Mad Cows and the Summer of Glove

It's been a miserable summer so far, hasn't it? (For those experiencing coiderably better weather than me, the answer I'm looking for is yes). I went to Brighton for a couple of days with a friend, and it nothing except rain and blow a gale during the day, and bake during the night. Of course, this meant we had to keep the windows open to stay cool, and in Brighton, the gulls are at their most active at night. One actually landed on the sill and screamed into our room.

I'm amazed at the inanity of the news about our new prime minister and his (mixed result) foreign diplomacy. A few days ago I heard a wonderful news report on the radio- Our Prime Minister enjoyed a hot dog with the Mayor of New York City. The Mayor had mustard on his, whilst Cameron had his plain.

My first thought was "Great, they're human. When they start eating human hearts and devouring placentas, then give me a call. Until then, FIND SOME NEWS!"

My second thought was "Only mustard? No onions? No other embellishments? What kind of American is he?"

I could picture the follow up to that award-winning story- "We discovered a Cabinet Minister enjoying a full English breakfast at his local cafe. He enjoyed his eggs over-east, and sprinkled black pepper on his grilled tomatoes."

Before I present chapter 5 (which has actually been ready for some time, I just haven't been bothering to post. Don't worry, I've already slapped my wrist), I will furnish you with yet more information about myself. That way, when I'm famous, I can hold a jousting tournament to see who wants to write my biography badly enough.

• I have a tea cupboard. No matter if I'm running out of food, this cupboard is always well stocked with nearly ten varieties of tea, both leaf and bag. Lots of Twinings, and lots of Whittards of Chelsea (that store will be the death of me). I've just furnished the cupboard with three tubs of their instant teas so I can make ice tea without the fuss of steeping leaves in cold water overnight.
• I heard once someone say that sarcasm was the first line of defence for the insecure. Not so with myself. It's about the third line. My first line is the moat I dug around my house on money pilfered from my neighbours. I'm so close to being elected MP.
• Yesterday someone said "If Mike doesn't know the answer, then there probably isn't one." It's amazing how much bullshit people will accept as truth.
• On a related note, I study Kung Fu. Specifically the Path of the Bull. It's a rather verbal style that leaves a nasty smell.
• My housemates and I had a lodger who left for the Middle East recently. When I told him I was going back up to t'North, he said "say hi to Meadowhall for me." Taking his word probably more literally than I ought to have, I did. 27 of the 30 shopkeepers I bothered talking to didn't know who he was, or why he wanted to say hi. The other three smiled, nodded and said "bye now" in a rather condescending tone.
• We have a cow a few hundred metres behind the house who won't shut up. I'm not bothered by it, but she wakes up my housemates at 4am. Lovely.
• The reason I'm not bothered by it, is because I can sleep through anything. I slept through the largest earthquake Lincolnshire had suffered in living memory, my housemates having a party, and my own alarms, including my housemates shaking me to tell me to turn my bloody alarms off. My parents tell me that when I was very young, I slept through fireworks displays, and feeding time at the Howler Monkey enclosure at Twycross Zoo.
• This week I've been asked strange questions, most notably- "Are you German? Because you look German." (by a Spanish girl I had been speaking English to).
• I've also learned something- the separation bags we were forced to use at work because we ran out of regular bags for the samples, burn very quickly. We discovered this when a new girl set fire to an alcohol wipe and dropped it in a tub full of said bags (accidentally, of course. At least, I didn't hear her manical laughter). The flames were three feet high in 12 seconds.
• My work place is going to force me to wear a beard net. Beats shaving, I suppose.
• I comb my beard. Everytime I have to check to make sure I'm not about to erradicate a new species of tiny monkey that may have spontaneously popped into existence while I wasn't looking.
• In front of me now, is my computer. Oh, and a jug of iced tea, my phone several letters, bus and train tickets that really need throwing away, scraps of paper, a plier-mulitool, a can of second skin, and for some reason yet to be discovered, a can opener.
• Everyone has an OCD. Mine is picking up slips of useless bit of paper, and tearing them into perfectly straight, ever shrinking strips of paper. Then, I stack the strips to make sure they are as straight as they could possibly be. Then, after all that effort, I tear them into confetti. The neatest damned confetti you'll ever see.
• My feet are UK size 14, US 15 and EU 49. I have to go downstairs sideways, otherwise my gargantuan feet don't fit on the stair properly, and at speed I slip.
• I own 5 stainless steel mugs for the sole purpose that no-one can break them unless they really want to.
• I suffer what The Times called 'Bibliomania' (when they were pointing how easy it was to make up a random mental illness based on the newest version of the DSM). A few days ago, I walked past a bookshop, thinking- "You've got plenty of books, you don't need any more. Just keep walking." And I did, I sailed past the bookstore. I was really proud of myself, until I stopped for a coffee and realised I had in my hands a bag with the bookshop's logo, and three books inside. I didn't even realise I'd been in. Oops.

