by Erick Drake
"For what it's worth," said Mic, "The beeping thing has stopped beeping."
Jones glared at Mic. Great. Now they could bring Daisy back. Except now there was no Daisy to bring back. His glare remained fixed on Mic as he said, "Steve, how are the MASERs?"
"Ready."
"Fire," said Jones.
Space Scrap 17 hurtled toward the alien weapon, intense bursts of photons in the form of microwaves stabbing ineffectively at the giant artefact. The ship then veered off and streaked away in the opposite direction. Space Scrap 17 disappeared inside the now vast wormhole entrance.
After a moment, the Doomsday Weapon followed.
14 Bugger
In a small room on a large island on the planet known as the Nonsense Sphere, an Ululation sat composing a sexy communication to his partner, who was at that moment in her bedroom, far away on one of the four major continents of that world. His message began 'My dearest SwishySkirt', before continuing with various flowery declarations of his love, the tone of which started at the ethereal end of the spectrum before descending rapidly to the more graphically biological end. His communication signed off with a rather unsatisfying 'all my love, QuiveringFetlocks'. He paused for a moment, considering, his digital pen raised. Then he nodded to himself, having discerned the necessary poetic flourish with which to round off his saucy missive. He bent once more to his digital paper and added, 'P.S. For your consideration, please find attached a photograph of my penis. Best wishes to your mother'. Yes, he thought, perfect. He clicked the top of his pen three times and the content of his digital paper translated itself into a quantum packet and sped off to SwishySkirt.
QuiveringFetlocks had a largely boring job that required him to be isolated on this island for long periods. Which wasn't so bad since, as an Ululation, he was quite keen on isolation. But his job isolated him even further by requiring him to stay inside, in this room packed with quietly humming computer equipment which he was required to sit and watch for long shifts and which was, to say the least, stultifyingly dull.
He was a member of the Ululation Space Corps, a military organisation whose main task was to ensure that the Ululation world remained isolated from the rest of the Galaxy. The motto of this ancient and venerable institution, 'Fuck off', left no room for misinterpretation on this point and, to the minds of the creative team paid to come up with it, got the message across quite nicely.
QuiveringFetlocks's part in passing on this message to the rest of the Galaxy was, like that of several other low-grade Ululations posted on various islands around the Sphere in rooms just like this one, to monitor the deep space tracking equipment for signs of incursion into Ululation space by aliens. Or to give them their proper military nomenclature, 'bastards'.
Writing erotic communications to his partner was one way in which QuiveringFetlocks staved off the boredom. The other was biscuits. He was quite fond of biscuits. But then who wasn't?
QuiveringFetlocks sat up abruptly, his hand frozen midway to a plate of lunch biscuits.
His signal monitoring boards had suddenly lit up like a Gavin Starmane parade.
He ran a diagnostic loop. No. The signal was real. This was it, the big one! He licked his prehensile upper lip nervously. Was this really it? If he raised the alarm and it was just a failed circuit . . . He ran the diagnostic once more. The equipment was working perfectly. Well then.
He stabbed at the big, red button.
"Yes?" said a terse voice.
By Starmane it was her! It had to be. BlackWindow herself.
"Ma'am, this is monitor station Snicker three."
"Yes?" came the voice again, this time somehow managing to convey hints of both impatience and impending, horrifyingly cruel violence.
He licked his lips once more. "Code Bastard."
There was a brief pause on the other end. "You're sure?"
"It's a true signal. As far as I can tell there is an unauthorised incursion at the edge of our system."
"Continue monitor and recording." The line went dead.
QuiveringFetlocks took a deep, shuddering breath. Ignoring the plate on his desk he opened the special draw, the draw that he had never in his wildest dreams expected to open.
QuiveringFetlocks reached tremulously into the draw for the excitement biscuits.
* * *
At the edge of the Testiculon binary star system, the home system of the isolationist Ululations, a fanfare of pyrotechnics announced the opening of a wormhole.
