The Doomsday Machine: Space Scrap 17 Book 1

by Erick Drake

  It went on to elaborate its point: Somewhere along their evolutionary path, some species will attain the level of intelligence required to change their environment to fit their needs instead of having to mess about with all that hit and miss genetic mutation stuff required to change their biology to survive in their environment. With evolutionary development thus halted, the species would then invariably go on a massive process of industrialisation with scant regard to the concomitant pollution and waste products. It is only when the planetary ecosystem has become crippled beneath the burden of their waste products that the species would decide that no, really, wallowing in your own filth isn't that much fun, that they had learned nothing over the last seventy thousand years and that they'd better do something before their entire ecosystem collapses and kills them all. Something that, ironically, would not have happened had they retained their ability to evolve in the face of a changing environment.

  The universe, postulated the wig, was indeed full of garbage. And people pay good money to have their garbage picked up and taken away. If everything John Daryl touched really did turn to trash, then maybe he should cut out the middleman and make money out of it.

  Not so much King Midas, suggested the wig, more Rumpelstiltskin, turning garbage into gold.

  “Just think”, said the wig in a last parting shot, “you could easily afford the MickBook Hair Pro. Imagine that.”

  John Daryl did imagine that.

  A decade later, here he was, chief executive of Space Scrap, sitting in his space HQ, with his space garbage haulage and reclamation business, Admiral of his own proud fleet of ships.

  His 'fleet' numbered precisely one, Space Scrap 17, because one ship was all he could barely afford. The rich streams of cash had not flowed as freely as his wig had suggested. With no start-up budget, he had to build up assets. Which was not easy given the running costs and red tape involved in spaceship maintenance. That and the fact that each new Mick wig he purchased always suggested buying the next, most expensive available smart wig. Resist as he might, the Admiral would inevitably splurge his profits on the latest offering from CoolTek Corp.

  But now at last it seemed the universe had finally moved in his favour and Admiral Daryl was once again excited for the future. And his daughter Daisy was about to Captain her first vessel.

  A reminder chimed. The Admiral swivelled to check which of his many devices had made the noise. It wasn't the wig, which at this moment lay on the desk curled up asleep. The chime chimed once more. Where the hell was it? The Admiral grew concerned - if he had set the timer to remind him of something then it was likely important. And whatever it was, he was most certainly already late for it.

  He liked to set his timepieces five minutes later than standard time. Some people set their timepieces five minutes early to ensure they would always be on time. He had tried this, but it never worked. The problem was he knew that his timepieces were five minutes early so when one of his alarms went off, he thought he had bags of time, didn’t rush and ended up late as a result.

  In the end he gave up, decided he was the sort of person who was always late and if he was going to be late anyway, he might as well set his alarms five minutes late so that he knew to get a shift on for real when they actually went off. When people complained that he had kept them waiting, he replied that they would have had a considerably shorter wait had they not set their alarms five minutes early and ended up at the meeting well ahead of the time they should have been there.

  In any case, what was the point of arriving early? If everyone did that then everyone would keep arriving earlier and earlier for fear that everyone else was already at the meeting well before the agreed time.

  He could only conclude that the reason people liked to arrive early for meetings was not due to a desire for efficiency but for the smug satisfaction of being there ahead of everyone else. He had no time, early or late, for such needless one-upmanship preferring instead to display his utter contempt by deliberately and obdurately being late on purpose.

  The chime sounded again.

  Where the bloody hell was the thing? What was he late for? He frantically searched his desk, his bookshelves, his pockets. Nothing.

  "Argh! Where are you damnit! What do you want of me?" he shouted at it, wherever it was.

  * * *

  'Admiral John N. Daryl, Space Scrap Inc', proclaimed the door signage.

  She read the sign again smiling proudly.

  'Admiral' Daryl. And now here she was, Captain Daisy Daryl, about to receive her first commission. She smoothed her new uniform for what seemed like the hundredth time and pressed the buzzer, also for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  "Argh! Where are you damnit! What do you want of me?" shouted a muffled voice.

