Breach the Hull

by Lawrence M. Schoen

  “All right,” declared Rocky. “We gotta get off the street, and back to the ship. We get these kids to the captain and he’ll make sure they’re taken care of.” Melon and the other English speakers looked a little worried, but Noodles added;

  “No, the captain’s a good egg. Honest. He’ll protect you all. But,” the machinist indicated with several complicated eye movements both the idea of direction and extreme distance as he added, “it’s a hell of a long way back to the ship. You got any ideas on how we’re going to get there?”

  “Actually,” answered Rocky, his face rearranging itself into a mask of lopsided smugness, “I think I do.”

  “This is ridiculous,” muttered Noodles. “This is something they only do in cartoons.”

  “And tell me what part of today hasn’t been a damn cartoon, would you—please?” Looking over the pair’s three new companions, the gunnery officer added; “Besides, I think they look pretty good.”

  It had to be admitted, for a totally outlandish and completely improbable kind of stunt, their nine charges did look “pretty good.” To shorten a frenzied search through numerous clothing stores, plus a great deal of pushing, guessing, prodding, a bit of cutting and sewing, and some emergency work with baling wire and extra-strength duct tape, what the sailors had done was stand the kids one atop the other, taking into account their different shapes and abilities, then dressed them as adults. The results made them—especially when attempting to walk—appear more like drunken zombies, but they looked far less like children, and for the moment, that was good enough for the boys.

  “So now,” whispered the machinist to his partner-in-absurdity, “what do we do next?”

  “We get inside somewhere where we can find some guys we trust. Then, with some help on our side, we get back to the ship, get the kids placed somewheres where they won’t get fricasseed or barbecued, and then we try to get back to enjoying ourselves.”

  “And where exactly would we be able to do that?” Staring across the street at a garishly lit nightclub, one promising gambling, female companionship, and beers from across the galaxy, Rocky pulled at his chin and answered;

  “Yeah, where indeed?”

  Moments later, the five were crossing the street, three of the quintet bouncing and rocking as if they were in a quake zone, the other two attempting to hold them together while talking loudly about how ashamed they were of their friends for drinking to excess. This continued up the stairs of the entrance to Ping’s Dingled Showplace, through the doors, and down the stairs into the main ballroom. Following a waiter to a table for five, the oddly moving party waddled along as best they could, all of them gratefully collapsing into their chairs.

  Instantly Snip began wailing because, as best the gobs could figure out, either Poodle was standing on his face, or Creepie had farted and the duct tape holding the two of them together had begun to melt. As quickly as it could be managed discreetly, the sailors got the kids as comfortably arranged as possible, ordered two pitchers of Gullyfoyle Malt Liquor, three of SweetSweet BugJuice, and then sat back to peruse their surroundings.

  Ping’s, at least at first glance, seemed a perfect place for the swabbies and their charges to try and get their bearings. If nothing else, every table received a complimentary revolving platter of treats, one with enough variety that it held something all the kids could ingest. The fact that the club was dark enough no one at the other tables would notice the extra hands, tentacles, flippers, claws, and so forth extruding from the three non-humans at their table was certainly a bonus.

  Beyond that, it seemed like the kind of place where people were only interested in those at their table, or what was going on up on stage, which at that moment was an act labeled as Tina Dillfreb and her Titanic Tower of Terriers. Feeling somewhat secure for the first time in some forty-nine Earth Standard Minutes, the swabbies began to relax. And, after finishing their first pitcher, Rocky and Noodles found themselves as relaxed as house cats on a hot day. Finding the kids content with their BugJuice, assorted treats, and the ever-toppling tower of dogs on-stage, they were just about to begin planning a strategy when suddenly the already dark inte-rior went positively ebony.