Space Scrap 17 bolted from the wormhole exit as if fleeing all the demons of hell. Which it sort of was.
"We're out of the wormhole," reported Steve.
"Excellent. All stop. Close the wormhole."
"But the Turd is still in there!"
"I know. Now close the flapping wormhole."
Steve grinned and shut down the wormhole generators. Immediately, the wormhole exit collapsed.
Tongue stepped down to stand by the Captain's chair. "You've trapped it in hyperspace."
"Yes."
"With no way out."
"Yes."
"Oh, now that's clever."
"I was aiming," said Jones, sitting back with a sadistic grin, "for vindictive and hateful, but I'll take clever."
"Mic, raise Ululation military command on the Nonsense Sphere at once," said Tongue, his tone urgent.
"What's up?" said Jones.
"They will have detected our arrival, which means they'll be preparing to blow us to atoms."
"But we've just saved them from a giant Doomsday Turd."
"They don't know that. Yet."
"But they must be expecting someone - the Square Jaw was . . ." Jones trailed off, his feeling of elation at the destruction of the alien weapon replaced by the memory of Daisy's death.
Tongue placed an awkward hand on Jones's arm, "The Square Jaw had a set of agreed authorisation codes to be transmitted continuously as they approached this system. Without those we are just trespassers in their space."
"Unable to contact the Ululations," said Mic. "That odd radiation is scattering our signal."
"How?" said Tongue. "That should have died with the alien weapon."
"Correlation does not imply causation?" said Mic, somehow managing a shrug in his environment suit.
"What does that imply?" said Steve, pointing at the view screen.
Outside, space-time bent like light caught in a particularly twisted and massive gravity lens. And then, like so much wet tissue paper, it ripped open. The alien doomsday weapon thundered back into normal space through the tortured space-time fracture, hungry and looking for something, preferably several somethings, to kill.
Jones stood, eyes wide, "Holy mother of -"
"Well, that's it then," said Tongue, "We've lost."
"XO, I'm receiving a transmission!" said Mic.
"From the Turd? Is it asking for terms of surrender, we surrender, tell it we surrender."
"It'll be the Ululations," said Tongue stepping forward, "tell them to direct their attack at -"
"It's Captain Daryl."
"No it isn’t,” snapped Jones, “Not unless she’s speaking from beyond the grave."
"She's speaking from the bridge of the Square Jaw actually."
"What? Mic, start making sense, the Square Jaw’s atoms are scattered across what remains of the atoms of the Cuk system."
"Space Scrap 17, do you read? I'm boosting my signal to punch through the interference, the tech on this ship is amazing," Daisy's voice crackled from the intercom.
"Daisy - Captain - where are you?"
"Had to find somewhere this bastard couldn't shoot at me. I hitched a ride."
"Jones, look," Steve pointed at the view screen where he had zoomed in on the tail end of the alien weapon. Squatting on the back of the Doomsday Machine was the LASS Square Jaw - in the only place in the Galaxy safe from the alien energy weapons.
"I blinded it with the anti-matter swarm explosions and opened a wormhole above its back. I was already go
ne by the time it started shooting."
"Nice work! Listen, we finished repairs here, we can bring you back to your own body."
"Not yet XO, I need to kill this thing first."
"Captain," said Mic, "the alien weapon has by all measures been fashioned to be both an immovable object and an irresistible force. How do you intend to defeat it with nothing more than a wrecked spaceship?"
Daisy did not answer, instead a disconcerting dry cackle came over the intercom. "Do me a favour," she said, "Fire at this thing and then run as fast as you can for the Nonsense Sphere."
"Captain, the Ululation space force won't be able to take it on. They won't even slow it down," said Tongue.
"In any case," said Jones, "The Doctor says you only have five minutes left before your brain turns to jelly over here."
"Well, you'd better be ready then. Captain out."
