrain themselves, the rotund aliens began humming and dancing, slapping tentacles, spinning on their mouths, and in short throwing themselves with total abandon into the fierce joy of Noodle’s song.

  “We’re not perfect,