These Foolish Things: The Complete Boxset

by J Battle

  I’m standing in the doorway; I’ve had three quick pints (I wasn’t going to the leave the third, was I?). I’m about to do something very clever, or very stupid. The empirical evidence casts the odds in favour of the latter.

  Without giving myself time to hesitate or reconsider, I step forward until I’m standing right in front of the two thugs. They are still whispering to each other, and it’s not too presumptuous of me to think that I’m the subject of their chat.

  I stand for a couple of minutes, and still they take no notice of me.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. My mother always taught me to be polite; not by example of course.

  One of them looks up, and gives me a half snarl.

  I take this as an encouraging sign and smile back at him. He is a squat man, and nature did him no favours with the enormous hairy mole it planted in the centre of his forehead. It was the sort of thing you know you shouldn’t look at, but can’t help yourself.

  ‘What’s happening with the Squirtport?’

  He gives me the rest of the snarl and looks at his companion.

  ‘It’s shutting, apparently,‘ answers the other thug; his voice surprisingly refined.

  ‘Do we know why?’

  Mole starts to study my face, then he flips open his wrist-top.

  I decide that it is time to reveal myself to them and start to remove my outer clothing; there really should be some music for this.

  When I’m hatless and coatless, Mole gasps and leaps to his feet.

  ‘I believe you are looking for me,’ I say, with a casual air.

  ‘Mr. Chandler,’ says Refined. ’How nice of you to offer yourself to us.’

  ‘I think we can be of help to each other.’ Mole has taken an unnecessarily firm grip on my arm; he probably doesn't realise that I bruise very easily.

  ‘I can see how we could help you, but what do you have of worth to offer us?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘It would be foolish of me to reveal the details at this point. What I can say is that it has to do with the money Masters stole from your boss.’

  ‘You know where it is?’

  I smile knowingly and say nothing. I usually find that the less I say, the more intelligent I seem.

  ‘He’s not my boss; we are associates, and I am sure he would be happy for me to extract the information you have here and now.’

  I don’t like the sound of that.

  ‘We don’t have much time for that now; do we?’

  Refined looked over a Mole, then checked his wristwatch.

  ‘You are probably correct. We have only thirty minutes before we need to leave. I’m sure my companion is more than capable of accessing the information you say you have in that time, but I think it would be best for all involved if we take you with us.’

  For a second, I felt relief; it didn’t last long.

  ‘Please bear in mind that my colleague here does not like to be disappointed. You won’t like him when he’s disappointed.’

  I don’t much like him as he is.

  ‘You can trust me,’ I lie. ‘How are we getting there?’

  ‘We’ll be flying; there’s a ‘plane due anytime now.’

  With my two new buddies, I leave the hotel. I’ve put my hat on and fastened my coat, so I’m quite comfortable in the late afternoon heat; only about 150 degrees Fahrenheit. My companions are a little less so, in their jeans, T-shirts and jackets.

  At some stage, I’m going to have to come up with a clever plan to get myself out of this situation that I’ve talked myself into; but, for now, I’m just happy to be going home.

  Chapter 41 - Now for Plan B

  I’ve come up with a clever plan; if it works, I might just walk off this planet on my own, without the company of my new best friends.

  This is what I’m going to do. I‘m going to claim that I need the toilet, and after three pints, it’s not stretching the truth. When I have a little privacy, I’ll tap out an email to Julie on my wrist-top, asking her to get the local gendarmerie to meet us at the Squirtport and arrest my companions; they must be wanted for something. Whilst they are arguing with the police, I’ll make my escape, and all subsequent problems can be worried about later.

  Of course, I can’t just send the email directly to Julie; that would far too easy. On Greenhaven, there is no direct access to the Earth’s internet, yet it is not completely cut off for emails. The way it works is this; I send my email to an address at the Squirtport where it is recorded onto a data pellet. Every twenty minutes, a pellet is squirted to Earth, where it connects to the internet and passes on the message; couldn’t be simpler. That’s how I upload my story to my narrative facilitator. (My narrative facilitator? I don’t think so.NF)

  Mole wants to come with me, to check for emergency exits, but Refined says it’s OK; he’s already been and there’s only the one way in or out.

  ‘Allow him a little privacy,’ he says. ’It’s the least we can do.’

  So now I’m sitting in trap one, typing out my message to Julie on my virtual keyboard. I just hope she’s not out shopping, or focussing on one of her puzzles to the exclusion of all else.

  There, that should do it. I’ll reread it for typos; she always makes fun of me for my spelling. Looks OK so I’ll hit the send key and in twenty minutes or so….

  Oh no! That can’t be right! How can there be a queue? This is the twenty-first century for heaven’s sake! My wrist-top has received a response from the Triple S (Semi-Sentient System) that runs the Squirtport, advising that, due to heavy traffic, a queuing system has been imposed. Apparently it will be three hours before my message can be forwarded. The Triple S may be incredibly bright by human standards, but nobody told it that the port would be shut down long before my message reached the end of the queue.

  So, this is where I should bring in Plan B, if I had one; I don’t.

  As I leave the slightly whiffy toilets, I try to smile. It’s all I’ve got left; my charm.