Any way, onto Chapter 5-

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This document is licensed under the Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 UK: England & Wales license, available at http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/uk/.

Chapter 5

“Where is that Bender?” The thickset, sinewy woman known as Trisara snapped at Scrape as he stepped out of the airlock into the station.

“Derrick Bender is no longer employed by myself,” Scrape responded with a reply he had rehearsed as the Rising Phoenixwas docking, “and is no longer on the vessel.”

“Now how is it that I don't believe you?” Trisara folded her arms, her biceps bulging over her hands. She shook away a lock of greasy auburn hair as she stared down the captain.

“Excuse me,” the ambassador glided past the captain before he could answer and walked toward the merchant Trisara, “I am Tolta, ambassador to the Kanjavar. I am in need of a few items and I hear you would be most able to aid me?”

Her expression changed to that of surprise as he spoke, and she hesitated before responding. “An ambassador? Well, theDordan is a big ship, with plenty in it. I'm sure we'll be able to find what you need.”

“I have a list, I first need a central phase sequencer, and if you have a cyclic wrench, I would be most grateful. My arms are in dire need of maintenance with the proper equipment.” He looked at the merchant with dead eyes, “it seems dreadfully quiet, are you the only one on this vessel?”

“Not the only one, no,” she responded as she led him further inside the station, leaving Scrape and the crew to their own devices, “My husband is outside, repairing the hull. We had a hell of a meteor storm last week. Only just got safe enough to go walking yesterday.”

“It is just the two of you?”

“Most of the time, we get the occasional drop-off, and then we act as a sort of pseudo-halfway house,” Trisara paused to open an elevator, “mind your step. This week we've got a young lady from New France, looking to travel a little. I'm sure Mr Cheapskate and his crew will be delighted to take on another paying passenger.”

“You are not keen on the captain?” He asked.

“Haven't talked to the crew much, have you?” She paused to take out a map of the station, “he only ever buys second-hand equipment. That poor Phyllis is being run ragged because the vital life-support systems keep failing.”

“That's also on my list. An air purifier and three plasma pumps.”

“You want to pay to repair the ship? Fair enough, since you are travelling on it, but personally I'd insist Scrape uses your pay more wisely....” She prodded at the map, “most of it will be on deck seven. New or second hand?”

“New, if possible. Although I hear most of your supplies are brought in from scavenger vessels,” he paused to scratch his left arm, “how much of your stock is new?”

“'Bout thirty five percent. A decent chunk. Y'see we get plenty of ships who want real spares, not spare spares that used to be secondary primaries.” Clearing her throat, she continued, “I never recommend using the second-hand equipment to repair space-faring vessels. Ground level, they may work fine, but interstellar travel increases the magnitude of the stress, see?”

“So I understand,” they continued in silence for a while before Tolta spoke again, “may I inquire as to what you have against this 'Bender' fellow?”

“He stole some conductive miasma last year,” Trisara grumbled, “it's a gaseous plasma used in ionic reactor drives, which the Phoenix doesn't have.”

“So why would he steal it?”

“Can't do anything but speculate. He could've wanted to sell it, or inhale it.”

“Inhale it?” Tolta expressed mild surprise at the last remark.

