Greegs & Ladders - By Zack Mitchell and Danny Mendlow
Page 21
CHAPTER 20
Kroonum
Kroonum is a blue-spotted Zeta Sun that provides warmth and life for 27 planets. Not one of these planets is mellow or uninhabited. They all suffer major problems of overpopulation and a lack of sleep.
If New York is the city that never sleeps, then Kroonum is the Solar System that has never even heard of sleep. There are simply too many exciting things to do to even consider the notion of falling asleep. To sleep for even the shortest amount of time while in Kroonum is to miss at least several unprecedented and historically life-changing events in galactic history. The last time someone stepped out for a nap they ended up missing the resurrection of The Beatles, as well as the 12-hour reunion concert that followed shortly thereafter. The seemingly endless show ended with a complete front-to-back rendition of Abbey Road, played against the stirring backdrop of Kroonum’s famous Whizzling-Firebeam asteroid shower (an event that is believed will only happen four times, ever). This was the third time it had happened. The person who’d stepped out for a nap was later informed of the excellence of The Beatles, and was also told he would do best not to miss the next Whizzling-Firebeam asteroid shower. He ended up missing it on account of being dead, as the fourth and final asteroid shower did not occur for hundreds of years (or 89,126.3 zillion Schmickian years, if you want to get precise in the matter).
“Where are we?” asked Rip.
Wilx looked around confusedly. “We’ve just undergone an unrequested hyperspacial jump.”
“I know… but where exactly did we jump to?”
“I’m trying to figure that out,” said Wilx as he scrambled through the star charts. “Look over there…I see a planet missing its top half. Could that be the legendary Clug Raddo?”
“What's Clug Raddo?” I asked.
“A planet that lost its northern hemisphere due to the climactic event of the Dishwashing Chronicles.”
“What happened in the Dishwashing Chronicles?”
“Well tell you about it later. For now I need to focus on the fact that we’ve jumped many universes in the complete opposite direction from the planet Hroon and the sunned district of Herb.”
“Do we have any pomegranates?” asked Rip.
“Uh, what are pomegranates?”
“Did the rest of the fleet make the hyperspacial jump with us?” asked Krimshaw.
“Good question. At least someone is having relevant thoughts around here.”
Wilx tracked the fleet.
“Hmm… there are only 16 Obotrons currently following us. It seems a couple of the ships didn’t make the jump at all.”
“What does that mean?” asked Krimshaw. “Two of the ships are still in another universe? Their crew members are just floating around aimlessly?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. They’ve assuredly perished by now.”
“What?”
“Without the guidance system of Obotron 1 they were probably sent crashing into the surface of the nearest planet. Or, if you prefer, careening into the vacuum of the nearest black hole. Or maybe they burned up in the infernos of the nearest Red Giant. One thing is certain, they were destroyed by the nearest object of dangerous proportions.”
“I thought our guidance system was irreparably damaged,” said Rip. “Shouldn’t they actually be better off without us?”
“No. It is better to have an irreparably damaged guidance system than to have no guidance system at all.”
“Right.”
Krimshaw looked out of the window and saw an epic beam of light funnelling towards a planet.
“Why is that light there?”
“What light?”
“Look, there’s a beam of light connecting with a planet. It looks like you can see the light moving.”
They both immediately recognized the description of a planet that was reached by a road of light. It was, after all, the most famous planet in the most famous of systems. They raced over to the window and confirmed their suspicion.
“It’s the road to Lincra!” shouted Rip happily.
“Indeed!”
“What’s the road to Lincra?” I asked.
Wilx was ecstatic. “We’re in Kroonum! Lincra is a planet in the excellent Kroonum system!”
“What’s so excellent about it?”
“I’ll answer that one,” said Rip. “It’s the most bustling solar system within five trillion universes. Some people spend their whole lives trying to get to Kroonum, on account of how exciting it is here.”
“Yes,” agreed Wilx, “however life is short once they arrive, on account of how dangerous it is here.”
“Why does this planet have a road of light?”
“Because it is the most popular planet to visit in the Kroonum system. The light is coming from the mass amount of constantly arriving ships.”
“Why do the ships have so many lights?”
“You ever noticed how dark it is in space? You try finding your way around this black infinity without a set of 4000 watt Hyclerion Blinder-Bulbs. You’d end up crashing into the surface of a nearby planet like the recently lost Obotron ships that we will probably never mention or think of again.”
