In Favour of Fools: A Science Fiction Comedy (These Foolish Things Book 1) (18 page)

Chapter 41
- Now for Plan B

I’ve come up with a clever plan; if it works, I might just walk off this planet on my own, without the company of my new best friends.

This is what I’m going to do. I‘m going to claim that I need the toilet, and after three pints, it’s not stretching the truth. When I have a little privacy, I’ll tap out an email to Julie on my wrist-top, asking her to get the local gendarmerie to meet us at the Squirtport and arrest my companions; they must be wanted for something. Whilst they are arguing with the police, I’ll make my escape, and all subsequent problems can be worried about later.

Of course, I can’t just send the email directly to Julie; that would far too easy. On Greenhaven, there is no direct access to the Earth’s internet, yet it is not completely cut off for emails. The way it works is this; I send my email to an address at the Squirtport where it is recorded onto a data pellet. Every twenty minutes, a pellet is squirted to Earth, where it connects to the internet and passes on the message; couldn’t be simpler. That’s how I upload my
story to my narrative facilitator. (
My narrative facilitator? I don’t think so.NF)
Mole wants to come with me, to check for emergency exits, but Refined says it’s OK; he’s already been and there’s only the one way in or out.

‘Allow him a little privacy,’ he says. ’It’s the least we can do.’

So now I’m sitting in trap one, typing out my message to Julie on my virtual keyboard. I just hope she’s not out shopping, or focussing on one of her puzzles to the exclusion of all else.

There, that should do it. I’ll reread it for typos; she always makes fun of me for my spelling. Looks OK so I’ll hit the send key and in twenty minutes or so….

Oh no! That can’t be right! How can there be a queue? This is the twenty-first century for heaven’s sake! My wrist-top has received a response from the Triple S (Semi-Sentient System) that runs the Squirtport, advising that, due to heavy traffic, a queuing system has been imposed. Apparently it will be three hours before my message can be forwarded. The Triple S may be incredibly bright by human standards, but nobody told it that the port would be shut down long before my message reached the end of the queue.

So, this is where I should bring in Plan B, if I had one; I don’t.

As I leave the slightly whiffy toilets, I try to smile. It’s all I’ve got left; my charm.

At least I’ll get a ride in a plane out of this¸ and that will give me time to think of this Plan B I’m going to need.

(I should be spending my time working on my own book, not writing this tosh. My book is about pixies, and I’m not embarrassed to say that. Pixies are wonderful creatures, beautiful and kind and brave. In the hands of a true writer, they can be heroic. Unfortunately, I have bills to pay, so I’m stuck with this opus, which is turning out much longer than I’d hoped. N.F.)

The plane is a top of the range VTOL jet, with room for six passengers, if they are all very close friends. Refined has done a deal with three stranded business men and they are coming with us. There were some protests before we left, as other hopeful passengers argued their cases, but Mole settled them down, without having to say very much; he’s good like that.

There was no sign of Linda, so she must still be in the bar; thinking of me?

Now I’m sat in the middle seat, with Mole on my left. He’s much wider than I’d realised and his right arm seems to require more of my space than I really like, but I’m not going to say anything. I just lean a little to my right. I’m starting to get a bit tense about the squirt, even though it’s still more than an hour away.

I've always had this recurring dream where I’m kneeling in a squirtbooth. My head has exploded and my brains have been splattered all over the walls and are dripping down towards the floor. They are not nearly as grey as I would have expected; quite pink really. I have a teaspoon and am trying to scoop the gloop back into what remains of my cranial cavity. I’m hampered because my right eye keeps falling out and hanging against my cheek. It’s really tricky to slot it back into place when your brains are still pooling on the floor.

This is a perfectly normal dream, isn’t it? It’s not just me.

We’ve landed at the Squirtport, after a supersonic flight with very little in the way of chat; which was fine by me. Mole frightens me and Refined may have a beautiful voice, yet he’s hardly likely to say anything I want to hear; like goodbye.

We walk into the concourse and come up against our next problem; there’s a queue. Actually there a three queues; each stretching across the wide space from the booth entrance points to the far wall.

I look at Refined; he appears suddenly a little grumpy. I look at Mole, then immediately look away; he was looking at me with that single-minded glare he has.

We’re stuck in the age-old quandary; which queue should we choose? It‘s quite obvious that not everyone will get through in the twenty minutes we have left. Fortunately, we don’t have to worry about that problem much longer.

Refined nods to Mole and says, ‘do your stuff.’

Mole returns the nod and begins to walk towards the front of the nearest queue. As he walks, his stride widens and his shoulders begin to roll; he juts his head forward and clenches his fists. He was scaring me before he started; now there is an almost visible wave of aggression pouring from him.