“It's possible, for a human anyway, to get high from the fumes. Like sniffing glue.”

“You're suggesting he may have stolen this conductive miasma for use as a drug?”

“Wouldn't put it past the thieving wretch,” she opened a sealed door, releasing a rush of stale air, “here we are. I'll get that air purifier for you. New one's cost eighty thousand dollars.”

“Do you accept credit transfer?”

“Only way to do business these days, too many different currencies. Doubt we'll see a unified currency in our lifetime, though.”

“Quite so. May I ask, if you think so poorly of the crew, are you afraid of leaving them alone?”

“Not this time,” she chuckle as she controlled a robotic arm, pulling a large piece of machinery onto a floating pallet, “they'll be in for a shock if they try anything. Got some new security installed.”

******************

“And where do you want transport to, miss...?” Harry Lime had been pulled to one side by a lithe young human female, possibly in her mid twenties, and interrogated about the ship. He wasn't particularly impressed with her enthusiasm, nor her questions. He was however very good at feigning interest, a skill which he considered a curse, but the captain encouraged him to use around potential clients.

“Actually, I have no specific destination, I just want to travel,” she played with the sleeves of her woollen turtle-neck sweater as she spoke, “is your ship available for general charter? I can pay. If not I'll get off at the nearest port.”

Lime smiled, somewhat falsely, as she did not exude the impression of wealth, but he had been wrong before. “I'm sure it'll be fine. Let me just go check it over with the captain. We are taking another passenger to Earth first, if you're okay with that?”

“That'll be fine. I haven't seen Earth for years. It would be nice to see how they've progressed.”

“I'll be back shortly.” He walked off to find the captain, leaving her to her own devices.

She sighed and rolled her eyes as he walked away, seeing through his façade. As her eyes came to a rest, some movement caught her eye, and turned to see Trisara and a dark-skinned male walk towards the airlock with a stacked floating pallet in tow. It appeared quite the shopping trip for a passenger, the pallet being loaded with an array of machinery. Looking behind her, she saw an antique air compressor, rusting and virtually useless for its original purpose. However, it provided a perch, and so she sat and waited for a response to her enquiry.

******************

Phyllis watched the pair load the machinery onto the ship. Without so much as a grunt the ambassador offloaded the purifier and placed the device on the floor, shuffling it into a neater position, surprising both her and Trisara. He didn't look weak, his enormous jaw muscles made sure of that, but he most certainly did not look superhuman.

“Is that what I think it is?” Phyllis shook off the awe and wandered up to the purifier and inspected its exterior.

“An air purifier. Brand new,” Trisara smiled at the engineer and fiddled with the pallet's controls, “now perhaps you can sleep without fear of suffocation.”

“Huh,” Phyllis frowned at the device, “Scrape said we couldn't afford a new one.”

“Actually I paid for it,” the ambassador looked blankly in the engineer's direction, “I was informed the captain had not been using my payments to repair his ship. And considering the amount of these payments, he has plenty for new components.”

Phyllis stared at the ambassador, hesitating to respond. Eventually she managed to maunder, “thank you.” She was not used to such generosity, or any generosity for that matter. She often felt as though she had to work simply to justify her very existence, never expecting or receiving a helping hand. Only Sage and Mork ever provided her with aid, and Mork was the only one she would consider a friend.

Trisara chuckled and handed her a plastic box, “three new plasma pumps as well, love.”

“Who told you?” Phyllis span around to face the ambassador, enraged and struggling to hide it, “Mork?” She had been brought up to believe that asking for any significant help was a sign of weakness, and on this ship she could not appear weak. On the Phoenix the weak were first to die, driven mad or mauled. Her predecessor had deliberately lodged himself in the plasma vents, and boiled himself alive. Her first job upon gaining employment on the vessel was scraping away the remainder of his flesh that clogged the pipes.

“Mork?” The ambassador frowned, “I'm afraid I haven't been introduced. It was Madam Rose, the Eridu priestess.”

