In Favour of Fools: A Science Fiction Comedy (These Foolish Things Book 1)

by J Battle

  Whatever or whomever they are; I’m going to stop them.

  I really should eat; I’m having delusions of competence.

  I have a slight immediate problem; I don’t know where I am. I danced through the night and across the land with the Sand Mirages, and I have no idea what route we took. I could be staggering all over the place in circles and end up in the middle of nowhere at sun-up.

  At last, some good luck. There’s a Sand Mirage over there, and another one beside it. We’re going to dance across the desert again, and I’ve got a few moves I haven’t shown them yet.

  I don’t know how long we took to get here, but we’re back at the hotel now. It’s the early hours of the morning, and I’m creeping through the front door as quiet as a mouse who came second in a quietness contest behind a worm, and had just received the special lifetime award for services to silence.

  ‘Hi,’ says Charge, standing in the dim hall with his shotgun and inappropriate nightwear.

  ‘I thought you’d be asleep,’ I whisper; why am I whispering?

  ‘Me? I don’t sleep; not at night.’

  ‘Have you got any food? I’m absolutely starving,’

  ‘All I’ve got is grits.’

  That gives me pause; is it a medical condition or some sort of fungi?

  ‘What are grits?’

  ‘Sort of a corn based porridge.’

  ‘Sounds yummy.’

  It was disgusting, but I ate it all and asked for more. You can’t be a hero on an empty stomach, can you? Though, you never see Superman eat, or Batman. Spiderman eats when his aunt makes him, but how would Iron Man eat? I could go on, ad nauseam.

  I’m going back to my bed now, to sleep the day away. When I wake up, I hope that I’ll have thought of an excuse to absolve me of the responsibility that has been placed upon my narrow shoulders, or at least, someone will give me a sick-note.

  Chapter 46 - Now to save the day

  I’m awake and I can’t think of an excuse to stay in bed any longer. Not unless I can call common sense an excuse, because it’s telling me in no uncertain terms to stay in bed and get some more sleep. Tomorrow everything will be much better, it says, if only you can stay where you are. Nighty-night.

  I’m up and I’m nervous. My stomach feels queasy and my legs are surprisingly weak. I have a headache and there are spots before my eyes. It’s either terror at what I’m about to do, or caffeine withdrawal symptoms; or both.

  Charge has rustled up a plate of grits. I can’t bring myself to eat them. At least they won’t go to waste, if he decides to pebble-dash the front of the hotel.

  ‘They’re outside, waiting for you,’ he says. I’m sure I can hear the sound of awe in his voice.

  ‘Can I take your gun?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘But I need a weapon. I’m going up against I don’t know what and I need something.’

  He hands me a crowbar. I take it and weigh it carefully in my hand; it’s quite a weight, but is it enough to take on the might of some alien empire? Don’t answer that, I already know.

  ‘You don’t need a weapon. They’ll look after you.’ He nods towards the window and the Sand Mirages.

  ‘They’re just bits of dust. How can they protect me from anything?’

  ‘Trust me; I know about these things.’

  ‘Then why don’t you come with me, if it’s so safe?’

  ‘I can’t; it’s you they want, son.’

  So, I’ve got my crowbar and I’m wearing my mac and hat, just in case. And I have my shoulder bag over one shoulder. I’m ready for anything. All I need is a really strong cup of coffee and a heavy duty, ridiculously powerful bazooka; then I’ll be fine.

  Charge offers me a cup of tea. ‘It’s all I’ve got. It’s made in England.’

  I thought about that for a moment; I know it’s warm down South, but I couldn’t see them growing tea; not with the mini-ice age kicking in. It’s typical you know. When they had Global Warming, it was still cold and wet in Manchester; fifteen wet summers on the bounce from 2008. Now they have Global Cooling, it’s still cold and wet in Manchester.

  I want to stay and discuss the provenance of his little tea-leafs, even though I know I’m just putting off the moment when I have to walk outside and lay my life on the line.

  Actually, the tea doesn’t smell too bad; I think I’ll have a quick cuppa, just to send me on my way.

  It wasn’t nice at all. I think there’s an art to brewing tea…. I’m going to stop it now. No more chatter about the tea; you don’t want to know about it, and I’ve got better things to do.

  I’m outside with the Sand Mirages. There are six of them spinning around me and it’s time to make some moves. I start to strut down the street, clicking one hand and bobbing my head. The Sand Mirages line up behind me and off we go. I can hear Michael Jackson’s Thriller in my head and the Sand Mirages are dancing in time with the compulsive beat.

  Too soon; we’ve reached the mesa and they fade away. I nod as I watch them disappear. If I don’t make it, I think, at least I’ve seen them. When I’m low on caffeine, friends and weapons, I do talk rubbish to myself.

  As I walk around the mesa, I swing my crowbar and try to build up my courage, without much success. Courage is like that. When you don’t need it, you can call it up whenever you want. When you find yourself in a position where it is absolutely critical that you find some courage, well, you might just as well look for sincerity in a political debate.

  So, it seems, it's just me, the Cowardly Lion, and my crowbar.

