In Favour of Fools: A Science Fiction Comedy (These Foolish Things Book 1) (19 page)

Chapter 44
- Now language issues

I’m thankful to be in the shadow of the mesa; it’s not exactly cool, but at least I won’t fry under the glare of the new day’s first sun.

I’m not very clear about what I should be doing; I guess should go deeper under the over-hanging rock and see what I might find.

(Is that not obvious? N.F.)

This far in, it’s really quite dark and I have to feel my way with my hands against the cool rock.

Damn! Blast! Bugger!

I’ve banged my head, and it’s really sore.

There’s a gap; I can see it now my eyes have adjusted to the gloom. It’s low; about waist height, and broad. I’m going to have to get down on my hands and knees and crawl through. This is going to ruin my jeans and mess up my manicure; still, it can’t be helped.

I’ve got four or five metres in and the ground is suddenly smooth and level. I want to go home; this place is making me nervous. I didn’t know I was claustrophobic until now, but you can’t blame me. If this big rock above my head moves, then it’s bye-bye to your intrepid hero and Julie inherits all of my debts.

Oh no! This is bad. I don’t like this at all.

There’s a light ahead and it’s not going to be natural, is it? And they’re not going to be human either; not here, under this rock, with its ancient floor smoothed by the passage of a million feet, or flippers; or tentacles. I don’t want to be the first to make CONTACT; surely there are people trained for this.

I’m going to turn around and go back; before I spark a major interspecies incident. You know me; I’m bound to say the wrong thing and cause an intergalactic war.

It’s just got worse; a hell of a lot worse. I’m facing the entrance and I’ve just seen something move. It was just a shadow, but it was huge and it’s really too close. So I’m turning back again and going on; at least I’ll be able to see what eats me.

There’s a column of light, reaching from the high stone ceiling and ending in a glowing circle on the smooth grey floor. In other circumstances, it would be quite beautiful; you’ll forgive me though, for not focussing on aesthetics in my present circumstances. Just outside the circle of light is a dark pool of what looks like water. I’m suddenly thirsty, but I can’t move.

There are three shapes lying along the edge of the pool, and I know they are alive. One shudders and lifts what I’m going to call its head. Then it wriggles toward the light. Now I can see it clearly and I really would prefer if it went back in the shadows. To call it ugly would be like calling Mount Everest big; it’s true, but it hardly gives a clear picture.

It has a long, reddish brown scaly body, and its head is really just a square, or oblong, shape at the end of a short neck. There are two large eyes, a messy bit that’s probably its nose, and a large drooling opening that I’m taking as its mouth. I know I’m not getting across the intrinsic grossness of the creature but, trust me, it’s as ugly as ugly gets.

After a few moments in the light, it lifts itself up on its six thick legs and starts to move towards me; very quickly.

Now, the first thing you might ask is; why am I still here? I should be running for my life to escape the monstrosity approaching me. And you’re right; I was just about to do that very thing, when I was nudged in the back by the monster’s uglier brother.

I staggered forward, and now I’m between the two of them, and I’m getting the smell off them. I’m not going to say anything about it; if you imagine a week long rock festival with only one working toilet and you’re the last one to use it, you are going to be pretty close.

It looks like they are not going to eat me, not just yet anyway.

The first one is nodding its head and walking back and forward, making wet, squishy noises with its mouth. The other one is just sitting there, as if being that ugly takes all of its energy.

‘I come in peace,’ I try, because I have to say something, and ‘a giant leap’ doesn’t seem to fit.

The active one stops and leans closer; I lean back. Then there is a whole cacophony of sounds washing over me and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Trust me to find the only alien that doesn’t speak the King’s English.

I’ve been sitting here for an hour and it’s still talking at me. Every now and again, it stops, and walks to the column of light and bathes in the sunshine. Then it returns refreshed and energised for some more talk.

I think the other one’s fallen asleep and I wish I could join it.

Something’s happening. Ugly (Mk I) has indicated that I should follow him. (If everything turns out fine and these creatures become mankind’s best buddies, I’m hoping my N.F. will take out all this stuff about how ugly they are and replace it with nice stuff.)