  At least I’ll get a ride in a plane out of this¸ and that will give me time to think of this Plan B I’m going to need.

  (I should be spending my time working on my own book, not writing this tosh. My book is about pixies, and I’m not embarrassed to say that. Pixies are wonderful creatures, beautiful and kind and brave. In the hands of a true writer, they can be heroic. Unfortunately, I have bills to pay, so I’m stuck with this opus, which is turning out much longer than I’d hoped. N.F.)

  The plane is a top of the range VTOL jet, with room for six passengers, if they are all very close friends. Refined has done a deal with three stranded business men and they are coming with us. There were some protests before we left, as other hopeful passengers argued their cases, but Mole settled them down, without having to say very much; he’s good like that.

  There was no sign of Linda, so she must still be in the bar; thinking of me?

  Now I’m sat in the middle seat, with Mole on my left. He’s much wider than I’d realised and his right arm seems to require more of my space than I really like, but I’m not going to say anything. I just lean a little to my right. I’m starting to get a bit tense about the squirt, even though it’s still more than an hour away.

  I've always had this recurring dream where I’m kneeling in a squirtbooth. My head has exploded and my brains have been splattered all over the walls and are dripping down towards the floor. They are not nearly as grey as I would have expected; quite pink really. I have a teaspoon and am trying to scoop the gloop back into what remains of my cranial cavity. I’m hampered because my right eye keeps falling out and hanging against my cheek. It’s really tricky to slot it back into place when your brains are still pooling on the floor.

  This is a perfectly normal dream, isn’t it? It’s not just me.

  We’ve landed at the Squirtport, after a supersonic flight with very little in the way of chat; which was fine by me. Mole frightens me and Refined may have a beautiful voice, yet h
e’s hardly likely to say anything I want to hear; like goodbye.

  We walk into the concourse and come up against our next problem; there’s a queue. Actually there a three queues; each stretching across the wide space from the booth entrance points to the far wall.

  I look at Refined; he appears suddenly a little grumpy. I look at Mole, then immediately look away; he was looking at me with that single-minded glare he has.

  We’re stuck in the age-old quandary; which queue should we choose? It‘s quite obvious that not everyone will get through in the twenty minutes we have left. Fortunately, we don’t have to worry about that problem much longer.

  Refined nods to Mole and says, ‘do your stuff.’

  Mole returns the nod and begins to walk towards the front of the nearest queue. As he walks, his stride widens and his shoulders begin to roll; he juts his head forward and clenches his fists. He was scaring me before he started; now there is an almost visible wave of aggression pouring from him.

  He reaches the front of the queue, where a large powerful-looking man is studying his watch. He hasn’t noticed Mole’s approach but, when he looks up and realises what is stood oh so close to him, he yelps and leaps back, out of the line.

  Mole takes his place and Refined indicates that we should join him. As we start forward, an old lady who is now standing right behind Mole, prods him with her parasol.

  ‘Excuse me, young man.’ She prods again. Her voice is high and clear. ’This is a queue. You can’t just walk to the front like that. The end is over there.’ She waves the parasol in the general direction of the far wall, then she prods him again, to make her point.

  People are beginning to laugh; in fact, Refined is chuckling to himself as we get closer. ’He won’t like this; not at all. He hates being laughed at.’

  ‘Are you listening to me, young man? Did your mother never teach you your manners?’

  Mole lashes out and snatches the parasol from her hand, before she can prod him again.

  ‘Don’t mention my mother,’ he growls.

  She’s just slapped him across the face, and a long gasp is racing across the crowd.

  Refined jumps forward to try to stop the unnecessarily violent reaction that is bound to come, and I decide that it would be best for all involved if I just take my leave.

  Without a sound, I spin on my heels and walk quickly back to the exit. Nobody is paying me any attention whatsoever; they’re all far too interested in the fight that is breaking out behind me. Uniformed security guards rush past me, competing against a group of police officers, all desperate to be first to join in the fun, and now I’m outside again.

  I fasten up my coat and pull the hat and scarf from my pockets. There’s only one sun up now, but it’s still very hot. I make a poor attempt at a whistle as I walk around the corner and look for a suitable place to hide.

  I told you I had a Plan B, didn’t I?

  Chapter 42 - Then what if something really bad happens?

  Peter changed from the mildly abrasive scrubbing sponge to the silky-smooth polishing cloth and beamed. It was Monday morning, and he always cleaned his pride and joy on a Monday morning. No matter how exciting his weekend had been, and the Historical Re-Enactment Society really did know how to have fun, he was always keen to get back to what he called ‘real life.’

  By the time he’d finished, he’d worked up quite a sweat; but it was all in a good cause. He stepped back to admire his work; he could see his face in the gleaming black carapace of The What If Something Really Bad Happens? AI

  (TWISRBH? In future. N.F.)

  The AI, or to be more accurate, its real space interface, was contained in a black cube just two metres on a side, and it was Peter’s job to look after it. The AI received input from all of the other AIs and amalgamated and processed the data, looking for possibly dangerous macro scale situations.

  The idea was that, if the occasion should arise, and something sufficiently dangerous or significant was calculated to be likely to occur, then TWISRBH? would set things in motion to reduce any possible harmful impact.