“An interesting fact about the road of light,” said Wilx, “was discovered the time Lincra closed for renovations. For a few days no ships were allowed to land anywhere on the planet, yet the road continued to shine as brilliantly as ever.”
“How is that possible?” asked Krimshaw.
“It is the strongest case of Persistence of Vision ever known. Ships have been nonstop arriving at Lincra for so long that the beam of light seems to be permanently burned into the ocular fabric of space and time.”
“Can we stop?”
“Of course.”
Wilx instructed the rest of the fleet to remain motionless in orbit. He then guided Obotron 1 towards Lincra. It is a poor idea to attempt manual flight while on the hectic road, so Wilx set the ship to Go-With-the-Flow Mode, allowing the flux of the nearby ships to safely glide them to the surface. Before too long, Obotron 1 arrived at the spectacular main parking lot.
The main parking lot of Lincra is so spectacular that many visitors believe they are seeing the entire surface of the planet. They hang around the station for the weekend taking a few photos, then they leave satisfied, having seen none of the actual world.
Rip, Wilx and Krimshaw boarded the ship's floating elevator. This drew many stares from the crowd below, being that Krimshaw was a Greeg and that Obotron 1 was probably the most expensive spaceship in the whole lot. It was definitely the only spaceship with its own floating elevator.
Rip unnecessarily greeted the crowd.
“Hello!” he shouted to the bewildered aliens. “I am Dr. Rip T. Brash the Third!”
There were a few mutters of slight recognition followed by an unrelated terrorist explosion.
“Ahem,” coughed Krimshaw.
“What is it?”
“Why don’t you introduce us too?”
“Because you aren’t famous.”
“How can we hope to get famous if you don’t mention us in front of large groups of people?”
“True,” said Rip as he pointed at Wilx and Krimshaw. “And these are some people I happen to know!”
“What did you fly here in?” yelled a random alien.
“I’m glad you asked. Our ship is a very rare Obotron. It is one of the most expensive vessels ever made. Feel free to admire it at will! Gaze your eyes upon its pricey qualities! Feel the stinging pangs of jealousy when you realize your own ship is a piece of junk in comparison! If you don’t have eyes, then touch the recently waxed surface with your antennae and know that the wax job is better than yours!”
“Hey, don’t tell them to admire the ship too much,” whispered Wilx. “I’d like to leave with it still in our possession.”
Rip corrected his mistake. “Remember everyone, admire the ship only with your eyes! We have a protective shield designed to immediately set fire t
o anyone who puts a single finger or antennae on the waxed surface!”
“Is that true?” asked Krimshaw.
“No. But I dare them to risk finding out.”
The crowd grew visibly anxious wanting to know if the ship would really set them on fire if they touched it. For some creatures, finding out the worthless answer to this mystery was well worth the risk of death.
The floating elevator (which was merely a sort of round slab that frighteningly lacked handrails) touched down on the surface of the docking station. The trio stepped off. The slab immediately flew back up to the ship.
“How do we get the elevator to come back to us when we want to leave?” asked Krimshaw.
“I don’t know,” said Wilx. “I forgot the remote control. We’ll worry about it later. Let’s go look around!”
“Good idea,” agreed Rip.
The parking lot existed within a domed structure the size of a small moon. Inside the dome were many bizarre vendors. Some of the vendors were boasting the cheapest rates on stolen bottles of Investment Banker, while most were selling maps of the planet.
“We’d better grab a map,” suggested Rip. “It is impossible to make sense of the labyrinthine surface of Lincra without one.”
“And a good map, too,” added Wilx. “Some of these are poor quality.” He picked one up from a nearby table. “Look at this one, it’s just a white piece of paper that says ‘You are anywhere you want to be.’ How does such existential drivel qualify as a map?”
The unkempt vendor selling this object was of the belief that all reality is artificial, and can therefore shift its appearance according to the mind's desire. He was also heavily tripping out on the boiled juices of psychotropic Lincran-leaves.
“Don’t be harsh,” said the unkempt vendor as he imagined his own hand transforming into a tentacle. “That map contains valuable advice. You should never forget that all your surroundings are a fantasy, and that you can change where you’re at simply by imagining you’re somewhere else.”