* * *
Moments later Space Scrap 17 opened fire on the alien weapon and shot off into space.
The alien war machine roared off in pursuit. Not that it needed much encouragement - it was headed that way anyway and it was already pissed off at being sealed in hyperspace.
That was the way Daisy imagined it anyway. She couldn't help but anthropomorphize her inadvertent host. It helped make it slightly less threatening but only in so far as an angry tiger with a gun might seem slightly less threatening if you took away its gun.
It wasn't much but it kept her from screaming.
"Daisy," Jones's worried voice sounded over the intercom, "Dr Smiert says she's ready to transfer but you only have two minutes and thirty-five seconds left."
"Stand by XO, we're going to be cutting it very fine. Computer?"
"Yes, Captain Weaver?"
"You have the coordinates worked out?"
"Yes, Captain Weaver. Although I would remind the Captain that -"
"Never mind. Activate wormhole generators."
Fifty miles ahead of the Doomsday Turd, a wormhole entrance blossomed into existence with a crackle of exotic radiations and hyper-physics. The Turd's velocity meant it could not avoid thundering into the mouth of the wormhole.
Daisy imagined it didn't really care.
In fact, she was counting on it.
* * *
On the bridge of Space Scrap 17, all attention was fixed on the main viewer, which showed the vast Doomsday Weapon roaring after them in pursuit.
"What's that?" shouted Jones.
"Wormhole," said Steve, "She's opening a wormhole directly in its path!"
"Nice try," said Tongue, "but it won't buy us much time, that thing can tear itself back into real space."
"Er, Science Officer, can you check these wormhole coordinates?" Tongue exchanged a puzzled glance with Jones as he joined Steve and checked his board.
He blinked once. Twice.
"Bloody hell," he said simply.
"What? Bloody hell what?" Jones's nerves were stretched to breaking point, the last thing he wanted was another variable to juggle.
"XO," came the Doctor’s urgent voice, "We have one minute twenty seconds."
"Daisy, we have to pull you back now."
"Not yet, XO," Daisy's voice crackled against the background radiation. "Just a few more seconds."
* * *
In the coldness of space, the alien war machine thundered toward the mouth of the wormhole.
Its programming did not care about this at all.
Its programming knew that once it exited the wormhole it could simply create its own and come right back here. Of course, they would not have been able to create an exit point in the middle of a hostile environment like, say, a star. Wormhole mouths could not be formed in such places, the exotic particles used to open normal space to hyperspace just could not stabilise in such intense environments. And in the event the wormhole exit was closed before it could leave hyperspace, well, it would just rip its way back into normal space.
Like anything else in this Galaxy, this was nothing it couldn’t handle.
Out of mild curiosity, it checked the wormhole exit point.
Oh, it thought.
Bugger.
* * *
The bridge crew on Space Scrap 17 watched in fascinated horror as the view screen relayed events.
They watched as the mighty Doomsday Machine thundered into the wormhole, thrust headlong by its own unstoppable velocity.
They watched as, at exactly the same time it entered the wormhole, the Doomsday Machine also exited it.
And crashed into itself coming in.
Daisy had programmed the wormhole exit to occupy almost exactly the same space as the entrance.
No sooner did the weapon enter the wormhole, it also came out again.
Right into its own unstoppable path.
"XO, bring me back," shouted Daisy over the intercom.
"Now Doctor, bring her back!"
They watched the view screen as the Doomsday Machine violently shattered into itself, its atoms exploding away from each other at almost the speed of light.
"Immovable object, allow us to introduce irresistible force," muttered Mic.
The view screen whited out, sensors unable to cope with the tumultuous, explosive devastation on display.
15 In two minds?
By the time Jones got down to sick bay Daisy was already sitting up, a bottle of water gripped in both hands. She gave him a wan smile.
"Welcome back, Captain," he said. He could not keep the grin from his face. He didn't grin very often but when he did, he found his face was the best place to keep it. Although he felt he could keep a passable grin on his elbows if he concentrated really hard, which he didn't like to do as it gave him a headache.