(Not a chance. It’s a big enough job making him appear competent, without having to make him seem nice as well. N.F.)

I can’t really explain how he made his wish known to me; there was a lot of wriggling and head nodding, and more talk. Eventually I got the message and now we’re at a wall on the other side of the light. There are dozens of pictures painted on the wall. The style isn’t really to my taste; more cartoon than Da Vinci, but you can’t have everything.

Ug1 bangs his snout against a picture in the middle of the wall. I bend and take look at what he’s showing me. The light isn’t great, but I can see the mesa, standing out large and black against a clear blue sky. The land all around it is green; covered to the horizon in little three leaved plants.

‘Very nice. I like your use of colours and texture; and the perspective is inspired.’

Ug1 moves on to another picture, to the right. This scene is almost identical to the first, but there are creatures dotted about the landscape. They are clearly Ug1’s cousins, though they appear slimmer and less ugly; artistic licence, I suppose.

OK; I’m getting the message. These creatures live underground during the hot years, and gambol about in the meadows during the more temperate times. Very nice; very idyllic.

I take a moment to step back and look at the wall as a whole; there are a lot of pictures. I know I should be more impressed; I’m being shown pictures painted by an alien race, for goodness sake. But, you know when you first go to an art gallery, and you spend ages looking at the first few pictures, and then, as you move along, you spend less and less time with each picture as culture fatigue sets in. Well, I’m already there, and I don’t want to look at every single picture. I want to find out what Ug1 is trying to tell me.

So I skip a few pictures; if he doesn’t like it, he can tell me in good clear English.

Here’s one now; I think I understand what I’m looking at. It’s the same scene from a different perspective, and it’s obviously hot. The ground is the dull brown, baked colour I’ve seen ever since I’ve been here. It appears to be on the other side of the mesa and the ground is pretty flat. In the centre of the picture are two men. One is in a hole, handing something to the other, standing near the edge. The artist probably hasn’t actually seen humans, because the proportions are all wrong. The legs are too long and the heads are too big. I think I’m looking at a painting of humans digging for gil-weed.

Is that what this is all about? A protest against mankind raping their world?

There’s another creature that I hadn’t noticed before, painting a brand new picture in the corner. It’s only half finished and it glistens in the light. It’s the same scene as the one I’ve just studied, but this time there are no humans about. Instead, there is a large, long, yellow, wormlike thing, and behind it, there seems to be a long deep trench. The creature keeps on painting, using a brush held in its surprisingly dainty fingers.

So, what is this? Do they think we’re about to harvest their precious roots on an industrial scale? Have they invented this yellow thing to show me what they think is about to happen? Or is it already happening? It certainly doesn’t look human in construction. And what am I supposed to do about it anyway?

Answers on a postcard please.

Chapter 45
- Now delusions of competence

(I’ve been trying to renegotiate my deal with the publishers. I want more money, and they want more sex, but I’m not about to degrade my artistic integrity any further than I have already. And, quite frankly, Phil is not great material for bringing in gratuitous sex. He gets hot and sweaty and nervous at the very thought. So, we’re at a bit of an impasse here, I’m afraid. Until my quite reasonable demands are met, I’m going to work to rule. I’m contractually obliged to produce 2000 words per day, and I will fulfil my obligations. The contract says nothing about what those words should be. So, my work to rule will entail a moratorium on the use of vowels. Let’s see how they like that! N.F.)

spnt th rst f th dy n th hrd flr, bsd th clmn f lght, tryng t gt sm slp. ll ths mtng f rcs s vry trng, spcll s ’m th nly n hr wh spks prprly.

Nw th lght s dmmr nd ’m prprng t g tsd nd tk lk fr myslf. ’m gssng tht’s wht g1 wnts m t d, thgh h’s lft m ln snc h shwd m th pntngs.

t’s stll wrm, bt bth sns hv gn nd thr’s jst glw n th hrzn.

(There, I think you’ll agree it loses something, without the vowels. At least the Publishers agree, and I’m much happier with my package now. So here’ are the missing vowels. N.F.)

