The Ultimate Inferior Beings (2 page)

“Any idea why she’s so
early?” asked pliX.

“We’re thinking some
phase-shift in the singularity field. A shift from Newtonian to non-Newtonian,
maybe some massive antineutrino flux.”

“A rupture in the brane,
maybe?” suggested pliX.

“Let’s hope not,” said smuX.
“In fact...”

“Alright, alright,”
interrupted droX. “Let’s get into rescue-operation mode, shall we. And get some
facts to guide our acts.” He headed for the exit, limping slightly. smuX and
pliX exchanged worried looks and hastened after him.

*

Outside the building the
alarms were less overpowering, but the roar of engines and screeching of tyres
more than made up for it. The emergency services were in full swing, their
bustling activity converging on the centre of the landing strip where lay the
vast, crumpled hull of The Living Chrysalis, a Class ZN-4 starship, hissing and
smoking after her crash.

The rescue team were already
perched high up on her side, drilling into her hull. After a short time the
chief rescuer called, “We’re through!” He handed his cutting gear to a
subordinate and scampered through the hole. Everything went deathly quiet.

A minute passed. Then
another. The crowd became impatient, but then the chief rescuer’s head
reappeared at the hole. He had a troubled look on his face as his eyes searched
the crowd, finally latching onto the overweight figure of droX. He beckoned the
controller to come up and see for himself what was inside.

*

Inside it was dark. droX and
his two companions followed the chief rescuer through a crumpled corridor to
the starship’s main control room, now eerily lit by the emergency lighting
system and smelling strongly of burnt circuitry and melted plastic. They
stopped at the sight that met their eyes. Lying scattered amongst the dust and
rubble, were several human skeletons, their chalk-white bones arranged in
ghastly postures, their skulls grinning hideously.

The chief rescuer pointed to
a corner of the control room, and the others gasped when they saw what he was
pointing at.

Lying propped up against the
wall, was an old, old man; his body little more than skin and bone, his hair
and beard silvery and long. They could see he was still breathing, still alive.
He looked as though he had aged well beyond his natural lifespan – the sole survivor
of the ship’s crew of ten.

“I guess that explains the
pilot error,” muttered droX.  The rescuer stared at him, appalled, but the
others didn’t react.

“How can this have happened?”
wondered pliX aloud. “After only a month in space!”

“Let’s ask the old guy,”
suggested droX, nodding his head towards the aged survivor.

 The four men picked their
way through the rubble and skeletons. The man groaned and, on becoming aware of
company, looked up and opened his mouth to speak.

droX elbowed his way past the
others and indicated he was taking charge of the situation. The others
exchanged uneasy glances but stepped back to give him room. The spaceport
controller knelt down slowly, wincing at the pain in his leg, and put his left
ear to the old man’s quivering lips. The latter swallowed hard before croaking
a few words in a faint, broken whisper, his every muscle seeming to strain with
the effort. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled a final breath and slumped
sideways... dead.

droX bowed his head and
remained on his knees for a few seconds. “Damn!” he said.

 “What did he say?” asked
pliX.

The controller grimaced in
frustration as he got to his feet. “I don’t know, dammit.” He put a finger in
his left ear and waggled it about. “This blasted ear-wax! Can’t seem to shift
it. Didn’t catch a single word.” He looked down at the corpse and sighed. “It
sounded important, too.”

Chapter 2

3.49 pm, 12 Mar 49 A-PE,
Committee Room, Tenalp Government HQ

The
Committee
only
met in times of grave crisis. Now was such a crisis.

At the head of the vast
oblong table sat TOT, the Transcendental Overlord of Tenalp, supreme ruler of
the entire planet. His neuroplasmoid temples vibrated gently as the
psychotronic waves pulsed to and from his exocortic cranium. TOT was no
ordinary man; he was a cyber-kinetic limb of the Tenalp Central Computer
Complex, the TCCC. His laser eyes scanned the other members of The Committee,
processing their every movement, their every tick and involuntary reflex, and
TOT did not like what he saw.

To his left sat honX the
Fermi-Dirac statistician, groX the president of the Polyphobic History Society,
leeX the stereogenetic informatician, and ferX the parasociologist. To his
right were praX the biopsychologist, oloX the ambiluminal fractologist, and
nerX the pelvoscapial altomnemologist. Last but not least, and directly
opposite TOT, sat quiX the biscuit packer.

All were the very best in
their chosen professions.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen,”
started TOT gruffly, surveying the anxious faces pointing towards him. “We are
all well acquainted with the problem at hand.” He paused for nods of agreement,
but instead detected gulps, nervous intakes of breath and panicky glances at
briefing notes. TOT’s neuroplasmoid temples vibrated a little faster.

“So,” he continued, his
steely gaze becoming steelier. “What happened to The Living Chrysalis? How are
we to investigate this mystery? Do I hear any suggestions?”