  She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

  "Dad?" Daisy entered the room. "What's the matter?"

  Admiral Daryl stood in the centre of his office, a fevered glint in his eye, breathing heavily. "Bloody reminder. I'm late for something! Can you see it anywhere?"

  "Does it sound like this?" Daisy reached outside the door and pressed the buzzer.

  "That's it!"

  "Good. That's that sorted." Daisy marched into the office and sat down in the chair facing the Admiral's desk. She waited there for a moment before realising her father had not joined her. She swivelled in the chair.

  The Admiral was still looking around, confused.

  "Dad, it was the doorbell."

  "Oh," the confusion cleared from his features, "yes, of course, the doorbell." The confusion returned. "Why would I set a reminder on the doorbell?"

  Daisy sighed and massaged the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. "I'm here for the mission briefing."

  "Ah, of course! I set the reminder on the doorbell to remind me that you would be arriving for the mission briefing. Hah! Thought I was losing it for a minute. Anyway, you're late Daisy, not a good start."

  "What?"

  "You only arrived after my reminder went off and I always set my reminders five minutes late. So, you must be late."

  Daisy puffed out her cheeks. OK, one of those days. "Yes Dad, sorry. I got held up by . . . the doorbell."

  "A poor workman always blames his tools."

  "That's not the proverb, it's actually -"

  "Still, never mind." The Admiral took his seat behind the desk.

  "So," he said, beaming at her, "Captain Daisy Daryl."

  Daisy spread her hands and smiled in a silent ‘Ta-dah’ gesture.

  "You know there were times when I never thought I'd see this proud day. My Silly Knickers, a Captain."

  Daisy gave a tight smile. She'd hoped he would have forgotten that stupid nickname by now. She was twenty-seven after all. Yes, she had been a scatter-brained child. Yes, she was something of an awkward teenager. Yes, she used to eat chalk. And yes, she had only stopped eating chalk last year. But she was a different person now. A professional. A Captain. Well, sort of. She swallowed that thought and focused on her father.

  "Now, we have been selected for a very special mission by the Loose Association of Sentient Species."

  That made her sit up. The LASS? What the hell?

  "It appears that the Ululations, until now a reclusive and isolationist species, have decided to enter talks with LASS with a view to applying for vague interest in joining. I have no need to tell you how important their vague interest could be, particularly now."

  "No indeed," said Daisy.

  "You see there is much friction within the Association. Political instability."

  "Yes Dad, I know."

  "There are rumours of Galactic war."

  "Yes, I know."

  "The Ululations with their advanced shielding technology could change all that."

  "Dad, you have no need to tell me how important their vague interest would be, particularly now."

  "Particularly now. Now particularly. Particularly." Daisy opened her mouth to interrupt. The Admiral rai
sed a finger to silence her. "Now," he finished.

  "Yes. I see. Great."

  "No-one even knows what an Ululation looks like. It's been centuries since there was any contact with them. And here we are at the centre of things. History in the making."

  "What is this mission, exactly?"

  "Now Daisy this is top-secret, very hush-hush. Hush-Secret. Space Scrap 17 is to take a Yerbootsian Ambassador to a top-secret, very hush-hush rendezvous with the ‘Square Jaw’, flag-ship of the LASS. The Ambassador will transfer to the Square Jaw and they will proceed to the Nonsense Sphere, home world of the Ululations. From there he will accompany their delegates to the top-secret, very hush-hush talks at space station Blah-Blah. Your cover story is that you are delivering a consignment of raw sewage to the Yerbootsian home world, which Space Scrap will proceed to do after the top-secret, very hush-hush rendezvous with the Square Jaw. Clear?"

  Daisy shifted uncomfortably. "OK, I get that this is top-secret and hush-hush -"

  The Admiral raised a finger. "VERY hush-hush."

  "Very hush-hush but . . . well, it is a great honour and all that, it's just . . . well is a garbage freighter the best ship for such an important task?"