I ea e e o e a o e a oo eie e ou
(Just joking. N.F.)

I spent the rest of the day on the hard floor, beside the column of light, trying to get some sleep. All this meeting of races is very tiring, especially as I’m the only one here who speaks properly.

Now the light is dimmer and I’m preparing to go outside and take a look for myself. I’m guessing that’s what Ug1 wants me to do, though he’s left me alone since he showed me the paintings.

It’s still warm, but both suns have gone and there’s just a glow on the horizon. I take a moment to enjoy the view; it really is quite stunning. I’d enjoy it more if I wasn’t starving; really starving. The only think I’ve eaten in two days is a bag of crisps. I drank some water from the pool before I left; it was brackish and warm, but it wasn’t too bad.

I’ll take a quick peek at the land behind the mesa, and then I’ll be off back to the hotel. He must have food somewhere; that waistline didn’t build itself.

I’ve walked around the mesa and I’m just climbing this slope. If I didn’t ride my bike so much, I’d be gasping for air.

Blood and sand! I don’t believe it. I can see the big yellow thing that the alien painted. And his painting is pretty close to the real thing, except his numbers are a bit out. There isn’t just one big yellow thing chewing up the ground; I count twenty-five of the monstrous machines and each one has a long deep trench stretching behind it. They’re ripping the heart out of this poor world. Someone has to do something about it. I wish someone else was here. I could pat them on the back and say something encouraging and then step back and watch them go to work. That’s the sort of role I’d be good at; head coach, motivator, physio, cheerleader.

Unfortunately, there’s no-one else here. There’s Charge of course, but he’ll just lock himself in his hotel. I feel as if it is my own personal responsibility to sort this out; does that sound at all like me? Somehow, Ug1 got through to me. We didn’t do this to their world; we treated it with a little more respect. I’m not going to stand by and let them do this.

Whatever or whomever they are; I’m going to stop them.

I really should eat; I’m having delusions of competence.

I have a slight immediate problem; I don’t know where I am. I danced through the night and across the land with the Sand Mirages, and I have no idea what route we took. I could be staggering all over the place in circles and end up in the middle of nowhere at sun-up.

At last, some good luck. There’s a Sand Mirage over there, and another one beside it. We’re going to dance across the desert again, and I’ve got a few moves I haven’t shown them yet.

I don’t know how long we took to get here, but we’re back at the hotel now. It’s the early hours of the morning, and I’m creeping through the front door as quiet as a mouse who came second in a quietness contest behind a worm, and had just received the special lifetime award for services to silence.

‘Hi,’ says Charge, standing in the dim hall with his shotgun and inappropriate nightwear.

‘I thought you’d be asleep,’ I whisper; why am I whispering?

‘Me? I don’t sleep; not at night.’

‘Have you got any food? I’m absolutely starving,’

‘All I’ve got is grits.’

That gives me pause; is it a medical condition or some sort of fungi?

‘What are grits?’

‘Sort of a corn based porridge.’

‘Sounds yummy.’

It was disgusting, but I ate it all and asked for more. You can’t be a hero on an empty stomach, can you? Though, you never see Superman eat, or Batman. Spiderman eats when his aunt makes him, but how would Iron Man eat? I could go on, ad nauseam.

I’m going back to my bed now, to sleep the day away. When I wake up, I hope that I’ll have thought of an excuse to absolve me of the responsibility that has been placed upon my narrow shoulders, or at least, someone will give me a sick-note.

Chapter 46
- Now to save the day

I’m awake and I can’t think of an excuse to stay in bed any longer. Not unless I can call common sense an excuse, because it’s telling me in no uncertain terms to stay in bed and get some more sleep. Tomorrow everything will be much better, it says, if only you can stay where you are. Nighty-night.

I’m up and I’m nervous. My stomach feels queasy and my legs are surprisingly weak. I have a headache and there are spots before my eyes. It’s either terror at what I’m about to do, or caffeine withdrawal symptoms; or both.

Charge has rustled up a plate of grits. I can’t bring myself to eat them. At least they won’t go to waste, if he decides to pebble-dash the front of the hotel.