“You know what else is a fantasy?” asked Rip.
“What?”
“Your income. Because nobody will ever buy what you’re selling.”
“Oh, these maps aren’t for sale. I offer everything for free, being that any apparent value of money is imaginary anyway.”
Rip grabbed a stack of the maps and tore them up until they were tiny shreds. It took a long time. The trio then continued walking as if nothing happened. The unkempt vendor made up some new maps. It was an easy task considering they were merely a single sentence written on a white piece of paper.
“Look at this one!” said Wilx, pointing to a different and infinitely more exciting map vendor. “I’m gonna get one of these.”
Wilx left the group for a minute. When he returned he wasn’t really holding a map (defining a map as something that can be folded and placed in a glove-box) but rather carried a multi-volume set of 30 pound hardcover books.
“This should help us find everything.”
“Look, here comes one of the parking lot shuttle-sliders,” said Rip. “Let’s board it while we can.”
They got on the shuttle before it whizzed off. Shuttle-sliders are dissimilar to floating elevators in the sense that they only move horizontally, but are similar in the sense that they also frighteningly lack handrails.
Obotron 1 had landed almost directly in the middle of the parking lot, meaning that reaching the edge of the dome by foot would have entailed a horrendous, month-long journey with nothing to eat except for maps and other paper products. By taking the shuttle car they would reach the edge of the dome in a matter of minutes. The fare was offensively expensive, but it had to be paid. Most people who attempt walking across the great parking lot are never heard from again.
The instant the shuttle was out of sight, several dozen curious fingers and antennae placed themselves upon the surface of Obotron 1. The disgusting creatures in ownership of these fingers and antennae were happy to learn there was no protective shield setting them on fire. They celebrated this fact by smashing a few of the windows and entering the ship. The intruders proceeded to devour what little remaining food they could find. This was not a great loss as it was all thoroughly urine-soaked. They then proceeded to syphon nearly all of the ship's fuel. Upon leaving, the creatures didn’t even bother to use the same broken windows, but rather found a few new ones to crash through.
The shuttle arrived at the edge of the dome. Rip was the first one to walk through the door and see the surface of Lincra, and was therefore the first one to suffer a mild heart attack. It was instantly clear as to why a map is the most valuable item you can own on this planet. The surface of Lincra is actually a myriad of surfaces stacked on top of each other, a gradual layering upon layering created for the purpose of maximizing spacial problems. A planetary version of a nesting doll, there is the one major outermost planet, and within that planet lay a smaller planet, and within that smaller planet lay another smaller planet, and so forth until all the layers of Lincra together form the equivalent ground space of the combined, remaining 26 planets in the Kroonum system. Each layer is known for having its own distinct climate, terrain, life-forms and atmosphere. Visitors are allowed to freely roam between the layers, all of which are connected by way of the Master Ladder.
“I suggest we read some of these books before we go anywhere,” said Wilx as he sat down on a bench. Most of the entrances to Lincra are lined with scores of benches, as needing to sit down is the most typical reaction of the first-time visitor.
“What books?” I asked him.
“The multi-volume map of Lincra, the ones I just bought.”
“I know, but for a minute I could have sworn you weren't carrying them anymore. I thought you'd gotten tired and thrown them out, deciding to let blind chance choose our ultimate location.”
“No,” said Wilx. “That's more something Rip would do.”
“Not on this world,” said Rip. “Even I don't feel like braving Lincra without a map.”
“Where should we go?” asked Wilx as he passed Rip one of the many 30 pound hardcover books that he mysteriously managed to carry out of sight.
“You read it to us,” said Rip as he struggled to focus on all the creatures zipping up and down the Master Ladder between the layers of the world. “I’m far too hypnotized by this insanity to be able to make out the sentences.”
Wilx flipped to chapter one in the first volume of the Map to Lincra. “It says we are right now on Terminal Layer Zero. Below the TLZ are the Subterranean Layers 1-66, the innermost layer of which is an observation deck for viewing the fiery planetary core. Looking directly at the core will fry your optic nerves, so it is suggested that only blind creatures visit Subterranean Layer 66. Any creatures allergic to water or other forms of hydrogen-oxygen combinations are advised to avoid every seventh, even-numbered subterranean layer, all of which are water based.