  The darkness lasted but a moment, and then a bright orange spot focused on the center stage. In that brief moment Tina and her hounds were removed along with all of their props and one embarrassing accident, and replaced with startling efficiency by a Golblacian Master of Ceremonies. Drumming up a more-than-deserved round of applauds for the departed Dillfreb and associates, the creature best described as a seven foot blue/green penguin then dropped its voice to a lower, throatier range, and said;

  “Now, gentlebeings, all you flippers and floggers, you squasheads and bipeds, everything out there with the strength, enthusiasm, and moral turpitude to do so, let me get you to make some deep, loving tribal noise for the seductive, the lovely, the incomparable, Miss Beezle Uvi!”

  A pink shot of butterfly lights were sent dancing through the white spot framing center stage. All the orphans made appropriate “ouuuuuhhhhhhhhh” sounds, ex-cept, of course, for those stuck in the middle of their costumes. At least, for that moment. Responding to the appreciative sounds of their fellow tureen escapees, those in the mid- and bottom sections of the costumes abandoned their stations to congregate around the center pole of their party’s table and peek out from under the tablecloth.

  As they did so, the curtains began to part and the orchestra began to warble, all of it timed to both the movement of the lights, and the entrance of a creature so en-trancing, so curvaceously shimmering, so delightful in movement and gesture that Rocky would have fallen out of his chair and out onto the main floor if Noodles had not fallen over at the same moment, the two of them smacking into each other, then propping each other up as their insides dissolved into jelly. The darkness hid their an-tics, of course, as it was meant to do, keeping all eyes focused on the approaching Uvi.

  Strolling calmly toward her spot, the singer moved her charmingly antique voice amplifier to what apparently served as her mouth, and in a slow, sultry voice began to release the lead-in lines of her song to the already raptured audience.

  “When intelligent beings first went into space,

  And met creatures from another race,

  It was, of course, one of those great, historic finds.

  “The galaxy didn’t worry so much about war,

  Intolerance wasn’t even brought to the floor,

  But . . .

  There was one . . .

  Burning question . . .

  On allllllll . . . inquiring minds . . .

  And then, the house lights blazed up, whites becoming yellows, pinks becoming reds, the band shifted from a quiet respectful background accompaniment to a raucous blast of hot horns and sibilant strings, and Uvi hit her mark, threw back her head, and in a voice higher, louder, stronger, and twice as shot through with promise as before belted out;

  “What is that, and where does it go?

  Should it be inserted, fast or slow?

  “Does it like to be licked?

  Does it like to be grabbed?

  Does it like to be twirled?

  Does it like to be stabbed?

  “Oh, just what is that, and where does it go?”

  Bouncing off each other, their heads banging together like empty spittoons, Noodles and Rocky at first found themselves instinctively trying to cover the ears of their many charges. They gave off on this futile endeavor for, first off, they had far too few hands, second, they did not have the slightest idea where most of the orphans’ audio organs where positioned, and third, to be perfectly honest, the child-ish tittering coming from all their charges, except well, of course, for Poindexter, cued them that they were far too late to protect this particular interstellar nine from the facts of life.

  That being established, the swabbies looked at each other helplessly for a moment, then simply surrendered to the obvious and went back to enjoying the show. All of this happening within a h
andful of seconds, they had their chins firmly placed within the palms of their hands, their elbows on the table, and the sappiest of grins plastered on their faces as Uvi hit the second go-round, belting out;

  “Oh, what is that, and what does it do?

  Is it there for both of us, or just for you?

  “Does it get much bigger?

  Does it reach out and scratch?

  Does it remain a solo, or

  Can you grow a batch?

  “Baby, what is that, and what does it do?”

  At this point, alarms were going off back aboard the gobs’ ship in the medical bay, alerting the ship’s physician-on-call that two shore-leavers were close to coronary arrest. With the flip of a few switches, however, the doctor ascertained the two were merely staring at a choice piece of stimuli. Wishing he were fifty years younger, he mentally wished them both luck and cancelled the alert. All in all, a good thing, for the meter readings were only going to get worse.