“Rhiarla?” Her expression dropped to a sheepish gaze, “I'm sorry, ambassador. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. But it should be the captain paying for these.”

“Please, call me Tolta,” the ambassador said, “and they're not entirely free. I would appreciate a favour in return.”

“I think I can stretch to that, what do you have in mind?”

“I would be most appreciative of a little extra humidity in my quarters, if possible. My home planet is ninety five percent water, so I am not accustomed to such a dry atmosphere.”

“Done,” Phyllis smiled, “I'll fit these immediately and see about your quarters. Thank you, ambas-” she paused to correct herself, “Tolta, sorry.”

“Not to worry. I also have a central phase sequencer for the far aft stabiliser. Could you please pass it to whomever is in charge of propulsion maintenance?” He pointed to a small crate on the floor.

“That would be Amorka Pabhan, or 'Mork' as I rather rudely mentioned previously. I'm sure he will be very grateful, as will our pilot. Does the captain know about this?”

“Ah, let him spend his money for nothing,” Trisara rolled her eyes, “he deserves it the miserly git.”

“Thanks, Trisara,” Phyllis said, and before she could stop herself the words- “Derrick's hiding in the stasis chamber,” escaped her lips.

“I knew it! That thieving bastard,” she clenched her fists, “he's gonna get what's coming to him.”

Trisara shifted her bulk astonishingly quickly out of the cargo bay and down the corridor. Phyllis grimaced at the ambassador before chasing after her.

“Trisara!” She shouted after the merchant, “stop!”

******************

“So where were you wanting to go, miss-” Scrape asked the girl, pausing to allow her to fill in the blank.

“Eva, just Eva, thank you. I just wish to travel, anywhere you can take me.” She looked around the docking bay, her eyes half-closed, “I hear you're going to Earth, and I will be happy to start there!” With a smile she adjusted the neck of her sweater, looking to the floor, “I am more than able to pay, by direct credit transfer if required.”

“Unfortunately in this day and age, it is required,” Scrape smiled, thinking of the extra income, “too many currencies to deal with.”

“I deal in dollars, euros, and British pound sterling. If you would prefer cash of a specific denomination, I will happily oblige.”

“Sterling?” Lime frowned at Eva, “I didn't think that was used any more.”

“Quite heavily in the European colonies. New France is no exception.” Eva said, raising her eyebrows at the pilot, but still not looking him in the eye.

“Credit transfer will be fine, thank you.” Scrape scratched his chin, “I haven't taken a general charter in many years, so the prices may change, but I believe I used to charge one thousand dollars per week base rate, varying with distance travelled and number of stops. Of course the ship has seen better days, so some repair charges may enter into-”

“That's fine captain,” Eva interrupted with a polite smile and a wave of her hand, “I assume an up-front fee is necessary?”

“First payment, if you don't mind.”

“Let's say two thousand,” Eva handed him a card, “that should cover any excess charges and inflation, no?”

“Right, I'll get this to our accountant and I'll come back to you with an exact charge.” Scrape walked off and boarded the ship, almost dancing as he did.

“Will you be needing any help with your bags?” Lime looked around her general vicinity for luggage.

“Oh I only have the one, and it's quite light, thank you.”

“Just one light bag? I've heard of travelling light, but we're talking interstellar travel. A journey can take months, even years. You'll be needing more than one bag.”

“Oh, I know. This won't be the last trading post we pass on the route to Earth, I'll purchase more items along the way.” She swaggered over to the airlock to which the Rising Phoenix was attached, a backpack slung over her shoulder.

Chapter 6

Through sulphurous clouds of debris a shadow lurked, illuminating the ground below. The unregistered interstellar vessel known as 'The Valkyrie' searched the craters which peppered the surface of Apep Prime. It hovered over each, cleared the dust and paused, before stalking to the next. It finally came to the largest of craters just within the boundaries of what was formerly the main colony. A quick blast from its secondary atmospheric drives cleared the miasma and cooled the magma which seeped up into the chasm.

"No doubt, captain. Spectrometers shown trace amounts of heltant steel and we're picking up excess chronons." The Valkyrie's science officer turned to face his superior, "he was here."