He reaches the front of the queue, where a large powerful-looking man is studying his watch. He hasn’t noticed Mole’s approach but, when he looks up and realises what is stood oh so close to him, he yelps and leaps back, out of the line.

Mole takes his place and Refined indicates that we should join him. As we start forward, an old lady who is now standing right behind Mole, prods him with her parasol.

‘Excuse me, young man.’ She prods again. Her voice is high and clear. ’This is a queue. You can’t just walk to the front like that. The end is over there.’ She waves the parasol in the general direction of the far wall, then she prods him again, to make her point.

People are beginning to laugh; in fact, Refined is chuckling to himself as we get closer. ’He won’t like this; not at all. He hates being laughed at.’

‘Are you listening to me, young man? Did your mother never teach you your manners?’

Mole lashes out and snatches the parasol from her hand, before she can prod him again.

‘Don’t mention my mother,’ he growls.

She’s just slapped him across the face, and a long gasp is racing across the crowd.

Refined jumps forward to try to stop the unnecessarily violent reaction that is bound to come, and I decide that it would be best for all involved if I just take my leave.

Without a sound, I spin on my heels and walk quickly back to the exit. Nobody is paying me any attention whatsoever; they’re all far too interested in the fight that is breaking out behind me. Uniformed security guards rush past me, competing against a group of police officers, all desperate to be first to join in the fun, and now I’m outside again.

I fasten up my coat and pull the hat and scarf from my pockets. There’s only one sun up now, but it’s still very hot. I make a poor attempt at a whistle as I walk around the corner and look for a suitable place to hide.

I told you I had a Plan B, didn’t I?

Chapter 42
- Then what if something really bad happens?

Peter changed from the mildly abrasive scrubbing sponge to the silky smooth polishing cloth and beamed. It was Monday morning, and he always cleaned his pride and joy on a Monday morning. No matter how exciting his weekend had been, and the Historical Re-Enactment Society really did know how to have fun, he was always keen to get back to what he called ‘real life.’

By the time he’d finished, he’d worked up quite a sweat; but it was all in a good cause. He stepped back to admire his work; he could see his face in the gleaming black carapace of The Wha-If-Something-Really-Bad-Happens? AI. (TWISRBH? In future. N.F.)
The AI, or to be more accurate, its real-space interface, was contained in a black cube just two metres on a side, and it was Peter’s job to look after it. The AI received input from all of the other AIs and amalgamated and processed the data, looking for possibly dangerous macro scale situations.

The idea was that, if the occasion should arise, and something sufficiently dangerous or significant was calculated to be likely to occur, then TWISRBH? would set things in motion to reduce any possible harmful impact.

To Peter’s certain knowledge, the AI had never been required to take such action. So he was more than a little surprised when his implants buzzed and he received a message from his charge.

‘Peter, please convene a meeting of the President and the joint chiefs, to start as soon as it is humanly possible.’ Peter felt that there was a slight pause before the word ‘humanly’ as if TWISRBH? considered that it was debasing itself with this contact with its organic masters.

‘Yes, sir.’ Peter snapped to attention, although he’d never had official military training. ‘What can I say is the reason for this meeting? And what level of urgency should be indicated?’

‘Orange would be sufficient. There is not a direct threat to the Earth itself, but we do perceive a possible effect on the resources currently available to Earth, and also there may be a statistically insignificant loss of human life. You should mention that.’

Peter put away his cleaning materials and swung into action. With his implants, and TWISRBH?’s override codes, he could contact all the requisite individuals directly, without the need to go through the usual levels of minions.

Less than two hours later, everyone was in place and Peter found himself standing before the most important people on twenty-two planets. His shaking was hardly visible as he held himself steady and allowed the AI to speak through him.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have a serious situation before us and I want to discuss this with you before I implement a corrective plan of action.

‘I’ve studied the contract presented to us by the ‘Millie’ character and, whilst most of the conditions seem acceptable, there are one or two anomalies we should consider. Of course, we won’t be able to judge the true veracity of the contract until the monies are received and benefits accrued. The main issue is the closing down of the Squirtports for thirty days. There seems no obvious reason for this proviso, and it is not described in the contract. There is a 92.78% chance that ‘Millie’ has ulterior motives behind this imposition. If we take that as a certainty, then we have these subsequent statistically likely explanations: 88.3% chance that her intentions involve Greenhaven, 66.8% JD, 51.33% Argon, and 50.28% David.’

Peter realised that he’d stopped talking and smiled at the closest luminary.

‘Why Greenhaven?’ Asked Jerry using his position as president to ask the obvious questions.