  Now I’m at the other side of the mesa, and I can see that I haven’t really thought this through. Last night, the yellow earth rapers were close to the back of the mesa; just the right place for my devastating attack. But they have been doing their evil work all day long and are now out of sight, over the horizon. The only evidence that they have been here are the twenty-five straight, wide, deep trenches they have left behind them.

  It’s going to take me all night to catch them, unless I run.

  Now, I admit, I do look like a runner. I’m long and skinny, with a pretty good stride length. But I can’t actually run. Of course, I can run across the road; my grandma can run across the road, if there’s a game of bingo in it for the poor dear.

  What I can’t do is continuous running. It’s not that I’m unfit, although I am; it’s because I can’t get my arms and legs to work in the synchronous rhythm necessary for distance running. Plus, it makes me sweat and I don’t like to sweat unless there’s a very good reason for it; if you know what I mean.

  I’m walking as quickly as I can, along the side of one of the trenches. In the clear light of the panoply of stars, I can see that the bottom of the trench has been seared and sealed with what must have been incredible heat. Whatever they didn’t harvest was destroyed. I’m slightly impressed by their efficiency, and more than slightly terrified at what that suggests for their defenses.

  Still, they‘ve probably never been attacked by a skinny guy with a crowbar, so I’ve got the element of surprise on my side, for whatever that’s worth.

  Sun number one is just coming up. I know the suns have proper names, but that’s what I’m going to call them; one and two. I’m standing far too close to one of the yellow machines. This close, I can see that it’s not all yellow; there are subtle green stripes running along its side and the yellow fades to a dull brown colour close to the ground. It’s moving along at about one kilometre per hour and there’s a lot of loud crunching and hissing noises going on.

  I pick a stone up and toss it at the side of the machine, just to make sure that there is no exotic force-field to fry me to a crisp. The stone falls harmlessly to the dirt.

  Surprisingly enough, these high tech machines run on caterpillar tracks; which gives me an idea.

  As is my usual case when I have a bright idea, I’m going to put it into practice right now, without giving myself time to rethink what I’m doing, or reconsider the wisdom of my actions.
/>   I slot the crowbar between the track and the drive wheel, at its highest point, and heave with all of my strength. At first, nothing happens, so I shove at the bar again and the end of tracks slips off the wheel. I leap back in case something dangerous happens, but the mammoth machine just carries on.

  I throw the crowbar to the ground and stamp my feet. I really thought that would work. Then the edge of the track gets caught between two of the smaller wheels, and it’s dragged up between them. There is a really quite satisfying crunching sound as the behemoth grinds to a halt. There’s even smoke coming from the wheels.

  I look around to see what sort of response is coming at me, but there’s no-one here; just me and the machines.

  I pick up my crowbar and go in search of more prey.

  I’ve disabled six of the machines and, despite the heat. I’m feeling quite good about myself. I’ve even stopped watching the skyline for danger. I reckon I’ll have this finished by lunchtime.

  I’m bending to the seventh machine now, and...

  ‘What you doing, Mister?’

  I freeze. It sounds like the voice of a little girl; not at all what I expected. Slowly I turn around, and there she is. I don’t know much about kids; she could be five, or eight; probably not ten.

  ‘Er… hello,’ I say, dropping my crowbar to my side.

  ‘What you doing, Mister?’ she repeated, stepping a little closer.

  She’s waist high, wearing a light summer dress, and her blonde hair is done in those rope things; braids I think.

  I look around but we are alone.

  ‘Where are your parents?’ It seems the responsible thing to ask.

  ‘Are you breaking my ground-turners? With that thing?’

  ‘They’re yours?’

  ‘Of course. That’s why I’m here. I was talking to your president when I heard the alarm.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I’m not saying ‘sorry’ for harming the machines, I’m saying ‘sorry?’ because surely I’ve misheard heard her.

  ‘You’re funny, you are; and skinny. And you need a shave.’

  She smiles up at me to take away the sting from her words.

  ‘But these are … alien machines; how can they be yours?’

  She looks at me, as if she’s waiting for the obvious answer to percolate through to my brain.

  ‘You’re not an...alien, are you?’ My question feels just as stupid as it sounds; but I am standing in the blazing heat on a planet many light years from Earth and, in that context, it’s a perfectly reasonable question.

  ‘Hello, I’m Millie,’ she says and holds out her hand.

  ‘I’m Phil,’ I reply and reach out to shake hands, but she’s already pulled her hand away, with a giggle.

  ‘You have to stop what you are doing.’ The little girl quality has slipped from her voice. ‘Or I’ll have to stop you.’

  ‘If these really are your machines, you have to switch them all off and stop what you are doing.’

  She smiles and tugs at my sleeve.

  ‘What you got there?’ She points at my crowbar.

  ‘It’s just a crowbar?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?

  ‘Why’s it called a crowbar? Isn’t a crow a bird?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s probably a historic reference.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  I know that I shouldn’t, but she’s so sweet. I show her the crowbar and she whips it from my hand with surprising speed and strength. With a laugh she slings it over her shoulder and it flies a ridiculous distance across the devastated land.