Daisy frowned down at the water bottle. "This water tastes of blue," she said.
Jones looked over at the Doctor who was tidying away the Neural Uploader. "Is she . . . you know," he made vague gestures around his head.
"I'm perfectly fine thank you XO, just feels weird being back in my own body."
"This is normal after such a procedure," said Smiert, laying a reassuring hand on Daisy's arm.
"Thank you, Doctor, that's very reassuring."
Smiert shrugged, "It is? Oh. Good. Well, we go with that then. Now, please leave sick bay."
"Wait – shouldn't you run tests?"
"Tests? No, I am positive I want you to leave sick bay." Smiert went back to packing away the equipment.
Daisy frowned. "Where was it you said you qualified, Doctor?"
Smiert paused, holding up a pair of electrodes. "Where did you say you got this Neural Uploader, Captain?"
"Yes well," said Daisy quickly, sliding off the gurney, "That will be all Doctor, thank you. Jones, what's happening?"
"Well, you did it. The rest of the bridge crew are still pointing and laughing at what remains of the Doomsday Turd. Which isn't much. That was brilliant, opening a wormhole exit inside an entrance. Fantastic. You did . . . you did do that on purpose, didn't you? That wasn't, like, your attempt at navigation that went horribly, horribly wrong was it?"
"No XO, that was the plan."
"Good. Of course. Yes. But just in case, you are banned from going anywhere near the helm in future."
"It was the computer that did all the maths, not me. Which reminds me, I want our computer switched to voice activation. So much more efficient."
"I'll tell Mic to sort it. Brilliant idea that."
"Oh well, you know what they say. Two heads are better than one."
"What do you mean?" asked Smiert.
Jones coughed. "Yes, well, I think we've overstayed our lack of welcome in sick bay, shall we -" Jones indicated the exit.
"Well, you know Doctor. You discovered I have two sets of brain waves."
"That is not possible. You have one set of brainwaves like everyone else."
"No. Two. Jones, didn't you say -" She looked questioningly at Jones.
"Right, yes, about that. See, you were stuck over there and there was this
huge killing machine thing, and it was all a bit bonkers and stuff. Still, all worked out, shall we go?"
"You lied?"
"A white lie, a small lie, in fact not a lie at all, because you are so like Captain Weaver, you could be the same person and . . . Captain? Daisy?"
Daisy stood motionless, a rictus grin frozen on her face, eyes glazed, staring into the abyss of reality which pointed back and laughed at her.
"Daisy?"
She took a deep breath and released a star shattering scream of pent-up terror.
* * *
Tongue entered his cabin and locked the door. He extracted his briefcase and opened it. The isomorphic sensors recognised that this was indeed Ambassador NotPronounceableByYourPrimitiveEarthTongue and that it should not kill him. Which it was somewhat disappointed at since it really didn't get much action these days.
With brisk professionalism and practised movements, Tongue opened the case and activated the internal secret locks. The atoms of the bottom of the case rearranged themselves, revealing the essential tools of his craft. Hairbrush, a gun, industrial strength pheromone aftershave, a gun, lippy, a gun and a credit coin containing unlimited funds in any currency. And a gun. There were one or two other items vital to a man in his profession including an encrypted transceiver that he now selected. He paused briefly, wondering if on second thoughts it would have been wiser to bring some ammunition for the guns but there was really no room for it. Not if he were to have sufficient supplies of emergency makeup. Shrugging, he closed the case again and activated the transceiver.
Instantly a privacy bubble enveloped him, ensuring that his conversation could not be accidentally or intentionally overheard.
The voice, when it came, was as Tongue remembered. Like multiple sibilant voices speaking at once but each slightly out of synch with the other. All the voices shared the same qualities: mocking, ancient and malevolent, like evil rocks grinding evilly against one another. "Speak, Agent Rebus."