  The Admiral placed hands flat on the desk. "Daisy, it is perfect. There are political factions that would like nothing more than to prevent the Ululations joining the LASS - they would go to any lengths to disrupt the process up to and including violently murdering the Yerbootsian Ambassador and anyone who comes into contact with him."

  Daisy pondered that for a moment. "Yay," she eventually said in a very small voice.

  "Cheer up! It’s quite the feather in your cap. And on your very first mission as Captain!"

  "Right. It's just for my first mission I was looking forward to a standard, unexciting, routine haulage job. For a few years. You know, more routine, less threat of violent death." The truth of the matter was, Daisy had been relying on her first couple of missions being nondescript and straightforward. This mission was the last thing she needed. She had planned on being unnoticed but this mission had shoved her into the centre of a bloody big spotlight accompanied by a carnival dancing band complete with garish attire and trumpets.

  "But that's just it," the Admiral's eyes gleamed, "no-one is going to suspect a Yerbootsian Ambassador of travelling on a garbage freighter. You’ll be perfectly safe. He is listed on the crew manifest as the new science officer by the way."

  "Science Officer? Why do we need a science officer?"

  "Well, it was either that or toilet attendant and they vetoed that suggestion on the basis that toilet attendants aren't bridge officers."

  "Nonsense, he could control toilet functions from the bridge, he wouldn't have to actually be in main toileteering."

  "Well, in any case it's settled."

  "I still think another ship would be better placed -"

  "Daisy, we have had no contracts for months now. The ship is falling apart. We need the money. We just can't compete with the bigger players. But all that is about to change. In return for our part in this historic endeavour, we will receive exclusive and lucrative contracts."

  "But -"

  "Exclusive."

  "Yes, but -"

  "Lucrative."

  "Dad? DAD?"

  The Admiral’s eyes lost focus as he rolled his two favourite words around. "Lucrative . . . exclusive," he mumbled.

  Daisy gave up. She was not going to get out of this. Fine. A plan came to mind. She would play the part of a distant and demanding Captain and surreptitiously get the first officer to do all the Captain stuff until the Ambassador was on his way. That's what first officers were for wasn't it, doing the work?

  "OK Dad, you're right. Sounds exciting."

  "Ah Daisy, if only your mother were here to see this. She would have been so proud."

  "Do you think?" said Daisy through a sudden lump in her throat.

  "Yes. However, she's not here and is probably getting drunk in a bar somewhere or sleeping with strangers. Or both."

  "Lovely," said Daisy. "Talking of mum, don't you think it's about time you got out again? You've been alone for way too long."

  "Me? Oh, don't worry about me. I have Carl."

  "Carl?"

  The Admiral indicated the reddish-brown splat of hair currently sipping milk from a saucer on his desk.

  "Oh, your . . . friend," said Daisy, not quite sure which word to use.

  "If you mean 'wig', say wig," suggested the Admiral.

  "Fine. Wig."

  "Oh, that's right, kick a man when he's down! I had to sell my hair just to keep the lights on young lady! Electricity isn't free!"

  "It's solar-powered, Dad, the local star provides more than enough energy for this space station."

  "Well, food then."

  "Pseudo food is perfectly nutritious. Everyone eats it."

  "Reconstituted faecal matter!"

  "Delicious reconstituted faecal matter." Daisy waved her hand at the Cakes 9000 unit in the corner, its lights indicating it had a splendid meal ready for heating and consumption. The tubing snaked away from the kitchen unit and into the lavatory compartment. "Face facts, Dad, you didn't need to sell your hair."

  "Didn't need? Didn't need? How else can I afford to buy these smart wigs?"

  "That's just the point. You buy them for company. Why don't you just make yourself available?"

  "Available? Do you mean that I should become a prostitute?" the Admiral boomed.

