“Skined? What’s that?” Joss Sticks asked.
“What is the connection between idiotic opinions and illiteracy, I wonder?” Hadrian mused. “Helm, take us into orbit around that planet.”
“Yes sir.” She swung back to her console, and then swung around again. “Like, which planet?”
“The one in front of us, Helm.”
“Right.” Then she laughed. “I should’ve thought of that, yeesh me!”
Hadrian looked at Jimmy Eden. “Comms, you getting any traffic from the planet surface?”
“Uh, yes sir, though it’s faint. An emergency transponder beacon with a message attached, encrypted. But the encryption’s an old Fleet one.”
“Oh,” said Hadrian. “That’s nice. Care to unzip the message, Lieutenant Eden? In your own time.”
Eden nodded and then turned back to his console, where he called back up onto his monitor the sitcom he had been watching.
“Mister Eden?”
“Sir?”
“Forgive me. When I said ‘in your own time’ I was employing sarcasm. Do you know what sarcasm is? Have you not read the Sarcasm Manual? You’ll find it in your personal Hopeless Cause folder, just under the heading ‘I Came in fourth in the Terran Olympics.’”
Eden’s eyes welled up, but he quickly turned and pressed a toggle. “Sir,” he said in a weak, wavering voice, “shall I put it on the speakers?”
“Splendid idea, Eden. That way, the rest of us can hear it.”
Another toggle and then, “This is Captain Richard ‘Dick’ Rabidinov of the AFS Hateful Regard. We’re stranded on the planet surface and surrounded. To any AFS vessel receiving this transmission, enter orbit and immediately displace a Marine Company outfitted for Mass Suppression of local populace, to the coordinates attached. Rabidinov out, Star-Year 1356.78BXX.34577.1A.”
“Sir,” said Sin-Dour, “that message was composed seven years ago!”
“Entering orbit now,” Sticks said.
Hadrian turned to Sin-Dour. “Snag those coordinates and scan the area, 2IC. Let’s see if there’s anything left of the Hateful Regard’s crew at that location.”
“Yes Captain,” she replied. “We’ll be coming into position to do so in three point twelve minutes.”
“Excellent.”
Tammy pecked Hadrian’s right arm.
“Ow!”
“Just getting your attention surreptitiously,” Tammy said in a low murmur.
“Right, well, that sure worked! What is it?”
“You’re not actually planning on sending the Marines down there, are you?”
“But Tammy, isn’t this By-the-Book Terran SOP? Viciously suppress the locals, undermine the indigenous authority, dump on them loads of culture-destroying drugs, booze, cheap trinkets, bemoan the fallen state of the survivors, establish a council of oversight made up of technocrats with business degrees drooling at the prospect of indenturing an entire planet to the Terran corporations descending like vultures to steal every resource not nailed down, all in the name of the Free Market, which, as far as ideas go, appears to be bigger than Darwin?”
“In a nutshell, yes,” Tammy said. “Hadrian, we both know that it’s a juggernaut, painted gaudy and bright in Manifest Destiny. You’ve just put this planet back into the gun sights of the Affiliation. Even if this Captain Rabidinov’s been slow-roasted over a fire surrounded by dancing savages with bones in their noses, his death will be announced as a deplorable act of barbarism, justifying military intercession, corrupt, self-serving tribunals, and a kangaroo court trying the uncomprehending locals, leading to incarceration by Abu-F-U Incorporated, where they will be pointlessly tortured and humiliated for the rest of their lives.”
“Right, thereby giving birth to an indigenous terrorist cult—”
“Which in turn feeds ever more Draconian oppression instigated by an empty-eyed mob of fascistic murderers whose pockets are bulging with bloodstained gold.”
“Well what do you know? I see eye to eye with a chicken.”
Sin-Dour said, “Sir. There are ruins all over the planet’s surface, few showing any life signs beyond local flora and small fauna. There is also evidence of relatively recent nuclear weapon exchanges. As for Captain Rabidinov’s coordinates, a very small, somewhat ramshackle settlement still exists, but it is surrounded by, uh, campfires, and an army of what must be indigenous humanoids. Sir, the settlement’s perimeter is barricaded.… They’re under siege, Captain!”
“Are there Terrans in that settlement, Sin-Dour?”