  ‘You look glum,’ she says, and grabs my arm. ‘Why don’t you like my machines?’

  ‘They’re destroying the whole eco-system here. The gil-plant provides sustenance for all of the indigenous species here. Without it, they’ll never survive. It’s irresponsible to carry on like this.’

  ‘But there’s only bugs here, aren’t there?’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  Somehow, we’re walking hand in hand back along the trench, towards the mesa.

  ‘Tell me,’ she says, as she walks, swinging our joined hands.

  Something about the heat and the lack of food makes me feel light-headed. I can’t seem to think clearly enough to work out what it’s safe to say.

  ‘There is intelligent life on this planet, and we must not abuse it. When I get back to Earth and tell them, I’m sure this planet will be quarantined to protect them.’

  ‘What level are they? Below yours, I assume. Do they have artefacts, technology, writing, language? This could be good, if I time it right. Take me to them, please, Mister.’ The little girl voice and the mature words are really mixing up my mind.

  So, we’re here at the mesa. I really can’t remember making the actual decision to come here, but I must have, because we’re here.

  I lead her down in to the darkness and drop to my knees and crawl in. She just bends and walks easily beside me.

  Ug1 is there, and maybe Ug2 or 3 or 4. Who knows; they all look the same. Millie is talking to them, in their own language, and I’m feeling a little left out. I take a drink of water from the pool and watch them converse. Not for the first time, I feel a little inadequate. I’m representing the human race here, for heaven’s sake, and I’m left out here in the cold.

  I walk over to them and stand beside Millie. How she can make those horrible sounds, I don’t know.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I interrupt their conversation. ‘How do you know their language?’

  ‘I’m from a level nine civilisation; this is easy for us.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m assessing their level. They look like a three, though they may be a four. If I report the presence of an undiscovered level four species, there’s a big bonus in it for me.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I didn’t see, but it’s what you say, isn’t it?

  After what seems an age, she turns to me and takes my hand.

  ‘Come with me,’ she says, all sweetness and light. ‘We need to talk.’

  And you know what I think about that.

  Chapter 47 - Now too good to be true

  When Millie interrupted her meeting with the President and squirted to Greenhaven, she was not in the best of moods. You would never have guessed this if you saw her walking up to the human, with her sunny little girl demeanor.

  ‘What you doing. Mister?’ she’d asked, in her sweetest voice.

  After she’d disarmed the skinny human and discovered his little secret, her devious mind went into overdrive.

  She could really make a killing here if she played it right. On the face of it, the natives appeared to be level three, which would mean almost complete quarantine until they’d dragged themselves up to level four. But, after her discussion with them, she felt that the complicated structure of their language suggested that they might actually already be at level four. If she could prove her case, the world could be opened up to licensed mercantile developers who would, for a considerable price, help them climb to level 5 where full exploitation was allowed, within certain boundaries.

  That was where her bonus would kick in. On top of the bonus for the level three she’d already quarantined from the humans, and the money she’d make with her galactic monopoly on the supply of gil-juice, she was going to be almost unimaginably wealthy. She would be able to walk unopposed into the job of Lord High fulcrum, as no-one would be able to match her financial muscle; if she could carry it off.

  First things first; she needed to do something about the human. She didn’t want him getting in the way of her operation and acting as a witness after the fact. On the other hand, she didn’t want to kill him. The deaths caused prior to her quarantining of the level 3 species were entirely justifiable, but deliberate killing of other intelligent species outside of a war situation was considered bad form by everyone above level six and she didn’t want to spoil her record if she could avoid it. Plus it might push the balance too fa
r in the harm direction; in which case she might have to correct it by doing something good. She shuddered at the very idea.

  So, she decided that she would lock him away until all of the gil-juice stock in this fertile plain was recovered and then, when she had a little time, she would wipe the relevant memories from his mind and send him on his way. If he should perish during his incarceration, then it was hardly her responsibility; they were such fragile creatures.

  ‘We need to talk,’ she said as they left the natives behind them.

  He seemed particularly concerned at the idea.

  ‘Wh-why? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I need you to come with me. We should leave these creatures alone and be careful not to interfere in their development. You were right about that.’

  He relaxed a little at that and allowed her to take his hand.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘We’re going back to the ground turners. We’re going to turn them off, and then they can be shipped home.’

  ‘Great! I knew you’d see the truth in what I said.’

  When they reached the first of the machines, Millie explained that the machines had to be switched off from inside their control consoles.

  ‘Can you do it for me? The door's too high for me to reach. Just tap that green pad.’

  ‘Of course; no worries.’ He stepped onto the running rail near the front of the closest machine and reached up to tap the pad as instructed. The door swung open and he climbed into the cramped room that was now visible.

  ‘Where’s the off switch?’ he called, looking at the featureless walls around him.

  ‘Just there, at the bottom,’ she answered, as she slammed the door behind him with a thought.

  ‘What! Ow!’ She heard as she skipped away from the machine, giggling as she went.

  She was pleased to note that the ground turners’ self-repair facilities had kicked in and all six of the sabotaged machines were now ready to resume working at full capacity.

  ‘That’s nice.’ She said, and disappeared.