  To Peter’s certain knowledge, the AI had never been required to take such action. So he was more than a little surprised when his implants buzzed and he received a message from his charge.

  ‘Peter, please convene a meeting of the President and the joint chiefs, to start as soon as it is humanly possible.’ Peter felt that there was a slight pause before the word ‘humanly’ as if TWISRBH? considered that it was debasing itself with this contact with its organic masters.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Peter snapped to attention, although he’d never had official military training. ‘What can I say is the reason for this meeting? And what level of urgency should be indicated?’

  ‘Orange would be sufficient. There is not a direct threat to the Earth itself, but we do perceive a possible effect on the resources currently available to Earth, and also there may be a statistically insignificant loss of human life. You should mention that.’

  Peter put away his cleaning materials and swung into action. With his implants, and TWISRBH?’s override codes, he could contact all the requisite individuals directly, without the need to go through the usual levels of minions.

  Less than two hours later, everyone was in place and Peter found himself standing before the most important people on twenty-two planets. His shaking was hardly visible as he held himself steady and allowed the AI to speak through him.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have a serious situation before us and I want to discuss this with you before I implement a corrective plan of action.

  ‘I’ve studied the contract presented to us by the ‘Millie’ character and, whilst most of the conditions seem acceptable, there are one or two anomalies we should consider. Of course, we won’t be able to judge the true veracity of the contract until the monies are received and benefits accrued. The main issue is the closing down of the Squirtports for thirty days. There seems no obvious reason for this proviso, and it is not described in the contract. There is a 92.78% chance that ‘Millie’ has ulterior motives behind this imposition. If we take that as a certainty, then we have these subsequent statistically likely explanations: 88.3% chance that her intentions involve Greenhaven, 66.8% JD, 51.33% Argon, and 50.28% David.’

  Peter realised that he’d stopped talking and smiled at the closest luminary.

  ‘Why Greenhaven?’ Asked Jerry using his position as president to ask the obvious questions.

  ‘Greenhaven is the only planet to have a unique and extremely valuable natural resource. We believe that, whilst the contract and the subsequent benefits promised are in all likelihood genuine, Millie has her own, additional agenda which could be detrimental to humanity’s wellbeing. The potential loss of substantial quantities of gil-juice could have a negative effect on Earth's balance of payments.’

  ‘What action should be taken?’ The President again. ‘Should we open up the Squirtport and send in a bunch of marines?’

  ‘That is one possible course of action, but we believe that it should be a last resort strategy. We need to be 100% certain of our interpretation before we risk taking such risky action. If we are wrong, the whole deal might be compromised. We feel that a more subtle approach should be applied.

  ‘We have studied the people we know are still on Greenhaven. The vast majority returned to Earth before the shutdown, so we have a relatively small number of individuals to consider. Of that group, only one man has cranial implants. They are fairly basic, but would be adequate for our purposes. Also, he has a continuous upload facility, which will help us locate him quickly and precisely. We will need to open the Squirtport for two reasonably short periods of time. The first will be for us to project a remote avatar which will trace the subject for us and squirt the supplementary enhancements into his brain. The second will be for the avatar to upload the data gathered. With this information, a plan of action can be devised to protect our scarce resources, without risking the wrath of the Galactic Federation.
’

  ‘Who is this guy?’ asked the president.

  ‘He’s a private investigator named Philip Humphrey Chandler.’

  Chapter 43 - Now put on your dancing shoes

  The little town is deserted; there isn’t even a tumbleweed rolling down the street. Of course, this close to the Squirtport, the residents had plenty of time to escape before the deadline, but you’d think someone might have stayed behind. Where’s that frontier spirit when you need it?

  Actually, I’m wrong. There is someone with the gonadal requirement to hang on; I can see him watching me through the front window of the small hotel in the middle of the high street. I try a little wave; there’s no response. A hotel sounds like a good idea; I really could do with a lie down, and maybe later, a drink and a nice meal. After all, it has been a stressful day, don’t you think?

  I’ve just tried the door, but it seems to be locked. I knock and step back so that my pleasant, unthreatening aspect can be viewed by my putative host. After what seems like a long time, the door opens and there he is. He’s small and round, and he should be able to claim back what little he paid for his hair implants. They stick up vertically from his cranium and are a different colour and texture compared with his own hair. Still, full marks for fighting back against the misfortune nature has wrought upon him.

  ‘What d’you want?’ It seems a silly question to me, but I play it straight.

  ‘A room please, if you have vacancy.’

  ‘You want a room?’

  I look pointedly at the sign above his head.

  ‘Why didn’t you go with rest?’ His voice is grating, and goes up and down in the register like that of an almost pubescent boy.

  ‘I’ve only just arrived.’ Almost the truth.

  ‘Cash only,’ he says, as he steps back.

  ‘Of course; I’ll need a receipt.’

  My room is small, and spotlessly clean. There’s a three-quarter sized bed, a chair and a small table. The TV is positively antediluvian; it actually has buttons, if you can believe that. I’m going to take a little nap and then see what culinary delights mine host can whip up for me.