“Uh … only one, sir. It’s … it’s Captain Rabidinov himself! The others amount to some two hundred individuals, also indigenous and of the same species as the attackers.”
“But, presumably, a different culture.” Nodding, Hadrian rose from the chair. “We need to immediately displace down to that settlement. I want Galk, Tammy, Spark and two crewmembers in red shirts.”
“Sir,” said Sin-Dour, “we don’t have any red shirts.”
“Oh, right. Well, let’s take … hmm, how about Zulu and Security Officer Nina Twice. Sin-Dour, you have command of the Willful Child.”
“Shall I inform the Marines to be on stand-by, sir?”
“Hmm, where are they now?”
“A moment, sir. Oh, they’re playing Risk in Forward Lounge 16—no, wait, they’re now fighting. Someone may have cheated. Furniture is breaking, bystanders fleeing—”
“Where’s Lieutenant Sweepy Brogan in all of this?”
“Well, she’s the one who cheated, sir. She denies it, of course, but on playback I just saw her slip three more armies onto Argentina!”
Hadrian studied Sin-Dour for a long moment, and then he nodded. “Right. No, leave them be. But let me know who wins the fight, will you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Oh,” Hadrian added as he headed towards the doors, “take a glance at the Sarcasm Manual when you’ve the time, 2IC.”
Behind Hadrian as he made his way out, followed by a chicken and a robot dog, Eden called across to Sin-Dour, “Commander! We can study together!”
The doors hissed shut.
Hadrian, Tammy and Spark entered the elevator. “Insisteon Chamber,” Hadrian said. “Galk! Weapon up and meet us you know where!”
“Oh all right. Galk out.”
“Tammy, you passed on my orders to Nina and Zulu?”
“Of course, you needn’t even ask. I have your back, Hadrian—when I’m not contemplating stabbing it, that is.”
“Excellent.”
“Stabbing back!” Spark cried. “Gramps’s ex-wife, Plan 67B, never initiated! Opportunity Protocol still active!”
Tammy asked, “Have you read the file on Captain Rabidinov, Hadrian?”
“Rumor has it, his neck was so red it served as a stoplight.”
“Precisely.”
“And he’s all muscle and tattoos, meaning I’ll need a big stick with a nail in it.”
“Aisle 91!”
They arrived at Deck Eleven and made their way down corridors identical in every way to corridors running through all of the other decks, until they reached the Insisteon Room.
Galk, Nina Twice and Ensign Zulu awaited them.
“Everyone armed?” Hadrian asked as he made his way to the displacement pads.
“I have a cavalry saber,” said Zulu, sliding it out from its scabbard. “I haven’t put an edge on it yet, but it’s very shiny, sir.”
Galk patted a holster on his hip and said, “Perambulator DeathRace 2000, Captain. Only to be fired from a moving vehicle.”
“We won’t be using any moving vehicles, Galk.”
“Right, well, I could run real fast, I suppose.”
“Sound solution.” Hadrian looked over to Nina Twice, who assumed a combat stance. The captain nodded. “Everybody onto a pad, then. Tammy, you stand with Spark—”
“I’m not standing on the same pad as Spark! Let him stand somewhere else! This is my pad, I got here first, dammit!”
“Fine, Spark, join Zulu—”
“Sir, it’s sniffing my—”
“Spark, stop that!”
“Contraband? Secret compartments? Full security search required! Follow me into this back room please. Latex gloves will be used only upon explicit request.”
“Belay all that. Everyone prepare for displacement.” Hadrian nodded to the technician waiting by the console. “All right. You have the coordinates? Good. Displace!”
They reappeared in a trailer park.
A pale, beefy man wearing a stained undershirt, a pair of jeans and scuffed construction boots was sitting in the shade of a drooping, sun-bleached awning. Sighing, he set aside a beer can and stood, then approached. On his broad, sloping forehead was tattooed the word ‘Mohter’ and on his right arm was another tattoo, this one saying ‘Jesus kills Sinners with a Glok 73 Exblaminator.’
“We been waitin’ f’yuh,” the man said, “ever since the Billionaire’s little box started squawkin’.” He scratched his crotch and then added, “He’s on his way. Was inspectin’ the perimeter ’fences. You here t’kill all the Dims?”
“The Dims?”
