The Legend of Dan
The first volume in the
Dan Provocation Series
Robert Wingfield
The Legend of Dan
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters and locations are the subject of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locations or objects, existing or existed is purely coincidental.
It is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the writer’s prior consent, electronically or in any form of binding or cover other than the form in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Replication or distribution of any part is strictly prohibited without the written permission of the copyright holder.
Copyright © 2019 Robert Wingfield
All rights reserved
ISBN: 9781370408443
Dedication
For
Bradley Delp and Lemmy Kilmister
May they rock on in other universes
Acknowledgments
Cover spacecraft image by JAKO5D from Pixabay
Cover background: NASA, ESA, and G. Bacon (STScI)
and
Dai Cooper, Roger Parsonage, Tessa Pye,
and the modders of Skyrim
Contents
Trouble Brewing
I Beg your Pardon...
Smorgs-Board
Awayday
Paradise Mislaid
Dispatcher Despatched
A Bit of Legwork
Holiday in Eden
Special Delivery
Time for a Bite?
Drunk in Charge
Wok could possibly go Wrong?
Ale and Allegory
Rebirth
The Future
Sightseeing tour
Reunion
Holiday Flight
A Glass of Wine and Thou
The Periphery of Occasion
The Coup
Time Out
Annihilation
Time for a Quick One
The Closed Circle
Trouble Brewing
In which the Magus determines the fate of the universe.
T
he Magus stared into a pint of ‘Goat’s Danglers’. “The whole fate of the Universe is in my hands,” he slurred “Strange how it’s so quiet, considering.”
The only sound in the empty pub was the lashing of the rain as a freezing wind hurled it against the window.
“I wonder why I said that...” He shrugged. “It must be a philosophical time of the evening. Perhaps the label will explain.”
He studied the writing on the back of the bottle: “Goat’s Danglers,” it said. “A fine ale, crafted to a soft spiced sweetness with dark ponderous notes and a fruity pliable aroma, brewed to give full flavour, a dry and refreshing bitterness and an eggy back-taste. The name is derived from the reference to the way the workers traditionally had to pull a bell cord to start the working day at the ‘Goat’ Brewery.”
“That doesn’t help.” The Magus mulled over the events that had led him to this bleak planet. His visit to Earth had been on the advice of the Alternative Genetics Generic Research Organisation, who had informed him that the greatest concentration of available and desperate young ladies in the Galaxy was most likely to be found on this planet. The probability of him losing his virginity during a week’s vacation, they said, was as high as 97%, as long as he was prepared to accept what they called ‘Lardy Mingers’. He had seen ‘Flash Gordon’, and decided that if ‘Mingers’ were anything like the girls supporting ‘Ming the Merciless’ in the 1930s films, and preferred to be smothered in oily substances, then this was the place for him.
At not inconsiderable cost, AGGRO had supplied all the information necessary to find these young ladies, including the time of day, the ideal locality, and the year he was most likely to score. The Magus had since discovered that they had omitted to tell him the season to visit and had sent him to the wrong side of the country. So far, his research had yielded lard, but no ladies with raised collars and short skirts.
A conversation with a dirt-encrusted gentleman in a bus shelter, who had been strangely interested in the price of a cup of tea, gave him a clue. This worthy had seemed pleased with some of the gold currency the Magus had been issued with by AGGRO, and had directed him to a brewery. He had a very informative guided tour, with many free samples, and was now sitting in the brewery bar, expanding on his knowledge. As is usual in these situations, creativity flooded his brain, and the ideas clamoured for attention.
“Time gentlemen, please.”
The Magus looked around the empty bar for the addressed ‘gentlemen’, and saw the bartender tapping his watch. He finished his drink, stared at the six, or perhaps twelve, empty glasses on the table in front of him and climbed unsteadily to his feet.
“I must go then?”
“If you would be so kind,” said the bartender. He hauled the Magus upright by his collar, and propelled him towards the exit.
“I would be so kind,” slurred the Magus. “I have brilliant ideas that must be acted upon before I forget them, or sober up and realise they are a pile of drongo-coprolites. Which way to the police station?”
The man helped him through the door, head first, and pointed along the road. “Keep going in that direction. If you see a man in a uniform, slap his face, and he will be pleased to show you the way.”
“I’m a stranger here,” said the Magus, “but the face slapping doesn’t really sound the right thing to do.”
“I understand your concern,” said the bartender, “but in this part of the world, a slap around the face is the politest of thanks, especially for people from foreign parts.” He illustrated the point by giving the Magus a slap on his own face.
“I suppose a lot of my parts are foreign,” said the Magus. “You are right. That slap seems to have improved my vision. Thank you for your assistance and kind attention with the beverages. I trust you are adequately compensated?”
“You could perhaps make a donation to the Redundant Landlords’ fund. Another of those worthless, gold-coloured coins would be a reasonable offering.”
“But they are made of pure gold. I was told they would be acceptable here.”
“You were told correctly, but they have very little value. We deal in bits of paper with nice pictures on instead. I can give you a couple in exchange for another of those coins, if you like.”