  As that stanza ended, the Dingled Showplace Dancers joined the club’s star on stage, backing her up for a repeat of the chorus, making all the appropriately rude gestures of licking, grabbing, twirling, and stabbing, while Uvi kicked up her heels, mesmerizing the crowd with the way she could move her many and varied appendages with such flawless synchronization, all of her coming together just in time for her to re-enter the center spot and warble;

  “Tell me, what is that, and how does it feel?

  Like the mushroom we first saw, or some eventual eel?

  “When our races met,

  I thought it was just another find. Now all I can think of is,

  Your place or mine?

  “Oh lover, just what is that, and how does it feel?”

  Noodles set about “shushing” the orphans, whose giggling had attracted the at-tention of more than one waiter. Rocky, in the meantime, could offer no assistance. Alien in every way as the singer was, he simply could not tear his eyes from her. And, it had little to do with the woes of Earth navies of elder times. His ship was one of the most modern in the fleet; its complement was completely integrated with members of both sexes.

  No, Rocky’s problem had nothing to do with not having seen any females for too long a time. The particular sailor’s problem was that he had never seen anyone like Beezle Uvi—anywhere, ever—except in certain dreams, the dates of which he still marked the anniversaries of with a boyishly wistful fondness. Thus he did not even notice when Noodles slipped from his seat and fell to the floor with the kids, his eyes locking with Uvi’s as she sang;

  “The cosmos is shrinking,

  The boundaries are changing,

  And I think my pelvis is in . . .

  For a slight . . . rearranging!

  “And so I challenge . . .

  Our greatest scientific minds . . .

  To somehow find an answer . . .

  To that one burning question . . .

  That IIIIIII . . .

  Just have to know . . .

  “Oh, just what is that . . .

  And where, oh where does it goooooooooooooooo?”

  The full regular house lights went up then, and applauds thundered from the audience with a force so powerful some of the chorus girls were forced to take a backward step, or slither, or whatever. Rocky’s own hands were contributing a massive amount of the audible appreciation, as were Noodles’. Melon, Poodle, and Curly were in for a round as well, Bubbles, Snip, Fork, and Creepie were all wrestling over the last items on the appetizer tray; Shirley, having finished her bolt was working on a corner of the table, and Poindexter, well . . . you know.

  What startled Rocky, Noodles, their menagerie, and most of the occupants of Ping’s Dingled Showplace, however, was what happened next—an event so unex-pected, so unprecedented, that the Galaxy Today reporter permanently stationed in the club would have written it up and sent it across the waves immediately if the shock of it had not sent her stumbling backward into an unfortunately extremely large and heavy ice sculpture. What stole the breath, ability to speak, and common sense from those gathered was the fact that, defying precedent, good taste, and well, com-mon sense again, Beezle Uvi had left the stage and was walking for Rocky and Noo-dles’ table.

  “L-Little buddy,” stuttered the finest gunnery officer in the fleet, “I-I-I d-do believe she’s . . . comin’ this way.”

  “You might be right,” agreed Noodles. Ducking his head under the table, he hissed quick orders to the orphans, getting them to reassemble into their pretend persons before the singer could reach them. Doing his best to help, Rocky stared forward, attempting to keep his eyes from falling out of his head, rolling around on the table and growing their own tongues with which to blast wolf whistles.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Geezzzz,” asked Rocky seriously, “do I look that foolish?” Uvi giggled, an undulating action that made several seemingly unconnected body parts shimmy. Signalling her favorite waiter to bring her a Cosmic Laugh, she turned and focused her attention on Rocky. After he introduced Noodles, she pointed a finger, moving it from one of them to the other, asking;

  “You’re human, aren’t you?”

  “Ah, well,” Rocky answered honestly, “yeah—last time I looked.”

  “I’ve read about humans,” she admitted. “Heard a lot of good things.”

  “Gosh, I don’t know what to say,” responded Rocky. “I don’t even know what species you are. Not that that matters or nothin’.”