'Above the TLZ are the Floating Layers 1-79, the topmost layer being the only place on Lincra where you can see sky or space, aside from when inside the parking lot dome. All of the lighting for the Subterranean Layers comes from Terminal Layer Zero, which consists mainly of Investment Banker Corral Farms and Slaughterhouses. Well, where should we go first? A Subterranean or Floating Layer?”
“Are there any places designed for people who like to make outlandish wagers?” asked Rip.
Wilx flipped to the index. “No. It says betting of any kind is prohibited on Lincra.”
“No betting? That means this will be another planet in which I didn’t place an outlandish wager during my visitation. Pluto will have to be removed from the next edition of Very Rare Planets.”
“Too bad. Pluto could use the publicity.”
“Maybe I’ll find a way to make a bet,” said Rip optimistically.
“Even if you did, what would you wager? You don’t own anything.”
“That’s not true. I have many fin
e superfluous organs.”
“You’ve already lost all your superfluous organs to me, remember?” said Wilx. “I intend to collect them as soon as we find a mildly decent surgeon who will perform surgery for all the wrong reasons. In fact, I think there’s an entire layer of Lincra devoted to exactly that.”
Wilx again flipped to the index of the Map to Lincra. “Aha! I was right. Subterranean Layer 39 is known as the Layer of Mildly Decent Surgeons Who Will Perform Surgery For All the Wrong Reasons. Let's go there first.”
“No!” shouted Rip as he clung to his stomach. “You can’t have my organs! I need them to wager in future bets!”
“Are there any sort of Carnival attractions on this planet?” asked Krimshaw. “I'd like to see more of those savage Greegs.”
Wilx looked up Greegs in the Map of Lincra. “We might be in luck... Subterranean Layer 53 is a Carnival Zoo. It says many fine animals have been stolen from their natural environment and locked up in tiny cages just for our viewing enjoyment.”
“What sort of creatures do they have?”
“Wailing Hair-Beasts, Crawling Eyes, Horrendous Swamp-Swoons, Gelatinous Cubes, Elemental Stone-Golems, hey... look! They even have some of those Flying Grimbat Messengers I’ve read about.”
“But do they have any Greegs?” asked Krimshaw.
“They boast a decent selection of the most savage Greegs imaginable. Let’s head over there now.”
Krimshaw sauntered towards the Master Ladder. Rip asked Wilx if he would hang back for a minute and help him tie his non-existent shoelaces.
“Do you think we should take him there?” he whispered. “I’m worried about the stares he’s been getting, what being an intelligent Greeg wearing clothing and consorting with non-Greegs and all.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Wilx. “Let’s go over to the Ladder.”
“Hurry up!” yelled Krimshaw.
Once Rip and Wilx caught up, the three of them began descending the Master Ladder. The vibe of the Subterranean Layers was uncomfortable.
“I don’t like it down here,” said Rip. It was a justifiable opinion to have. They were currently passing by Subterranean 11, a layer used mainly as a storage dump for the unneeded organs flowing in from the Layer of Mildly Decent Surgeons Who Will Perform Surgery For All the Wrong Reasons.
“I agree,” cried Wilx as they passed Subterranean 12, the Layer Where Nothing is Done Except For Cutting Onions.
“We should have visited one of the floating thingies. Let’s turn around.”
“No,” said Krimshaw. “We have to see the cages. Besides, where there’s Greegs there might be information about the all-Greeg planet.”
“I guess so,” said Rip. “How many more of these things do we have to climb through?”
“Just 41.”
“Sigh.”
Everyone was beginning to feel the exhaustion of descending towards the centre of Planet Lincra.
Krimshaw slipped and nearly plunged into the abyss.
“Why is everything connected by ladders?” he asked, referring not only to the Master Ladder but also to the smaller ladders connecting the many smaller layers and the general placement of ladders in most areas of his vision. “On our ship we’ve got floating elevators and teleportation rooms, yet the most popular planet in the system can’t afford something better than archaic ladders? It is a laughably inconvenient tool.”
“Pfft, he doesn’t know about the KULMOOG,” mocked Rip.
“The what?”
“The Kroonum Union of Ladder Makers and/or Official Overseeing Gods,” informed Wilx.
“Who are they?”
As everyone descended, passing such places as the Layer of Governmental Operations Concerning Hypnotic Mind Control, Wilx delved into the long story of the Ladder Makers Union.