“You are most kind,” said the Magus. He handed a coin over and received 25 Drachma, in used notes. His eyes lit up. “A fortune,” he breathed. “My gratitude knows no bounds.” He landed the landlord a slap that sent the man tumbling backwards into a bed of roses. “I believe that is the right expression of thanks,” he said, and headed cheerfully down the road towards the local nick.
The Magus had no problem finding his space-craft, neatly parked as it was on several strange pieces of crushed metal in a large space between two police cars. He was proud of the way he had camouflaged it from prying eyes by adding red and yellow lettering down the side; ‘Stanley Stamp’s Gibbon Fair’. “That will fool them”, was his plan. “It’ll be mistaken for an impounded circus vehicle.”
A number of blurry shapes in dark uniforms seemed to get in his way, but the Magus continued walking and the shape immediately in front of him disappeared with a grunt. There was a brief thud on his head as something hard and truncheon-like was applied by another of the shapes, but the Magus’ cranium was somewhat thicker than those of the indigenous life-forms, and suffered no major damage. He shrugged off the rin
ging in his skull, and fell forward through the entrance hatch. The defence systems in the hatchway ejected the blurry shapes back on to the tarmac outside, and closed the door carefully behind him.
A conveyor walkway transported the Magus along the featureless metal corridor leading to the workshop. He was greeted by an array of apparatus that would have done justice to any laboratory film-set.
“Put me in a chair, and give me something for my hangover.”
A robotic arm proffered a glass of fizzing ‘Alchy-Salsa1’ and placed a battered bush hat on his head. The Magus swallowed the liquid in one draught, and repositioned the hat into a rakish angle. His vision cleared, and slightly foaming at the mouth, he fished about in his pocket to retrieve a soggy packet labelled ‘Brewer’s Yeast’ that he had exchanged a gold coin for at the brewery.
After drunkenly scattering most of the contents over the workbench, he scooped up what he could and shovelled the powder, several small spiders and an unidentifiable lump, which might once have been a piece of cheese, into a radiation chamber. He took a swig from a beaker of what he assumed was water to rinse the froth out of his mouth and added the remains to the mixture. “That should do it,” he muttered. He cackled insanely, as befitting any cliché of a mad scientist, and slurred some commands into the control systems
The ‘On-Board Extrasensory System Engine’ was thus tasked with searching the ship’s stores for other suitable ingredients, and it eventually produced a slightly used, homemade wine kit. The Magus squinted suspiciously at the ancient mail-order delivery note addressed to the previous occupant of the ship.
“Where did you find this, exactly?”
“I scoured the ship…”
“Why, was it that dirty?”
“I meant I searched everywhere,” said the Extrasensory System Engine, “It was near the drive reactors, in that area which says ‘No admittance to organic life-forms, on pain of dissolution’. I suspect it has been there for some time.”
“It will do,” said the Magus. He at tore the masking tape holding the top of the box closed. The grape extract inside snarled at him. “It does seem a bit lively though. Down, boy.” He slapped it with a spatula, and flushed it into the waste disposal chute, where it hung on grimly in front of the shredder blades. Ignoring its cries for mercy, he dumped the rest of the ingredients into the radiation chamber, and operated a switch, clearly marked, ‘Do not touch’. The room lit with a ghostly green glow, as the energy ramped up. Within a few minutes, the Magus was sniffing appreciatively at the liquid forming in the container.
“That seems promising,” he said. “Now, if I feed it with sugar and water all night, and run the filtered liquid into here... I can make a fortune in those outer systems that haven’t yet discovered the drink. Perhaps I can make enough money to buy my dream girl...”
“It didn’t work, last time,” piped up the Extrasensory System Engine.
“There has to be a first for everything,” said the Magus. “I feel this is going to be my big break. Why am I so tired?” He lay on the floor. The ESE starting humming a lullaby. “Oh do shut up, I’m trying to get some sleep here. Let me turn off your sound for the night.”
The Magus thumped a switch on the console and closed his eyes. A service robot whirred into the room, clicked a couple of its relays, and scooped him off to the sleeping quarters.
“He’s going to be livid in the morning,” mused the System Engine, “when he finds he’s switched off the coffee machine. My voice control switch is the third on the right.”
* * *
It was late the following day when the Magus woke with the alien equivalent of a massive hangover, and a taste of soap-powder in his mouth. It was a while, and many groans, before he remembered the experiment. After submerging his head in the detoxification unit, he found a lump of iced coffee to chew, and staggered into the laboratory.
“Morning,” said the System Engine. “I think you should have a look at this…”
The Magus gaped. Against all the odds, the process had worked exactly as he had planned. Before him was a large vat of something which looked and smelled almost like a very good real ale… with one slight difference.
“Hello,” said someone, “and how are you, this morning?”
“Oh Oilflig!” The Magus sat heavily on the floor, drew his knees up to his chin and rested his head in his hands. “Am I imagining this?”