  Daisy picked up a leaflet from a stack on the Admiral's desk. It showed the Admiral in skimpy underwear and black fishnet stockings, striking a pose that would on anyone else be described as 'suggestive' but in his case could only be described as 'suggestive of the sort of thing that would get you in the night if you didn't eat your reconstituted faecal matter greens'. She held up the leaflet with a raised eyebrow.

  "Yes, well that didn't work out. And put down that raised eyebrow before you break it."

  Daisy returned both items to the desk.

  The mass of hair growled slightly. The Admiral stroked it lovingly. "There there Carl, she doesn't mean it. Anyway," the Admiral returned his attention to his daughter, "You're not in any position to lecture me on relationships. What was the name of that horny one? The one from that planet where they all look like Satan. All red skin, fangs and horns."

  "Satyr Seven. And his name was Philip."

  "He really got my goat."

  "He apologised for that."

  "Apologised? Daisy, he ate my pet goat!"

  "That's what they eat on Satyr Seven. He thought you were honouring the customs of his people."

  The Admiral huffed. "And what about that bloody hippy, new romantic or whatever he was."

  "Jack. And he was a poet."

  "Oh yes, violent Jack 'the butcher' McVitie. 'Oh Daisy, I shall give you my heart'."

  Daisy shifted uncomfortably. "Well, he did. It was in a nice box and everything."

  "And then you dated the entire Hyperspatial Minotaur Hive!"

  "Oh, come on, that was a rebound! Anyway, any of them were preferable to Michigan Jones."

  "Who? Oh yes, that last one. What was wrong with him?"

  "He had a nasty habit of being right."

  "Bastard. Whatever happened to him?"

  "Probably still lying drunk in his own filth."

  "Huh. No ambition, eh?"

  "Oh no, he had plenty of ambition, his ambition being to get drunk and lie in his own filth. From that point of view, he’s a high achiever."

  "Not Captain material, though?"

  "Definitely not."

  "What about EO?"

  "EO? What's EO?"

  "Executive Officer."

  "That's XO."

  "No, it isn't. That would be Xecutive Officer. That's not how you spell Executive."

  "No, the acronym takes the second letter of the first word."

  "Don't be silly Daisy, that's not how acronyms work. They're not based on phonetics. That's the point o
f acronyms, they take the first letter of each word. Everyone knows where there are. Otherwise, the whole thing is load of US."

  "US?"

  "Bull Shit."

  Daisy raised her eyebrows. "Well, anyway, you can't go around calling the first officer EO, everyone would think you were saying hello all the time. I’d say 'EO?', and he’d say 'Oh hello Captain', and I’d say "No not 'Hello EO', I meant 'EO?' . . . EO', and he’d probably say 'Is the Captain ill?', and then I’d have to say -"

  "Yes, yes, yes, Daisy I get the point. Well, whatever the acronym, this Michigan Jones fellow wouldn't make a good one?"

  Daisy, who was still trying to follow the EO conversation through in her head suddenly zoned back into the conversation, "What? Oh, him, no. Lazy bastard. It's why I left him in the end. I doubt he even noticed I'd gone. I left him a note, but he hated reading things, said reading was like jogging for the eyes, made him out of breath and sweaty."

  "Oh," said the Admiral, "Good." He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment. "Well, anyway you're well off out of that one and now you're a fully fledged Captain. All the details, mission brief, command codes and so forth are in here," he said, handing her a thick folder.

  He sat back in his chair. "So, ready to make history?"

  "Ready," answered Daisy with a smile that appeared to be full of confidence. Which was regrettably exactly what it was - a smile that only appeared to be full of confidence.

  They both stood and each briefly covered their eyes with their hands in the traditional Terran space fleet salute.

  "Good luck Captain Daryl."

  "Thank you, Admiral Daryl."

  As she left her father’s office, Daisy wondered if she should have confessed to him exactly how she had managed to pass the Captain's exam. Not to worry, she thought, I'll just have to rely on the XO until I get the hang of it.

  As Daisy left his office, the Admiral wondered if he should have told her he had enlisted Michigan Jones as her EO.

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