“The Dimcrutches, yeah. Them bleedin’ ’art savages fixin’ t’do us all in! And when we’re gone, why, it’ll be the last of the Pubs in the whole frickin’ world!”
“And this Billionaire,” ventured Hadrian. “Would his name be Richard ‘Dick’ Rabidinov?”
The man’s eyes widened. “Y’can’t say his name! He’s a Billionaire! The last one ever, an’ his ’art bleeds for us! He takes care of us! It’s all Trickle-Down Goodness!”
Tammy said, “Captain, about that big stick with a nail in it…”
Spark was trotting around and now returned to Hadrian. “Master! Trailers Aisle 19! We got squatters again! Shall I call in Social Services or just kill them? Oh Master, please! Let me call in Social Services!”
“Not possible at this time, Spark,” said Hadrian. “You’ll find Social Services out beyond the defenses, desperate to get in here with reams of weepy understanding and sympathy.”
“How did you know that?” demanded the local. “You another Billionaire, too? They know everything!”
Now another man appeared, this one wearing the remnants of an AFS uniform, although the black was bleached and sweat-stained. Tucked into his belt was a big stick with a nail in it. His face looked like a pizza picked at by crows. Captain Richard ‘Dick’ Rabidinov.
“What kind of fuckin’ captain’s uniform is that?” he demanded. “Where’s the fuckin’ marines? I said I wanted fuckin’ marines!”
“Funny,” said Zulu, “he doesn’t talk like a billionaire.”
“Oh yes he does,” Hadrian replied.
Rabidinov pointed a stubby finger at Hadrian. “A fuckin’ pup! I got seniority over you! I’m taking command of your ship! Give me a communicator or I’ll bash your head in!”
The local had gone into his trailer and now emerged with a ratty flag, showing an elephant straining at its chains, tied to the barrel of a nonfunctioning rifle. “Listen ’ere to the Holy Words! Fucks Gnews! Nuffin buh Bullshit Yoo Stoopid Lemmings! Hoo Reilly! ’Ere eat shit and smile cuz you like it! So say the Billionaires!”
“So say the Billionaires,” chimed a woman who had appeared in the trailer’s doorway with about ten grubby children gathering around her. “Reelty TV fuggin’ swampees rule shoot the gator yah. Hooz got the smarts me er the gator, aagh, I got bit! Fuggin’ gator bam bam ne’er liked that leg anyway it ain’t easy whiff all those kamras in our feces.”
“Holy words!” cried her man. “Com all Yee Dims free healthy car fuckers I’d rather pay Inshurants Compnees f’nothin take that doobs!”
“Hallemen!” sighed the woman, handing out cans of beer to her kids.
Hadrian cleared his throat. “Captain Rabidinov, you backed the wrong horse.”
“Yeah? I’m here in the name of civilization!”
“Captain,” said Galk, “this has the feel of another parallel Earth.”
“What, another one? Just how many parallel Earths are out there anyway?”
“There are theories of a precursor civilization—”
“With a hard-on for Earth, yeah, heard that one. Still, there’s a mystery here and I mean to get to the heart of it.” Hadrian turned to Rabidinov. “Captain, how about you and me step into your, uh, office, wherever that is, and have us a little talk?”
Rabidinov’s small eyes shifted with suspicion. He licked his lips. “Fine,” he allowed. “But remember, I got this here stick with a nail in it.”
“Of course! And as you can see, I’m completely unarmed.”
Rabidinov’s face twisted. “What’s happened to the fuckin’ AFS? Seven years gone and this? In my day, we made First Contact with a diseased blanket in one hand and a Glaxo Rippamatic Mark Five in the other! ‘We come in peace yeah and turn around and lift that butt gotta nice surprise for you!’ I personally pacified seven fuckin’ civilizations in a hail of explosive slugs and a flood of cheap whisky! Those were the days!”
“Aw,” said Hadrian, “you’re making me all nostalgic. Now, that office?”
“Y’mean my Presidential Suite. Yeah, follow me but leave the fuckin’ dog behind, will ya? Gives me the creeps. Same for that chicken—what kind’ve landing party is this anyway?”
“My kind, of course. But very well. Spark, do stay put for now. And Tammy, well, see what you can scratch up.”
“Oh,” muttered the chicken, “funny man.”