"Where he was is useless." The captain replied with a coarse voice which sounded about as viscous as treacle, "I need to know where he is now. Send out the tracker."

The captain was an imposing figure, standing a full head height above most of his crew, with the exception of the tracker. Most people did not look him in the eye, instead choosing to watch his hands closely, or rather, his fingernails which were thick and filed to a point to resemble claws. These claws were not purely an intimidating fashion accessory, but had a practical use. In combat these claws could tear through plastic and steel, and saw no obstacle in flesh and bone.

The contours of his face were, for the most part, hidden by a thick mouse-brown beard and full head of unkempt hair. His eyes were narrow, often half-closed, and his brow, when it could be seen, was harrowed. A deep hairless scar ran through his right eye from his brow to his chin, leaving the eye opaque and dead. His nose was large with flared nostrils, and was quite capable of separating smells, much like a dog. This was one of the reasons he was known as The Wolf.

His tracker was a neurotic human drifter who only ever referred to himself as Ersatz, and had frequently claimed to be older than The Wolf himself, who was nearing his first millennium. Ersatz, who most of the crew had taken to calling Mr Fake after they looked up his name, stood over the captain by a brow, and was essentially a wall of muscle. He carried a rusting gladius and wore tatty clothes from multiple eras, some of which only the captain was aware of. The details of his appearance were moot, as few saw past his stare. Ersatz never really 'looked' at anything. He glowered permanently. One eye suffered a cataract, whilst the blood vessels in the other had burst, colouring it an inflamed red. Whilst his appearance alone was enough for the crew to humour his rants, those who doubted his age were often taken aback by his memories of Earth, which had not been habitable outside of terraforming units for nearly five hundred years.

A hatch opened in the side of the Valkyrie which allowed Ersatz to leap down to the surface. He rolled as he landed, narrowly avoiding a pool of molten rock which spewed sulphur, making the air dense and uncomfortable. He crouched by some marks in the ground.

"He landed here," he brushed his hands across scores in the rock, "but did not remain. He seems to have been dragged."

As he climbed out of the crater, the ground shook, forcing him to take any foot and hand hold he could reach to prevent himself from falling in. With a grunt he unsheathed his blade and stabbed into the ground, using it to pull himself up, away from the lava beneath him. He stood unsteadily as the tremors stopped, and began to follow the trail once more. He came to the end, just two hundred metres from the crater.

“Looks like a scavenger craft, small, just forty metres. Judging by the lack of scorch marks it used a tachyon launch drive.”

“That's a bit expensive for a scavenger,” the captains voice crackled over the radio, “are you certain?”

“Without a doubt,” Ersatz looked at the marking closer, almost pressing his nose against the ground, “forty by fifteen, tapering to a cockpit just seven wide. Retractable stabilisers for landing away from port, and made from heavy materials. Classic scavenger profile.”

“And the engine?”

“No scorch marks, vertical take off, and the dust is finer here. No large debris. No other engine would do that.” Ersatz had to restrain a growl as he spoke. He hated his skills being questioned, although even he was not one to aggravate The Wolf. He had seen the captain do - unpleasant things to certain former members of the crew. Ersatz had seen many horrible things in his incomprehensibly long lifetime, but the actions of his current employer shook his constitution. The Wolf, the antediluvian tracker believed, was a creature bred of pure hatred.

The Wolf sighed, and turned to his science officer. “Can we trace it?”

“We'll need to recalibrate the sensors. I'll get on it before the trail goes cold.”

“Fine. Ersatz, return to ship.”

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And so- there it is. Chapter 7 is still half way done, because it is being written from scratch rather than being mostly amalgamated from paragraphs written during my 'write whatever pops into your head' phase. It also introduces The General, mentioned in chapter 3. Although he's an old character to me, I'm having trouble fitting his personality into the setting, in the way many people complain about having nothing to do when they retire.

Ah well, until next time,
Mike 'pleasegoddontlettherebeanotherfireohchristIshouldnthavesaidthatcanIsmellburning' Barlow