There was a deathly hush.
Each member of The Committee stared down at their briefing notes, or at their
glass of water, or at the portion of table directly in front of them. They
tried to look thoughtful as though weighing up the evidence and considering
options. None dared make a sound. None dared make eye contact with anyone else,
and certainly not with the laser eyes at the head of the table. Too often had
they witnessed the consequences of a Committee member making a suggestion that
incurred TOT’s disapproval.

“Well?” asked TOT, his
irritation rising. “Anyone?”

Silence.

TOT’s jaws twitched and his
eyes narrowed.

He turned to the ambiluminal
fractologist. “How about you, oloX? Any ideas?”

oloX gulped. “What, me?”

“Yes, you, oloX.”

“Ideas?”

“That’s what I said.”

oloX looked desperately round
at the others, but they all studiously avoided his eye-line. He started shaking
violently. “Well...,” he said, trying to clear his throat and frantically
turning the pages of the briefing notes for inspiration. “Well...”

“You don’t have any
suggestions, do you,” concluded TOT.

oloX froze.

“Do you.”

“Er, no, sir.” oloX’s voice
was barely audible.

“No one does, do they,” said
TOT, addressing the whole table, his voice and his anger rising. “What is the
point of having a Committee if no one ever comes up with any ideas?”

All the members trembled in
their seats, bracing themselves for what was about to come.

But just then, quiX the
biscuit packer gave a sniff and said, “How about sending up a rocket, like?”

TOT’s laser eyes wheeled to
him. “A rocket?”

quiX shrugged. “Yeah, a
spaceship, starship… whatever. Make the same trip. See what gives.”

TOT stared at him as he
considered the suggestion. He pursed his lips and decided it worthy of
multi-core axosynaptic processing. Instantly, the suggestion was transmitted to
the multi-channel cycloanalysers of the TCCC and, just as instantly, an answer
came back.

TOT took a deep breath.
“That’s a very good idea,” he said, speaking calmly now. “Well done, quiX.”

quiX smiled modestly. “It was
nothing, really.”

The others sighed with a
mixture of relief and disbelief.

“Very good,” repeated TOT. “I
think we’re done here. Meeting over.”

All got up and left the room,
taking it in turns to pat quiX on the back.

Chapter 3

6.17 pm, 12 Mar 49 A-PE,
Tenalp Ministry of Intelligence and Spying (MIS)

The
door swished
open and jixX the landscape architect peered nervously into the room. He
adjusted his hold on the large plant pot he was carrying and entered. In the
pot, the 3-foot tall, dwarf Alberta spruce swayed precariously from side to
side.

jixX found himself in a large
room, empty apart from a few discarded computer monitors on the floor. The door
swished closed behind him and his unease increased. He shifted the weight of
the plant pot from his right to his left arm so he could check the message that
had summoned him.

“Welcome,” said a metallic
voice from the other end of the room.

jixX looked up in surprise,
nearly dropping the heavy plant pot. “Hello?” he responded.

“I am VOZ, the main computer
here at the Ministry of Intelligence and Spying,” said the voice. “I will brief
you on your mission.”

“Mission?” asked jixX. None
of his landscaping projects had ever been termed a mission before. He shifted
the small spruce back to his right arm.

“You will command The Night
Ripple: a Class XI phonon-drive spaceship. You will determine what befell The
Living Chrysalis on her journey here from Earth.”

“Wait, wait,” said jixX. “I
think there’s been some mistake.”

“Mistake?”

“I think you’ve got the wrong
person.”

There was a long pause from
the computer, and a sound of whirring.

“Name?” it asked at last.

“jixX.”

“Correct.”

“Must be some other jixX.
I’ve never flown a spaceship before.” He turned to leave.

“Oh, but you have.”

jixX stopped. “No, I
haven’t.”

“On 9 March, in the year 29
A.P-E.”

jixX turned back, frowning as
he made the requisite mental calculations. “Oh, come on!” he said at last. “I
was six years old and, most probably, sitting on my father’s knee! He was a
spaceship captain.”

“And on 15 September, 30
A.P-E.”

“Er, I was seven and a bit.”

“And on …”

“Okay, okay,” said jixX. “I
get the picture.”

“Like father like son,” said
VOZ.

jixX put the potted spruce
down on the floor; it was starting to get heavy and he needed his arms for
gesticulation. “My father flew spaceships. I design landscapes.”

“Until now,” put in VOZ.

jixX stood open-mouthed, his
arms splayed out.

VOZ continued. “Lift-off will
be at 19.00 Tenalp Trans-Uranic Geocentral Time. Remember, this is a Top Secret
Space Mission, so you must not discuss it with anyone.”

“Wait. I can’t possibly do
this. I have an important meeting tomorrow.”

“I’ll write you a sick-note.”

“I have two unfinished
projects.”

“Your partner can finish
them.”