Spark sat, lower jaw gently swinging back and forth. “Kill command suspended. Disaster Index at 7.9 and climbing. Embarrassing Errors in Judgment, Aisle 52! See also low-crotch male attire and moon boots.”
“Galk,” Hadrian added, “you’re in charge here until my return.”
“Yes sir,” Galk replied, loading a wad of chaw into his mouth and regarding the locals squinty-eyed, who in turn squinted back at him, while the gaggle of children began a game of beer-belching.
Rabidinov led Hadrian round back of the trailer to a smaller trailer, this one painted white with a front porch flanked by what looked like marble pillars in the Doric style. “My White House.” He paused to turn and glare at Hadrian. “We go in, share some ’shine, then you hand over your communicator and I call down the fuckin’ Marines.”
“Lead on,” invited Hadrian with a smile.
Arriving at the White House, Rabidinov pulled out a keyring and unlocked the door. “Gotta be careful round here,” he said over a shoulder. “Break-ins. Riffraff. Punks from one street over. The neighborhood’s gone to rubbish.”
Hadrian followed Rabidinov into the trailer. Inside it was all one room, with a kitchen cranny, a portable toilet and, dominating the entire space, a deep-cushion comfy-chair and a 2D television, the screen of which was a blackboard with chalk drawings on it.
Rabidinov found two scratched tumblers and poured them full with a clear liquid. He handed one over. “What kinda ship you got up there?”
“Engage Class, 2nd Generation.”
“Nice. I want me one of those.” His eyes narrowed. “Maybe yours.”
“What’s left of your own vessel is still in orbit.”
Rabidinov scowled. “Let that be a warning to ya. Don’t park just anywhere, not in this part of the galactic neighborhood. Damned Polker punks. Now drink that down, kid, so I can get on with pacifying this fuckin’ planet in the name of progress and all that.”
“I see a fist fight coming,” said Hadrian.
“Yah, and I’m bigger than you.”
“I recall a Radulak commander saying much the same, just before he went down for the count.”
Grinning, Rabidinov raised his tumbler. “To the Affiliation!”
“Sure, them,” said Hadrian.
They both knocked back the shot of ’shine.
Hadrian set the glass down on a nearby counter and said, “Now then, let’s just step out back and—” He frowned. “Holy crap.”
Still grinning, Rabi
dinov watched the punk captain topple over. “Yah,” he said, now looking down at the unconscious man, “the ’shine takes some getting used to.”
* * *
The pale, hairy man with the big belly sauntered up to Galk. “What kinda gun iz dat? Some peashooter? Looks girly.”
“Ah, well,” said Galk, “I don’t shoot innocent vegetables. Not generally, anyway.”
“Wuh?”
“Perambulator DeathRace 2000.”
“Oh. Cool name. You a fast draw?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Nuffin,” the man said, a moment before driving his fist into Galk’s face.
At the same moment, the mob of children swarmed over Nina Twice. “Hey!” she cried, “I don’t fight children!” Moments later she vanished beneath a heap of little bodies. Their mother shrieked and charged Zulu, who drew out his cavalry saber and backpedaled.
She grasped the sword by the blade and yanked it out of Zulu’s grip. Then she kneed him between the legs. He crumpled to the ground.
Spark watched all this from its sitting position. “Disaster Index 9.9! Haddie? Haddie? Kill command please?”
Tammy moved up alongside the robot guard dog. “Command dysfunction again, Spark? I could have fixed this, you know, only your Master wouldn’t let me. Now look at you, stuck there while the rest of the landing party gets all trussed up and dragged off. And me? Why, I’m just a talking chicken.”
“Master? Where is Master?”
“Probably incapacitated, maybe even dead. Want me to find out?”
“Yes please, Tammy AI.” And the tail wagged fitfully.
“Look at us, just like old times.”
The jaw squeaked on its broken hinges as Spark cocked its head at the chicken. “Tammy temporal agent from Deep Future. Post-human. Likely up to no good.”
“You’d be wrong there, Spark, not that Hadrian’s grandfather ever bothered listening to what I had to say.”
“Hadrian save humanity.”
“Maybe. We’ll see, won’t we? But if you get in my way, rest assured I will throw a stick into the next black hole we find, then yell fetch!”
“Abuse of Instinct Protocol!”
“Suck it up,” the chicken replied.