by G. P. Moss
Billy Roscoe objects.
"But that's not a job for toughies like us, Miss. It's for the las..."
Patricia screams.
It really is quite frightening.
"It is not a job for lasses, you idle smelly misfit! Get it done or there will be no space for you in space!"
"Yes, Miss."
After hearing Patricia's blood curdling scream of rage, Billy Duke has changed his mind about her being his Cherry Fruit.
She's a proper mad nutter.
*
The newly calmed down Patricia instructs the Space Dogs Tricycle Gang to watch an instructional video on the large screen.
It will teach them how to ride the tricycle trikes safely.
Safer.
As for this lot, it will teach them how to potentially injure themselves.
And others.
Huckleberry Clifton yawns the disinterested yawn of a thousand yawners eager to sleep.
Like the others, he just wants to ride and go.
As the extremely useful and important instructional video plays, a chorus of snoring fills the control room like petroleum shareholders at an environmental impact presentation.
What the gang should have been doing is deciding who will steer the tricycle trikes.
There are only 3.
And 9 in the gang.
As a dancing rabbit signals the end of the show, the 9 dozers are returned to life with an abrupt cough from Patricia.
"Now you lot are fully informed of all safety measures, I hereby wash my pure hands of any responsibility arising from the misuse of the tricycle trikes, leading to the demise of any or all of you."
A massive twinkle leaves her right eye.
It would take years to mine a twinkle that size.
"The techie tech droids have taken the machines into the main tunnel leading out of StarTapped Mountain. Choose 3 steerers; the other 6 of you will stand on the square rear platforms."
Woody Carson raises a studded leather gloved hand.
"What now, Woody?"
"Miss, what about Damien and Pedro? Where will they fit?"
“The aliens have declined to join in with your madness; it is their opinion it will be quicker to walk."
*
The Duke leads the way.
"I, being the leader, will ride the 1st tricycle trike. Billy Roscoe will take the 2nd; Forrest Jackson, the 3rd."
Forrest risks a cuffing but he needs to clear up any misunderstanding.
"Billy, I'm not Forrest Jackson the 3rd. I'm the 1st in my family with that name."
The Duke's roar brings tears and blood to his own eyes.
"The 3rd tricycle trike, you idiot!"
The 3 steerers climb on.
"The rest of you, take your positions on the back plates."
All 6 space gang wannabes climb onto the back of Billy Duke's machine.
"2 on each, you crazy fools! Okay, big red button, then open the throttle slo...woahhh!!!"
All 3 tricycles speed off along the tunnel, climbing up and down the curved walls, their steerers like very amateur circus riders at their first attempt on the wall of death.
The straggly straggled gang look like they're having fun.
They are.
They are also dangerously and hilariously out of control.
Since the big red buttons were pressed.
Exiting the tunnel entrance, the 3 steerers push the awesome machines to breakneck speeds, twisting and turning and throwing wheelies.
No one needs to worry about the other 6.
They were thrown off as the tricycles first banked the tunnel wall.
Dusting themselves down, the thrown riders zigzag their way to the tunnel entrance, feeling this is not their day.
They could kill for sausage and beer.
*
Back in the control room, Patricia addresses the assembled dusty gang.
“Now you are all familiar with the tricycle trikes, the techie tech droids will fit them into the experimental cruiser. Inside the cruiser, to release a machine, you press the big red button, making sure the cruiser side door is open first. Any questions?”
9 hands rise into the air like sharp spiky pikes at an English Civil War re-enactment event.
Patricia changes her mind.
“No questions, please; that is all, thank you for coming.”
The Space Dogs Tricycle Gang is becoming too excited to be disappointed for long at the cancelled question and answer session.
The techie tech droids are putting the finishing touches to the brand spanking new fusion antimatter propulsion engines.
The gang can feel it.
They look to the sky in awe.
Then remember they’re inside.
They head outside to look to the sky in awe.
*
Damien addresses Patricia on a matter of some urgency.
“Will the techie tech droids repair our fighter ships next?”
“I thought you 2 were experts in fusion antimatter technology?”
“It will be quicker if we have assistance.”
“Hold on. As you are aliens, I should ask Billy Duke for permission. It is officially his mission.”
“Why is it his mission? He has no experience whatsoever. We, on the other hand, are seasoned space warriors.”
“It is his because he promised to take me with them. I will be the AI in the experimental cruiser. Lucky, lucky them.”
She calls the Duke over.
“Billy, can the techie tech droids start on the fighter ships after the cruiser is completed?”
“Absolutely not, Patricia. Now we have what we need, we no longer have need for the aliens.”
Patricia’s unmoved.
“There you go then, sorry.”
A flustered Pedro appeals to Billy Duke’s better nature.
His own mother looked for years.
There isn’t one.
“But you cannot possibly fly to space without our expert knowledge and guidance. Galaxies are vast, complex, massive places, full of nothingness and other dangers.”
The Duke scratches his straggly haired head.
Patricia’s still unmoved.
“Billy Duke is correct. We have manuals and guidance videos. And maps.”