“The KULMOOG are the oldest and strongest union in the Kroonum system. They started out as just the KULM, the Kroonum Union of Ladder Makers. Their invention of the ladder revolutionized life as they knew it. Suddenly people were able to reach things on high shelves without climbing on the actual shelves and thus breaking them and having to buy new shelves. Shelf makers lost a considerable amount of money on this aspect of the ladder revolutionizing things. People could also now pick fruit without having to climb trees, thus not falling out of trees, breaking bones and requiring pricey hospital bills. Doctors lost much of their income due to the increased safeness of fruit-picking. It also became easier to break into houses; one simply had to pick a window, prop a ladder and climb their way to crime. Companies that made security bars for windows were one of the few non-ladder related ventures to become richer as a result of the ladder. Everyone was affected by the advent of this tool. With so much money being spent on ladders instead of new shelves and hospital bills, the KULM quickly became the richest entity in the system. They became so powerful the Kroonum politicians began to fear their very presence. Naturally, over time, the Ladder Union usurped the power of the politicians and were made the unquestionable leaders of every facet of life in the system. This is when the ‘Official Overseeing Gods’ part of their acronym was added on. Every job, income and family evolved to rely upon the ladder. Yet as time passed, the ladder became outdated and impractical. Yet rather than keep up with the times and invent entirely new technology and infrastructure (as such things are highly illegal) everyone in Kroonum was forced to subsidize ridiculous alterations to the ladder, to the point where some ‘ladders’ are not ladders at all, aside from a few obligatory rungs here and there. The details of what constitutes a ladder has been the spark of many fierce battles and riots. Nervous officials are often forced to appease mobs over the building of tools that are not at all ladders. So here we are, forced to climb this absurd device instead of doing something easy like teleporting or floating, all because of the Ladder Union’s throne of power watching over us.”
“That explains the cluster of planets we saw on the way here, the one connected by an intricate series of ladders,” said Krimshaw.
“That is the central processing factory of Kroonum ladders and ladder-related products such as the Varnishizer, the only varnish on the market guaranteed to dry in open space. The cluster is known simply as Planet KULMOOG. It is probably one of the dullest and yet most frightening places you could visit. How is it both dull and frightening at the same time you ask? It is dull considering the fact that nothing goes on there besides the churning out of more ladders and ladder-related products. It is frightening because all your words and actions are charted by the ever present eyes and ears of KULMOOG Surveillance. Anyone suspected of being a spy or of being even remotely anti-ladder is tortured for information about the supposed perpetual plot to replace the ladder. KULMOOG has grown so paranoid over losing power that generally most everyone is suspected of being a spy.”
“Let’s not go to Planet KULMOOG,” suggested Rip.
“Another place we shouldn’t go is the topmost layer of Lincra. There is nothing but a bunch of ladders going up into the sky, leading nowhere. Endless hoards of tourists climb these ladders, but rather than turn around when the ladder runs out they merely attempt to continue climbing, thus falling to their death. There is never a shortage of new arrivals eager to climb the ladders, despite scattered bones covering the ground as a chilling warning sign. A fine living is made selling maps and provisions at the base of these ladders. It is incredibly easy to make a living there, for when you sell someone a map or a provision you merely wait for them to fall off the ladder, then collect your goods from the body and sell them again to the next hapless wanderer. It is not entirely known why these useless ladders exist, but the fact that people climb them is seen around the universe as a prime example of the height of stupidity. People climb the ladders simply because they are there. Some see it as a side-effect of the intense mental-conditioning that has gone down between the KULMOOG and the residents of Kroonum, as if to say the people of Kroonum have been train
ed to believe in the necessity of ladders to the point where they are physically incapable of stopping themselves from climbing a ladder when they see one. Other ideas are discussed, some more insane than others, including the usual fanatical religious groups who believe the ladders are God's way of announcing the Resurrection of the Messiah, or He Who Shall Survive the Ladder-Climb. Something like 45% of ladder-deaths are said to be people who think they are some sort of saviour. One thing is known, these dangerous ladders are allowed to remain because of the prodigious bribes being supplied to the KULMOOG by the profiteering merchants who lurk by the bone-riddled ladder's base.”
“Let us now descend the ladder in silence,” suggested Rip.
“To commemorate the passing of the ladder climbers?” asked Krimshaw.