  “I was impressed by that attitude,” Uvi admitted. “You stare with such charming hunger. Tell me, are you myopic, or were you just enjoying the show?” “I don’t want to seem forward or nothin’,” the gunnery officer said, “the show was okay and everything, it’s just, there’s somethin’ about you, ma’am, somethin’ . . . and I know this must sound crazy, but it’s like I’m fallin’ in—” “Ix-nay on the ov-lay alk-tay,” hissed Noodles, poking his pal hard in the ribs. Rocky turned, mightily disturbed for having been interrupted at that particular mo-ment, but then, he saw what the machinist had noticed. All around the club, police officers and MPs had begun to take up positions. Worse yet, the quartet of Danierians they thought they had left in temporal disruption had somehow gotten themselves undisrupted.

  “Great jumpin’ jackasses,” blurted Rocky. “How could they all have found us—at the same time?”

  “A good question,” replied Noodles. “Rhetorical, I’m hoping?”

  “The cops,” asked Uvi, “those Danierian creeps? They’re all looking for you?” When two forlorn nods were given her as answer, the interstellar diva asked the galaxy’s most popular one-word question;

  “Why?”

  The swabbies took turns filling Uvi in on what had happened to them since leaving The Cold Bone Cellar, one explaining this or that section while the other looked to the orphans, seeing if there was any way possible they might be able to get all nine of them out of the boiling pan and away from the fire once more. Hearing everything the pair had to say, the singer asked;

  “So all you want to do is get these kids to your captain to help you protect them?” When the boys nodded sincerely, Rocky tying Poodle’s shoe for the fifth time, Noodles wiping what he hoped was Creepie’s nose, Uvi’s facial area seemed to melt with genuine affection. She was just about to speak when a whistle was blown from somewhere in the back. Leaping to his feet, praying there were more sailors within earshot than he could see, Rocky bellowed;

  “Pie fight—Franklin style!”

  And at that moment, chaos exploded throughout Ping’s Dingled Showplace. From twenty different spots, pastries, dinner plates, flower pots, beer mugs, chairs, and anything else not nailed down was seen flying through the air, most of the flight plans registering an authority figure’s head as its destination. As per standard Franklin tac-tics, the second fusillade was launched at the lights. Clutching Rocky’s wrist, Uvi shouted;

  “Grab the kids and follow me.”

  The sailors did as ordered, scooping up their charg
es and following the singer onto the stage. As their fellow sailors, and quite a number of innocent patrons, fell into a pitched battle with the police and MPs, Noodles noticed that the Danierians were still heading straight toward them. Reaching the up-stage side of the curtains, Uvi pointed out her dressing room, telling the others to meet her there. When Rocky protested, she hissed;

  “This is my world; I can deal with them—go!” Then, turning to the chorus line of Dingled Showplace Dancers, she shouted;

  “Rubes rushing the stage, girls—make them sorry!”

  Giggling, the chorus girls waved Uvi on, then prepared for battle. Dropping the curtain on the heads of the Danierians, they then wandered from lump to lump, flattening them with heavy objects to what looked like heads and kicks to what looked like groins. In her dressing room, Uvi held out bundles of clothing to both Noodles and Rocky ordering them to get into them immediately. The pair protested, but she shouted back that they had no time to argue, and unless they had a better plan than hers, that they should simply shut up and do as they were told. Pulling his jersey off over his head, Noodles mumbled;

  “I think she may be related to the lieutenant.” To which Rocky responded; “Awwww, just shut up and help me adjust my bra.”

  “Is that what that is?”

  “I think so—for like maybe, three?”

  Pulling, pushing, and experimenting, the two managed to get themselves dressed in only a handful of minutes. Checking themselves over in the room’s full length mir-ror, they did make better females than the kids had made adults, but not by much. In the meantime, Uvi and her wardrobe assistant had removed the last remaining scraps of the kids’ disguises and replaced them with new ones. Having cut apart sev-eral throw rugs and her own fur coat, the orphans had all been converted into what could pass for dogs if the inspection was not too strenuous. Looking again in the mir-ror, down at the kids, back to the mirror, and back to the kids, realization hit Noodles’ mind.