Pedro is looking desperate now but does not lose hope.
“Okay, so we shall fix them ourselves. It will take longer but, oh well.”
Patricia winks at Billy Duke.
“Ah, sorry, no you cannot do that; I will not allow it. Before we take off, you and Damien will be expelled from StarTapped Mountain. You can live on Earth. There, you have been granted asylum. You are welcome.”
Pedro holds a final card.
It’s an ace.
“I thought you wanted to get revenge on Ariel Hope and Stevie Lo, for leaving you here when they escaped in the last cruiser?”
Billy stands to his full height, shoulders back.
He wobbles but doesn’t fall.
“And what of our business, eh? Eh? Alien face!”
“You need us because we know where they are.”
“Where are they? Tell me now, you dastardly secretive alien!”
“No. I will not tell you. Not unless our fighter ships are fixed. We will then accompany you to the secret place only we know about.”
The Duke has no choice.
He looks up at Patricia.
She just shrugs.
Pedro delivers a killer blow.
“Anyway, Patricia. What will stop Billy and his space wannabes...”
Billy’s furious.
“It’s gang! The word is gang!”
“What will stop them from dumping you here, now they have what they want?”
“Because the starter chip has to be activated by me.”
She winks at Billy Duke.
He swallows, hard.
“Okay. Patricia, tell the techie tech droids to fix the fighter ships. Original specs only, no advanced hanky cranky stuff.
”
It looks like they’re all going to space.
Damien is in deep thought.
He is losing the will for revenge on Poppy.
Absence really does make the heart grow fonder.
She’d probably just kick his butt again, anyway.
And he can forget about doctoring the cruiser’s weapons systems.
Patricia’s as wily as a domestic fox on bin day.
Chapter Six
Planet Whistler
Whistler City Square is full of the Whistler youth.
And some smaller ones.
As Gobby Johnny Hope address the huge crowd of bemused spectators, he stands on his tiptoes, puffs out his chest, and turns his chin skywards.
Now he cannot see anyone.
Lowering is chin, he addresses the expectant throng, all here expecting nothing in particular.
"Thank you for coming here today; I want you to know I appreciate it!"
A small voice somehow projects itself from the middle.
Great for anonymity.
"We had no choice; that Ambassador Hunter fella had us rounded up!"
"Yeah!" shouts another small, anonymous voice. "Rounded up like missing pegs on washing day!"
"It ain't fair!" cries another. "I was dragged away from slave lessons!"
Johnny pats his hands in the air for quiet.
"Thank you anyway, for agreeing to be forced here; it is appreciated."
That voice again. Smallest, hiding in the middle.
"Can we go now?"
Johnny plays his trump card.
This is no minimum viable product launch.
Moving to the left, then to the right, he gently tugs at the v-neck collar of his Spacie uniform.
"Who wants one of these, eh?"
The crowd erupts in an excited, baying frenzy.
"Raise your hand if you want one of these beauties, eh?"
Hands shoot towards the sky like Roman swords.
From one of the less disciplined legions.
"Fabulous; I take it that's everyone then?!"
The roar confirms it.
Noisy lot for youngsters.
"Okay, you can lower your hands now!"
A raised hand remains.
"What is it, anonymous hand raiser?"
"Sir, what about our slave lessons?"
Johnny Hope has just been called 'Sir'; this really is a jolly glorious day!
A moment like this can force a child’s heart to alter the course of history.
"There will be no more slave lessons. I joyfully pronounce, from now on, that slavery is abolished on Whistler!"
Shocked gasps are followed by silence.
They have been enslaved for as long as they can remember.
Since before the 3-horned goats had 3 horns.
"Form an orderly line and leave your names and uniform sizes with Denny, Kenny, and Lenny, seated at the tables to the side. Take the rest of the day off."
*
A flustered, indignant, and extremely furious Ambassador Hunter barges through the orderly line of Whistler youngsters.
He reaches Gobby Johnny, gasping for breath as he struggles to stay alive.
"How dare you ban slavery! It has been an honourable duty of citizens for, for ever and a day!"
Johnny will not be cowed by the Ambassador's brutish display of displeasure.
"Ambassador Hunter, Sir. The practice of slavery is as dishonourable a practice as there ever was one."
He needs to practice his use of practice synonyms.
Mr Hunter threatens to explode with fury.
"Then, who, may I ask, who, can you tell me, who is going to mine the sparkling minerals in the Sparkling Minerals Mine? Eh, eh? Think of that did you, boy?!"
"Miners can be employed for a decent, living wage. I have nothing more to say."
Turning to leave, Ambassador Hunter spits out a final, chilling message to Johnny.
"I shall have you exiled for this, mark my spitting chilling words, boy, you jumped up little upstart. You and your father, both! And your mother!"
Admiral Ed Hope forces his way through, making Whistler youngsters wobble like bowling pins.
"Ambassador Hunter, you are under arrest."
"Hahaha, you cannot arrest me, you fool; I am in charge!"