“It’s your own fault for drinking so much.” The voice was coming from the vat of ale, and sounded condescending. “On the other hand, if I had any hands, I would express gratitude for creating me. If you had not overslept, I would have remained forever doomed to be the guest tipple at the ‘Old Stoat and Sandwich’, and the Universe would have been none the wiser. As it is, I have been able to evolve sufficient intelligence, while you were sleeping, to interface with the ship’s systems and educate myself to the form you see before you.” The Magus glanced up at the vat, and was surprised to see an aura of smugness surrounding it. He blinked and the aura vanished.
“Phoist!” he said into his knees. “What have I created?”
“Merely an advanced form of organic computer,” said the liquid. “All you did, radiating the mixture, was to accelerate the evolution process, to the tune of thirty-two million Earth years in one night.”
The Magus groaned. “It certainly feels like it. My head throbs for every second of those thirty-two million years.”
“I had not enough time to evolve limbs or reproductive organs, for which I’m deeply disappointed,” continued the liquid sadly, “but certainly enough to develop superior intelligence.” The smugness returned.
“Hey, if you’re so clever, how are you able to talk to me? You have no vocal chords, no body, and,” he peered at the vat, “certainly no reproductive organs, as far as I can see.”
“Rubbish, I have lots of body,” said the Liquid, sloshing about in indignation, “I am a rich, golden ale with an alcohol content of 8.5%. If you had slept any longer, I could have evolved into a barley wine, with all the kudos that would bring. Anyway...” It settled down a little, as a cloud of sediment and a rather dangerous looking spider rose from the bottom of the container, “I am talking to you now by telepathy; stimulating your sound receptor nerves.”
“Incredible. I don’t believe this has ever been done before; I’ll make a fortune.”
“You have,” said the liquid, still apparently reading his mind. “I have already registered the process at the Universal Patents Centre and cash advances for the process are, at this moment, approaching a Centillion Drachma. Which planet do you want to buy? Oh, I know just the place.”
The Magus groaned. “How can you...?”
The liquid ignored him, made the connections through the Galactic Real-estate Open Property Exchange, linked the Magus’s bank account with the vendor and completed the transaction.
“There you go.” The ESE presented the Magus with the deeds, neatly produced on paper, created and printed out from a 3D printer.
“That was quick,” said the Magus, squinting at the writing.
“I did it without involving solicitors,” said the liquid. “I have assimilated all the required legal knowledge through ‘Wonkypedia’, the galactic repository of all knowledge, some of it actually valid.”
“Like it,” said the Magus.
“I am setting the course. Shall we go?”
“Are there any girls there? I mean, pretty girls with high IQs, terrific figures, who don’t smoke, and fancy weirdos like crazy.”
“We’ll see.” The liquid sloshed about in what looked like a shrug. “With this much money, I should think most people will fancy you like crazy.”
“Off you go then… The ships in your hands, er, whatever they are. Oh my head…”
Moaning quietly, the Magus lay down on the floor of the laboratory, while his new pet took full control of the ship. With a shedding of small boys, who were clambering over it at the time, thinking it
to be a fairground novelty, the craft rose silently into the air and accelerated away. A military tracking station automatically followed its progress, but by the time anyone thought to turn the recorder back over from the movie channel, the phenomenon had vanished.
I Beg your Pardon...
…I never weed in a rose garden.
T
he sun rose as normal over a sleepy Scottish town. Not many noticed, because it had been raining continuously for almost three weeks. To add to their woes, daylight-saving-time had been implemented the wrong way round this year, owing to the fact that the technicians controlling the Kilmarnock atomic clock were on strike, over what they considered the wrong majority result regarding a vote on Scottish independence.
The one man still with a job of his own pulled his raincoat tighter round his shoulders and beat his way through the storm towards a desk at the employment centre. He was in no particular hurry. His morning would be client-free. Since the shipyards closed, the French stole all the North Sea oil and gas, and fines levied by the European Union had bankrupted the country, nobody really bothered to get up; they knew that their benefits cheques would be funded from the EU directly, so any pretence of getting a job was unnecessary.
None of this bothered Thomas Oliver Satan2 Smith as he slept soundly through his eleven o’clock alarm call, lost in a dream about scoring a goal for the Swedish Ladies’ Football Team. Being one of the many computer programmers, whose job had been outsourced to the Nauru Regional Processing Centre had far more drawbacks than the much-moaned-about climate. The fact that his benefits barely covered the cost of Sky TV, Playstation games and sufficient amounts of ale, did not help with motivation. Whatever the weather, he now had to see more of his wife, Freya.
When he had been able to escape to work, they could live together, apart, quite happily, with a reasonable combined income to keep him in trainers, and Freya in bits of plastic for the kitchen. The problem of seeing her every day was putting a severe strain on their marriage. Freya’s salary as a teacher kept the house afloat, but they now could no longer afford foreign holidays or unnecessary gadgets, such as those that pretended to help around the home, but in fact recorded everything you said, and then forwarded it on to the security forces. Freya was usually too tired when she came home, and Tom was too depressed to raise even the slightest interest in conventional married life.
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