“No, because I’m sick of hearing about them.”
And so the group finished the remainder of the journey in silence. With each passing layer they could feel the intense heat of the fiery core growing stronger. Krimshaw shed some of his clothing. He seemed to do this purely out of survival instinct, as heat stroke is the most common shared experience amongst tourists who visit Subterranean Layers, yet it was likely that he subconsciously knew if he wore less clothing the Carnival Greegs would be less offended by his presence. After what felt like eternity, the group arrived at Subterranean Layer 53, also known as the Royal Lincran Carnival Zoo.
The word ‘Royal’ could not have been a more inappropriate word to place in front of ‘Lincran Carnival Zoo.’ The place was a nasty dungeon. Greeg feces caked the stone walls. Whoops of pain emanated from an unknown distance. Chutes descended from the roof into the cages, evidently serving as feeding troughs as they spewed runoff organs from the Layer of Mildly Decent Surgeons Who Will Perform Surgery For All the Wrong Reasons. Dangerous aliens slithered along the edges of the shadowed frames, hoping to make a living by pickpocketing the space-yuppies. The space-yuppies were numerous, dim-witted and slow to the reflex. A fine living was made by the pickpockets.
Many passersby had noticed Krimshaw.
“Why do they keep pointing at me and whispering?” he asked Rip.
“Uh... they’re just admiring your jacket. Isn’t it made from the pelt of a Pelexor Snow-Demon? Those are impossible to kill, and tougher to skin.”
“I’m not wearing my jacket. It’s boiling hot down here.”
“They can see you carrying the jacket.”
“I'm not carrying my jacket, Wilx is.”
“No he's not,” said Rip.
“Where'd it go?” asked Krimshaw. “You said you'd watch my jacket!”
“Your jacket is safe,” said Wilx.
“We can see that you don't have it! Don't even try to say you're carrying all those books right now because I can see all of your hands!”
“I assure you everything is fine,” said Wilx. “Exposition is for another time.”
“He's right,” said Rip, eyeing the sketchy scenery. “Let’s just find the Greegs and get out of here.”
A largish crowd of shady characters were now following Krimshaw. They looked as if ready to pounce. One of the spider-like creatures spoke to Rip.
“Interesting Greeg you’ve got there. Wearing clothing, walking upright, speaking full thoughts, not throwing feces. Very interesting indeed. Never seen anything like it.”
“Shh!” said Rip. “He doesn’t know what he is. I have completely reformed his mind to the point where he doesn’t even know he’s a Greeg. He has no remembrance that he used to be in one of these cages.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said the spider-creature. “Look at how distressed and angry he appears. He remembers these cages, all right. He doesn’t like being here at all. Doesn’t like seeing his brothers and sisters locked up.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“None of these savage beasts deserve to be proper members of society,” said the spider. “I think he should be put back into a cage right now. But not before it’s properly explained to him what he is.”
“Don’t even think about it!”
The spider-creature started fighting its way through the crowd towards Krimshaw.
“We have to leave now,” said Rip to Wilx. “They’re gonna ruin everything. It’s still too early for Krimshaw to know the truth about his identity.”
“How do you plan to get out of here? We’re completely surrounded by things that can walk on the roof.”
Rip surveyed the area and realized Wilx was right. The space-yuppies had disappeared, having been summoned to a needless seminar regarding how to best hoard money. All that remained was the group of shady creatures bearing down on Krimshaw.
“Do something!” yelled Rip.
Wilx did something.
This was a very characteristic moment for these two well-seasoned travellers of space and time. Rip tended to be the sideline motivation, abstractly yelling for ‘something’ to be done (while actually doing nothing himself), while Wilx tended to be the one who knew what had to be done and did it.
Wilx looked at the nearest cage. It had a sign reading PECKING GRAPPLER-BIRDS. Below this sign was another sign reading NEVER OPEN. They couldn’t have chosen a better cage to stand in front of while defending themselves from yet another angry and hotly pursuant mob. Wilx did the unthinkable. He opened the cage. Pecking Grappler-Birds swarmed out, quickly filling up the space of Subterranean Layer 53. They pecked. They grappled. They flew.
“Run!” yelled Wilx.
Rip and Krimshaw followed Wilx down the corridor towards the Master Ladder.
“I think those bird things have them distracted. But don’t slow down.”