‘Greenhaven is the only planet to have a unique and extremely valuable natural resource. We believe that, whilst the contract and the subsequent benefits promised are in all likelihood genuine, Millie has her own, additional agenda which could be detrimental to humanity’s wellbeing. The potential loss of substantial quantities of gil-juice could have a negative effect on Earth's balance of payments. ’

‘What action should be taken?’ The President again. ‘Should we open up the Squirtport and send in a bunch of marines?’

‘That is one possible course of action, but we believe that it should be a last resort strategy. We need to be 100% certain of our interpretation before we risk taking such risky action. If we are wrong, the whole deal might be compromised. We feel that a more subtle approach should be applied.

‘We have studied the people we know are still on Greenhaven. The vast majority returned to Earth before the shutdown, so we have a relatively small number of individuals to consider. Of that group, only one man has cranial implants. They are fairly basic, but would be adequate for our purposes. Also, he has a continuous upload facility, which will help us locate him quickly and precisely. We will need to open the Squirtport for two reasonably short periods of time. The first will be for us to project a remote avatar which will trace the subject for us and squirt the supplementary enhancements into his brain. The second will be for the avatar to upload the data gathered. With this information, a plan of action can be devised to protect our scarce resources, without risking the wrath of the Galactic Federation.’

‘Who is this guy?’ asked the president.

‘He’s a private investigator named Philip Humphrey Chandler.’

The little town is deserted; there isn’t even a tumbleweed rolling down the street. Of course, this close to the Squirtport, the residents had plenty of time to escape before the deadline, but you’d think someone might have stayed behind. Where’s that frontier spirit when you need it?

Actually, I’m wrong. There is someone with the gonadal requirement to hang on; I can see him watching me through the front window of the small hotel in the middle of the high street. I try a little wave; there’s no response. A hotel sounds like a good idea; I really could do with a lie down, and maybe later, a drink and a nice meal. After all, it has been a stressful day, don’t you think?

I’ve just tried the door, but it seems to be locked. I knock and step back so that my pleasant, unthreatening aspect can be viewed by my putative host. After what seems like a long time, the door opens and there he is. He’s small and round, and he should be able to claim back what little he paid for his hair implants. They stick up vertically from his cranium and are a different colour and texture compared with his own hair. Still, full marks for fighting back against the misfortune nature has wrought upon him.

‘What d’you want?’ It seems a silly question to me, but I play it straight.

‘A room please, if you have vacancy.’

‘You want a room?’

I look pointedly at the sign above his head.

‘Why didn’t you go with rest?’ His voice is grating, and goes up and down in the register like that of an almost pubescent boy.

‘I’ve only just arrived.’ Almost the truth.

‘Cash only,’ he says, as he steps back.

‘Of course; I’ll need a receipt.’

My room is small, and spotlessly clean. There’s a three-quarter sized bed, a chair and a small table. The TV is positively antediluvian; it actually has buttons, if you can believe that. I’m going to take a little nap and then see what culinary delights mine host can whip up for me.

**********

I’ve slept for a couple of hours, but I don’t feel rested. I had a nightmare about Masters; reliving finding him on the bed, with a hole in his chest and a vial of gil-juice sticking out of each nostril. I got to my mid-thirties without seeing a dead body and now I’ve seen two in a matter of days. I really don’t want to see a third, if it can at all be helped.

Now I’m in the bar and it’s a little awkward; with just the two of us here, I’m going to have to talk to him.

‘My name’s Phil, by the way,’ I say, as he pulls me a long cold pint.

‘I know your name, bud. I registered you this afternoon.’

If he knows my name, why is he calling me bud? I’ll save that question for later.

‘And you are…?’

He plants the pint in front of me, splashing more beer over the side than is entirely necessary.

‘Charge.’

‘Yes.’ It didn’t sound like a question, but I’m treating it as one.

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes…Sir?’

‘What are you agreeing to, bud?’

‘To…charging my beer to my room.’

‘My name is Charge; you asked.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought… no, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Charge; that’s an unusual name.’

‘Not in my family, it aint.’

‘Can I buy you a drink?’

‘If you want to, but I only drink single malt, imported from Scotland.’

‘That’s fine, help yourself.’

As he pours himself a healthy measure, I notice him studying himself in the mirror. My heart goes out to the poor little masochist.

‘Why didn’t you leave with the rest? You must have had time.’

He shakes his head.

‘This is all I’ve got, and I can’t take it with me. I’ve got food and good clean water; I can last until they turn the squirter back on.‘

We drink our drinks and there is more somewhat stilted conversation. After bearing as much I can, I say good night and take the remains of my beer up to my room, along with the bag of salt and vinegar that constitutes the hotel’s sole offering in the sustenance department.

My stomach’s going to be rumbling tonight and I don’t expect a settled sleep.

