by I K Dirac
Splenditheran seemed a little less unimpressed, but still doubtful.
“That is all very well, Captain, and you and your, ah, collaborators, are to be commended for what you have discovered, but I still fail to see any plan.”
“The plan is simple, darling – in principle. It's the old Trojan Horse stratagem. En route, we break the seals on the containers, take out the meat, put in some of our finest soldiers and then replace the seals. They will be inspected, of course, but since the seals will appear to be unbroken, they will be allowed to go on to Arkadia. Instead of their favourite food, the Orsonians will find their least favourite people. We know that there are no arms on board and we also have detailed plans, so our troops should be able to take control easily.”
Splenditheran was unimpressed again.
“How exactly do you propose to take control of the freighter transporting the Chelodoney without the Orsonians noticing?”
De la Beche gave a wry smile.
“You've put your finger on the tricky bit, Commander. I was hoping you might be able to suggest something. I think the only way that we could do this would be if the Bountiful was doing the transporting, but I do see that there’s a bit of a difference between your average commercial freighter and the Bountiful, armed to the teeth as she is. The Orsonians may not be the brightest jewels in the crown, but even they would smell a rat if we turned up uninvited with a load of their food.”
Splenditheran's impressedness level remained low.
“Even assuming you managed to board Arkadia, how were you proposing to escape with the Kwokkah?”
De la Beche smiled.
“That shouldn’t be too difficult, darling. It's a technique we've used before. We pretend that there's a problem with the ship and we have to remain docked for a while to sort it out. We wait until the raiding party have done their job and then make ourselves scarce.”
“And these soldiers – where do you propose to get them?”
“That's another thing you could help us with, darling. Your splendid federation must have some fighting troops that would be up to the job.”
Jim watched as Splenditheran's expression remained impassive for what seemed an inordinately long time. Eventually he spoke.
“I have to admit, Captain, that my first reaction to what you had to say was to dismiss it out of hand, but the more I think about it the more I see in it. You are right to suggest that the only way your plan could succeed would be for your ship to transport the containers. At first I did not see how that could be possible – but then a way did occur to me. There is already some tension between ourselves and the Orsonians and as a result freight insurance premiums for delivery to the Orsonian Empire have risen sharply. If we allowed it to be known that tension was increasing, then insurance companies would declare a war risk. Premiums would go through the roof and commercial companies would refuse to deliver anywhere within the Orsonian Empire. The Orsonians would be searching frantically for someone willing to transport their precious Chelodony. You, risk-taking entrepreneur that you are, would offer your services – for a very substantial fee, of course. Don’t undersell yourself or they will become suspicious. They already know you, so that should help. They would certainly require you to de-activate your offensive weapons in the vicinity of Orson, but that should not matter since we would not expect you to do any actual fighting.”
De la Beche was almost lost for words.
“Pure genius, Commander. I knew you would come up with the goods. I take it we can go ahead?”
Splenditheran shook his head.
“Not yet, Captain. A matter this important must be put before our Ruling Council. They will want to consider matters very carefully.”
“I'm sure you can smooth matters, Commander.”
They were taken to a small room fitted with armchairs. A servant brought them some refreshments as they waited. Several hours passed before Splenditheran returned, his expression serious as usual.
“Captain, I am pleased to say that our Ruling Council has accepted your plan in principle and will cooperate with you along the lines we discussed. However they have made one important stipulation. They recognize that this is a most difficult and dangerous operation and to ensure success they propose to charter the services of what they consider to be the finest fighting forces in the Galaxy, those of the United Stars of Astromica. If you agree, I will arrange for you to review them shortly.”
De la Beche gazed back at Splenditheran. Jim found it impossible to divine his expression.
“Ah yes, darling. The Astromicans. Big buttocks and small brains. Exactly what we need for this job.”
Splenditheran smiled and gestured with his arm in acknowledgement.
“Excellent, Captain. I am very glad that we have reached agreement. So now I hope you will join me in an invocation to The Supreme Ineffability for the success of your mission.”
“Of course, darling, if you think it would help. What exactly do you want us to do?”
“You need only watch to join us in the service, Captain. The service will be conducted by his most Cerebral Intelligence, the High Sapient. I take it that you know that we are of the Non-Inflationary denomination of the Sacrosanctity of Reason?”
“I’m not sure that I do, darling. My fault, of course but I sometimes lose track of these things. Do remind me.”
Splenditheran nodded gravely.
“We believe that the Universe is fine-tuned for our existence. We do not believe that it went through an early inflationary period that smoothed everything out. That way leads to an infinity of universes inflating for ever. Everything is possible and nothing needs any explanation. Those who take that view are guilty of the Anthropic heresy and are entirely incapable of rigorous thought.”
They walked from the room down a wide corridor into a large, high-ceilinged room. A screen at one end drew upwards to reveal a wall covered in symbols. Doors in the wall slid open and a number of robed figures, led by a person swathed in embroidered gold vestments, walked through, producing a low, rhythmic chant. The gold-robed figure bowed to them, turned towards the wall and intoned in a baritone voice.