“Can you believe how fast they peck through to the brains?” asked Krimshaw.
“And how effectively they grapple the spinal cord?” added Rip.
“No time to admire the rapid killing technique of the Pecking Grappler-Bird. Everybody get on this ladder now.”
All over again they passed the many Subterranean Layers of Lincra. Despite the urgent rush a break was taken on the Layer of Transcendental Levitation. Everyone agreed some mellowing out was in order. After an hour no one had managed to successfully levitate, but the ambient music was still soothing.
Finally they reached Terminal Layer Zero.
“Should we go straight to the parking lot?” asked Rip. “Or check out some of the Floating Layers?”
“Let’s leave. I’ve had enough of this planet,” gasped Wilx.
They arrived at the parking lot.
“I didn't notice before how there isn't a single ladder in here,” said Krimshaw.
“That's because the parking lot of Lincra is the one shred of property in all of Kroonum that the KULMOOG do not attempt to claim forceful ownership upon,” explained Wilx as they walked down the main strip, attempting to hail one of the many crowded shuttle-sliders.
“Why is that?”
“Hundreds of years before the KULMOOG came into fruition, a small group of rebellious Lincran townsfolk (apparently sick and tired of having to walk into the next county in order to legally tie up their horse/horse-like-antiquated-mammal-transportation-thing while they indulged themselves at the tavern/socialization-through-intoxication-establishment) set in motion plans to acquire an eternally binding clause in which they would control ownership of the parking area of downtown Lincra and thus be free to get as intoxicated as possible without having to worry about the long stumble to the horse/horse-like-antiquated-mammal-transportation-thing. Ownership would be passed down through the bloodline of the original rebels, the Parking Lot Lords, until the end of existence. Over time the Lords maximized their ability to get home during warped states of mind by inventing and developing the shuttle-slider. Everyone liked the shuttle-sliders, so the Lords invested all their time and energy into opening up a taxi service. Not really caring about the goings-on of the parking lot other than the revenue-stream of the taxi service, the Lords have given complet
e freedom to the thousands of resident merchants, squatters, party-monsters, ravers, rockers, bashers and smashers to do whatever they please within the wild confines of the domed-lot, so long as they spend a little cash on a taxi every once in a while. A general pervasive atmosphere of intoxication and immobility rendered the shuttle-slider an unimaginably lucrative business.”
“Why do the KULMOOG care about some old clause?” asked Krimshaw. “Why don't they storm the lot?”
“I couldn't say,” said Wilx. “But the story goes the townsfolk had at their disposal the means to place a very real curse on the parking lot. Anyone not a part of the bloodline who attempts to exert control over the goings-on of the parking lot will supposedly have their brain explode after the passing of a fortnight. The KULMOOG seem to believe in the curse enough to stay away from here. It is the only known loophole in the ladder-monopolization of things in Kroonum.”
Finally they hopped on a shuttle-slider.
Obotron 1 was right where they left it.
“We can’t get in the ship,” said Wilx.
“Why not?” asked Krimshaw.
“I just remembered I forgot the remote control for the floating elevator.”
“I wondered when that problem would become relevant.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Rip. “Someone has already foreseen the problem and helped us out by smashing a bunch of windows. We’ll just enter the ship that way.”
The ship lifted off the surface and flew away from the crowded madness of planet Lincra. The rest of the fleet was waiting motionless in orbit.
Only now did Wilx notice all the fuel gauges of Obotron 1 were reading empty.
“Seems we were the victims of fuel-bandits,” he said calmly. “Everybody prepare themselves. The ship is about to crash into the nearest object of dangerous proportions.”
“Why don’t we just drain the fuel from one of the other fleet ships?” suggested Rip. “Let them crash and burn.”
“What a great idea! Bless your heartless heart!”
The fuel from another Obotron was ordered to be switched over to their own ship.
The process didn’t take long. Afterwards the ship that had been randomly chosen to have all of its fuel drained was destroyed by the nearest object of dangerous proportions, which in this case was the planet Lincra.
Obotron 1 and the now remaining 15 other fleet ships zoomed off into the vast Kroonum system. The ship was chilly, on account of all the broken windows exposing them to the open vacuum of space. Krimshaw put on his Pelexor Snow-Demon jacket. The one that would have been admired by the angry and hotly and pursuant mob if he had been wearing it at the time.