(
Before we go any further, can I just make a small complaint about the conditions I’m expected to work under? I’m supposed to get the uploads live but, with the Squirtport down, they are being stored so that they can be transmitted when the Squirtport is back online. As an artist, I need the upload raw and quick, in manageable chunks and, crucially, I need not to know what happens next. Foreknowledge would tinge the narrative and change its whole dynamic. You can see that, can’t you? Thanks so much for your time. Now; back to the story. N.F)

It’s the early hours of the morning now and the starlight is enough to see by. We are much closer here to the centre of the Milky Way and many more stars are visible in the night sky than on Earth. I’ve been tossing and turning and it’s just not going to happen. The air-con is going strong, but I’m still hot and sticky. I’m going to take a walk outside, to see if that will settle me down.

I creep down the stairs; silent as a mouse who has just won the world championship for surreptitious movement. And there he is, standing in the dimness; an ancient shotgun slung casually over his shoulder and wearing teddy bear PJs.

‘Did you see them?’ he asks. It’s the last question I want to hear, in the middle of the night, on a distant planet, from a man in teddy bear PJs.

‘Who? What? Where?’ Just covering the basic W’s. If I need them, I’ve got ‘when’ and ‘why’ ready to go.

‘Them mirage things. They’re outside; dozens of them. They must be waiting for something; for somebody. Maybe they want you.’

‘Why would they want me?’

‘You’ve just arrived; and they’ve never come before.‘

‘With that sort of logic, we’d still be in the trees.’

‘That makes less sense than what I said.’

We walk to the front window and spend a few silent minutes watching the sand mirages. There are fifty or sixty of them whirling in place, filling the street in front of us. There can be no doubt that they are here for us.

‘Are they dangerous?’ I ask.

‘They’re just wisps of spinning sand; they’d disintegrate if you touched them. I can’t see how they can hurt you.’

‘What do you mean, ‘hurt me’? What makes you think I’m going out there? They're outside your hotel.’

‘They want you; I can feel it in my bones.’

‘Very convenient, I must say.’

There is some movement amongst the mirages; they’ve got very close together and they’ve spun right up to the wall of the hotel; just keeping back a couple of metres for safety’s sake.

‘You have to do something now; they need your help.’

‘How do you know they don’t want to eat us?’

‘They are not carnivorous.’

‘Do your bones tell you that as well?’

‘It’s a well-known fact. They are harmless.’

‘What about the guy they led from the desert to his base and then everyone was dead a week later?’

‘A desert myth.’

You know when you know you are going to do something stupid, and you just can’t stop yourself? Well that’s how I’m feeling now. How much harm can it do if I just pop my head out and see what they want? I’ll stay on the doorstep and let them see me. If things get scary, I can just jump back inside.

I’m outside now and I’m not sure if I should be proud of my bravery, or embarrassed at my stupidity. When they saw me, they swooped into a tight cluster right in front of me. They’ve started with a quiet keening sound that rises and falls in a rhythm that strangely matches my heart beat. Or maybe my heart is beating in time with them. I do feel a little tense, but I’m not really scared; even when Charge locks and bolts the door behind me.

Now they are moving back and forward, like seaweed with the tide. I’m getting the urge to join them in their little dance, and now I am. You know, it only feels a little bit strange to be strutting my stuff, on a deserted street, on a planet many light years from home. I’m raising my arms and flicking my hips and tapping my toes and heels, kicking up my own imitations of the sand mirages.

The hotel and town are far behind us now as we dance across the desert, in the spotlight of a billion stars, with a dry warm wind blowing through my hair. We’re the kids and we don’t care what people think; we’re dancing in the starlight, and we are made of stars!

I want to sing, so I do, warbling wordlessly in the semi-darkness. I think I’m crying, but that’s OK; no-one can see.

Now it is nearly dawn and the sky to my left is beginning to glow. Before us is a jagged mesa; a mammoth chunk of dark grey rock jutting up at an angle from the sun-baked ground.

(
Strictly speaking, it's a Tor. A mesa is an elevated tableland. I'll let him continue with the word as he was so proud of himself to have come up with it in the first place.NF
)

The mirages disappear without a sound and I’m left all alone here in the desert. The urge to dance has left me and I’m not singing anymore. I’m hours from the hotel; the first sun will be up very soon, and my mac is hanging on a hook behind my door. I know what you’re thinking, and I can hardly disagree; I should have stayed in bed.

I’m here now, so I‘d better make the most of it. This is obviously the destination the mirages had in mind when they enticed me from the town, so I might as well go on and see what I’ll find in the shadow of the mesa. Promise me you’ll stay with me; I don’t want to do this on my own.