“Glory be to The Supreme Ineffability, for They have made the ratio of the strength of electromagnetism to the strength of gravity for a pair of protons, to be approximately 1036.. If it were significantly smaller, only a small and short-lived universe could exist.”
The other robed figures answered, chanting.
“Glory to The Supreme Ineffability, for They have made our Universe possible.”
The call and response continued.
“Glory to The Supreme Ineffability, for They have made the cosmological constant to be no larger than 10-122, so that galaxies could form.”
“Glory to The Supreme Ineffability, for They have made the galaxies possible.”
“Glory to The Supreme Ineffability, for, if the electromagnetic force were only four per cent weaker, then all protons would fuse into diprotons and stars could not exist.”
“Glory to The Supreme Ineffability, for They have made the stars possible.”
“Glory to The Supreme Ineffability, for if the weak nuclear force were weaker, all hydrogen in the stars would have been converted to helium shortly after the Big Bang.”
“Glory to The Supreme Ineffability, for They have made hydrogen possible.”
The celebrant turned and his voice shifted up a semitone.
“Glory to The Supreme Ineffability, for, if the electron were heavier, then molecules could not form and there would be no life.”
“Glory to The Supreme Ineffability, for They have made life possible.”
The chants died slowly away. The celebrant made several slow, deliberate gestures with his arms, then bowed and led his retinue back through the doors, which closed after them.
“A most uplifting service, don’t you think, Captain?” said Splenditheran. “That should put you in good spirits for the task ahead.”
“Absolutely, darling. Noth
ing like a little sing-song to get us
going.”
19
We are mighty! We are free!
We are Astromican infantry!
All for one and one for all.
Out of our way, ’cos we walk tall!
If you try to start a fight
You are gonna feel our might!
Be prepared to breath your last!
We are gonna kick your ass!
At the double, three abreast, the soldiers jogged from their transport into the cavernous hold of Splenditheran's flagship. Each line was chanted alternately by half the troupe, staccato, as if fired from a gun. The sound of their voices, high tenor to basso profundo, melded seamlessly with the tramp of their boots. The effect was almost seismic.
A detail from HMS Bountiful, including Jim and Mister Betelgeuse, was drawn up beside a raised dais, on which de la Beche stood, taking the salute. He wore full dress uniform: jacket lavishly embroidered with gold braid, over a decolleté lace blouse, pleated tartan skirt, thigh-length military boots and a silk sash fastened with the medallion of an exalted heraldic order.
The soldiers, about a hundred in total, rapidly formed themselves into rows and fell silent. They wore brown uniforms irregularly patterned with greens, browns and blacks. Several held poles to which were attached banners adorned with red, white and blue patterns. Clipped to belts around their waists were of a variety of implements. On their chests were several insignia, as well as name-tags. On each shoulder were flashes which read: “We kill, that Freedom may live.”
A large, barrel-chested officer, rather older than the rest, his hair flecked with grey, stepped forward, saluted smartly and roared.
“Fifth Company, Special Infantry Services ready for inspection!”
De la Beche waved graciously.
“Charming little ditty, darling. Puts the Hallelujah Chorus quite to shame.”
The officer blinked and hesitated. De la Beche cast an appreciative eye over the assembly.
“My compliments to your men Major, er,” he bent down to inspect the name tag on the officer’s breast, “ah, Schickelgrosser. Such rippling buttocks! Rippling buttocks do go so splendidly with shaven heads, don’t you agree, Major?”
The major blinked even more furiously and clicked his heels with a sound like a whip crack.
“Yes, Sir, er, Captain!”
“Either would have done, darling, but now you put it that way and have acknowledged my title, both is more than twice as good. The yin and yang, the hob and nob, so to speak.”
Schickelgrosser stopped blinking, his eyes widened but the face remained impassive. His arm rose as if on autopilot to the saluting position.
“Yes, Sir Captain!”
De la Beche raised a hand in acknowledgement and beamed.
“Splendid, Major, simply splendid. You may address me as Captain from now on. Sir Captain can be kept for formal occasions. Now do tell me, what is that bunting your soldiers are waving?”
Schickelgrosser looked puzzled.
“Bunting, Captain?”
“Yes, those red, white and blue flappy things.”
Schickelgrosser stiffened.
“That's Old Immortality, Captain, the flag of the United Stars of Astromica.”
De la Beche nodded.
“And what are those little pointy things in the corner?”
“They're the stars of Astromica, Captain.”
“Ah yes, I see, stars. So much prettier than the boring old round ones you find at this end of the Galaxy. Now, what next, Major?”
Schickelgrosser stiffened even further.
“You see before you the finest body of men in the Galaxy. And we have the best weapons, too. Do you want to inspect our weapons, Captain?”
“Absolutely, darling. There’s nothing I like better than a good weapons inspection. In fact, I often insist on it.”
Schickelgrosser waved at a company of his men. They came forward, staggering slightly under their burdens of bulging weaponry. At a command, they snapped to and quickly and expertly assembled and mounted their weapons and set them out in a neat line across the floor. At a further command they stood smartly to attention beside their charges.
“Weapons ready for inspection, Captain!”