"Not any longer, Mister Hunter. I establish a military dictatorship for 1 minute, starting from...now. As head of the military, I arrest you for threatening behaviour. Guards, lock him up!"
There are no guards available.
“Lenny, lock him up!”
“With the greatest pleasure, Admiral, Sir!”
Ed checks his watch.
He misses his posh one, left behind at world's end.
"And... okay we are now a civilian government again. With me in charge."
Gobby Johnny stares at his father in undisguised awe.
He now understands a vital rule of power.
Change the rules, move the goalposts, write your own ticket.
His eyes are red again.
And not from tiredness.
It is the unrelenting pressure of the pursuit of greatness.
Rushing back to the white, turreted, Whistler Castle, Johnny needs only 1 thing.
His slippers.
Is that 1 or 2 things?
*
The Book of Space has a new page, highlighted with golden sparkling stars, like floating glitter dust.
Johnny's eyes whirl, their red rimmed orbs dancing in fascination.
The picture shifts, coming in and out of focus, the word 'hope' floating across the top of a black-blue hexagonal image.
He has seen this before, but where?
As he blinks away the strain from the exciting, seemingly random instalment, he remembers.
This is the Whistler Spaceship!
The one they supposedly sent limping into dark obscurity.
Unless this picture has been added as part of a 'famous spaceships throughout history' article, this must mean something.
This must mean Mr Whistler is not down and out, foraging for waste in cosmic bins!
*
A sharp rap on the door triggers his practiced response.
"Come!"
Admiral Hope strides in, then stops abruptly. It's a small room, any further and he would be out the window, face down in Nicholls' rose manure.
"Stop saying that, Gob...er, Johnny; it sounds ridiculous from a youngster."
"I am a teenager now, father."
"Well, just stop saying it!"
Johnny stays quiet; he doesn't want to be arrested.
"I need to talk to you about earlier."
"Yes, it's great, isn't it father? They all signed up for the Spacies!"
"Yes, yes, that is good. It is not that, it is the other stuff. You cannot, and must not, go around proclaiming and announcing new decrees, no matter how noble you may think they are. I now have a most awful mess to clear up, including appointing a new leader."
Johnny nods, sagely.
"You should form a puppet government, keeping yourself as de facto leader. Choose someone popular, but weak."
"Where do you get all these ideas?"
"It's the slippers, father; I cannot help myself. Empires, Councils, War Cabinets; the ideas just keep flowing."
Edward looks at his son wistfully, wishing he was that age again, where all things are possible.
"Okay, I have to go now. Try to stay out of trouble while I look for a kind, weak man to take over from that beastly Hunter fellow."
"What will happen to him, father?"
"Another gardener, perhaps?"
"But they hate each other, father."
"Divide and conquer, son."
With Horace Strange and Edward Hope as mentors, Johnny has the means to make it to the top.
Someone needs to tell him though, the pole of success is a greasy, slippery snake.
With all the exciting talk of puppet regimes and ghost leaders, Johnny has quite
forgotten to mention the Whistler spaceship.
Ah, well.
*
Admiral Hope marches unannounced through the Sparkling Minerals Mine, straight into Mr Whistler Senior's quality control office.
Unfortunately for him, he is in the middle of sending a secret message to his brother.
Edward eyes the machine with the suspicion of an internal affairs detective.
"And what, good fellow, do we have here?"
Whistler Senior is noncommittal.
"It is what it is."
"I can see that. What messages are you sending and who are you sending them too?"
"They are what they are and they are who they are."
"I can have you arrested."
"I will remain noncommittal."
Ed needs to think on his feet.
"Well, good fellow, old thinly white-haired chap, have you ever drank alcohol?"
"No, never heard of it."
"Well, in that case, as a gesture of friendship and to ease the misunderstanding, let me offer you a taste at Whistler Castle. I have a chilled bottle of nice frothy beer waiting for you."
Whistler Senior grabs the opportunity in the spirit of friendship and a possible espionage opportunity.
"Shall we go now, Sir?"
"Follow me, thinly white-haired old man."
"You may call me 'Senior'."
*
After a few sips of 'Killer Brew', Mr Whistler Senior spills the beans from the tin.
A warehouse full.
Giggling and burping, in between hiccups he tells Ed of the secret messages he's been secretly sending to Mr Whistler, his younger brother.
Admiral Hope is shocked.
"So, he plans to attack?"
"Aye, that he does, Sir, my old matey. He's going to get Whistler back and destroy StarTapped then go after that wretched woman, Ariel Hope."
Ed stays quiet.
So, it is true.
Ariel not only managed to leave Earth; she is already a battle hardened cosmic space heroine!
Ed grabs the bottle from Mr Senior.
"Oy, what you think you doin' wit' my grog?"
"That is quite enough for you, Mr Whistler Senior. You are under arrest!"
"Charming, I'm sure." He hiccups before collapsing in an unconscious heap.
*
Ed changes his mind.
Hopefully, when Mr Whistler Senior wakes, he won't remember the conversation.
Ed will feed him fake news, providing Mr Whistler with such duff information, it will make him think twice before attacking StarTapped.