De la Beche stared at the fearsome collection of cylinders, barrels, hoses and a multitude of other parts – metallic, ceramic and plastic – in shapes of complex form and indeterminate function.
“They look absolutely marvellous, darling. I’m sure they would frighten the life out of any Orsonians unwise enough to face them, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like them before. What exactly do they do?”
Schickelgrosser’s chest puffed out even further.
“These weapons are so secret, Captain, even some of their makers don’t know they exist. They have only been issued to our company. These are the only ones in existence and these men are the only ones trained to use them. That’s how secret they are. If you will bear with me, Captain, I will explain what each does.” He hesitated, “This could be a little technical, Sir Captain.”
De la Beche waved him on.
“Carry on, Major. Technicalities hold no fear for me, although I’m not a details person, of course. Mister Betelgeuse here handles details. Mister Betelgeuse is one of the finest minds in the Galaxy. Details are absolutely no problem for him.”
Schickelgrosser nodded cursorily towards Mister Betelgeuse and then extended an arm.
“Sir Captain, what you see here are examples of three different types of weapons – Phrasor, Spasor and Cerebrasor.”
“Simply delightful names, darling. Sounds like a firm of commercial lawyers.”
Schickelgrosser continued, unabashed.
“The Phrasor is our standard, multi-purpose, close-combat weapon. Himmelwick, here, will demonstrate how it is carried.”
Himmelwick, a large man with bulging arm muscles and pectorals, stepped forward and pirouetted, surprisingly gracefully, displaying the Phrasor. This had a short, squat barrel, about sixty centimetres long and ten centimetres in diameter, surrounded by several protuberances and attached to a short metal stock. After several turns, he dropped to one knee and thrust the Phrasor menacingly in the direction of the Captain.
Schickelgrosser reacted sharply.
“Stand easy, Himmelwick. Now Captain, the Phrasor has two modes of operation – Destroy and Preserve. In the Destroy mode, the target is instantaneously dissociated into atoms. There’s nothing left except a very fine powder.”
“Very good. ‘Unto dust thou shalt return’ eh, Major?”
Schickelgrosser looked mildly astonished.
“As the Good Book says, Captain. Do you have Bible Study on this ship?”
“Not as such, darling. Anyway, do carry on.”
Schickelgrosser was warming to his task.
“In the Preserve mode, all nerve and neuronal circuits are instantaneously disrupted, rendering the target completely inert. It can then be taken for further interrogation or disposal. Now, I think you will like our next weapon, the Spasor. Indoway.”
Another huge soldier stepped forward to display the Spasor. This was much larger than the Phrasor. It sported what seemed to be multiple barrels with several metallic extensions sticking vertically down from them. A carrying strap stretched from the barrels across the shoulders and was attached to the stock. Schickelgrosser looked on it with evident pride.
“The Spasor is the very first portable weapon that we know of, Captain, that works by altering the local space–time continuum. One little blast of the Spasor sends the target into an inaccessible region of the future for up to an hour before returning it to the very moment it left. In that hour, the user of the weapon can do what he likes. When the target returns, they have no idea they have been away, so they carry on as before, completely ignorant of what has happened to them.”
“So this Spasor literally knocks them into the middle of next week? How terribly ingenious, darling! It migh
t come in handy for us, although we might prefer something that works the other way round. Frankly, Major, some of our crew don’t always have their full mind on the job. We could do with something that knocks them back to the present with a wallop. What do you think, Mister Betelgeuse?”
Mister Betelgeuse stared solemnly at the Spasor.
“As you say, Captain, a most ingenious implement.”
De la Beche gestured triumphantly towards Schickelgrosser.
“There you are, Major. Endorsement from one of the finest minds in the Galaxy. You must be pleased.”
Schickelgrosser allowed himself a modest smile.
“Thank you, Mister Betelgeuse, much appreciated. I think you will be just as impressed with our third weapon, the Cerebrasor. Corporal Washington, if you will.”
A black soldier, even bulkier than the previous two, stepped forward, carrying what seemed to be a large box. He put it on the ground, where it displayed a series of lights and buttons, with a screen and keyboard on its top surface. Schickelgrosser strode up to it.
“The Cerebrasor is the ultimate in special operations weaponry, Captain. What makes the difference between success and failure in special operations? What do you have to have if you are to achieve your objective? In a word, Captain, what you must have is Intelligence – Intelligence with a capital ‘IN’. Without Intelligence, even the best soldiers are blind. Without Intelligence, victory is impossible and defeat certain. And where does the best Intelligence come from? From the enemy, that’s where! And the Cerebrasor will get you that Intelligence straight from the enemy’s mouth – or rather, his brain. This little baby has a fifteen-degree field of fire. Just point it at where you think the enemy is and it will shake every enemy brain in its range, till the secrets just come tumbling out. You can read ’em, you can hear ’em, you can record ’em – right here! It has been tested on every known sentient form in the Galaxy, Captain. There’s nothing that can hold out against it. Whether the brain is in the head or the tail or somewhere between – it’s all the same to the Cerebrasor. It squeezes the brain like a sponge and everything that’s in it just comes pouring out.”