‘They’re outside, waiting for you,’ he says. I’m sure I can hear the sound of awe in his voice.

‘Can I take your gun?’

‘Nope.’

‘But I need a weapon. I’m going up against I don’t know what and I need something.’

He hands me a crowbar. I take it and weigh it carefully in my hand; it’s quite a weight, but is it enough to take on the might of some alien empire? Don’t answer that, I already know.

‘You don’t need a weapon. They’ll look after you.’ He nods towards the window and the Sand Mirages.

‘They’re just bits of dust. How can they protect me from anything?’

‘Trust me; I know about these things.’

‘Then why don’t you come with me, if it’s so safe?’

‘I can’t; it’s you they want, son.’

So, I’ve got my crowbar and I’m wearing my mac and hat, just in case. And I have my shoulder bag over one shoulder. I’m ready for anything. All I need is a really strong cup of coffee and a heavy duty, ridiculously powerful bazooka; then I’ll be fine.

Charge offers me a cup of tea. ‘It’s all I’ve got. It’s made in England.’

I thought about that for a moment; I know it’s warm down South, but I couldn’t see them growing tea; not with the mini-ice age kicking in. It’s typical you know. When they had Global Warming, it was still cold and wet in Manchester; fifteen wet summers on the bounce from 2008. Now they have Global Cooling, it’s still cold and wet in Manchester.

I want to stay and discuss the provenance of his little tea-leafs, even though I know I’m just putting off the moment when I have to walk outside and lay my life on the line.

Actually, the tea doesn’t smell too bad; I think I’ll have a quick cuppa, just to send me on my way.

It wasn’t nice at all. I think there’s an art to brewing tea…. I’m going to stop it now. No more chatter about the tea; you don’t want to know about it, and I’ve got better things to do.

I’m outside with the Sand Mirages. There are six of them spinning around me and it’s time to make some moves. I start to strut down the street, clicking one hand and bobbing my head. The Sand Mirages line up behind me and off we go. I can hear Michael Jackson’s Thriller in my head and the Sand Mirages are dancing in time with the compulsive beat.

Too soon; we’ve reached the mesa and they fade away. I nod as I watch them disappear. If I don’t make it, I think, at least I’ve seen them. When I’m low on caffeine, friends and weapons, I do talk rubbish to myself.

As I walk around the mesa, I swing my crowbar and try to build up my courage, without much success. Courage is like that. When you don’t need it, you can call it up whenever you want. When you find yourself in a position where it is absolutely critical that you find some courage, well, you might just as well look for sincerity in a political debate.

So, it seems, it's just me, the Cowardly Lion, and my crowbar.

Now I’m at the other side of the mesa, and I can see that I haven’t really thought this through. Last night, the yellow earth rapers were close to the back of the mesa; just the right place for my devastating attack. But they have been doing their evil work all day long and are now out of sight, over the horizon. The only evidence that they have been here are the twenty-five straight, wide, deep trenches they have left behind them.

It’s going to take me all night to catch them, unless I run.

Now, I admit, I do look like a runner. I’m long and skinny, with a pretty good stride length. But I can’t actually run. Of course, I can run across the road; my grandma can run across the road, if there’s a game of bingo in it for the poor dear.

What I can’t do is continuous running. It’s not that I’m unfit, although I am; it’s because I can’t get my arms and legs to work in the synchronous rhythm necessary for distance running. Plus, it makes me sweat and I don’t like to sweat unless there’s a very good reason for it; if you know what I mean.

I’m walking as quickly as I can, along the side of one of the trenches. In the clear light of the panoply of stars, I can see that the bottom of the trench has been seared and sealed with what must have been incredible heat. Whatever they didn’t harvest was destroyed. I’m slightly impressed by their efficiency, and more than slightly terrified at what that suggests for their defenses.

Still, they‘ve probably never been attacked by a skinny guy with a crowbar, so I’ve got the element of surprise on my side, for whatever that’s worth.

Sun number one is just coming up. I know the suns have proper names, but that’s what I’m going to call them; one and two. I’m standing far too close to one of the yellow machines. This close, I can see that it’s not all yellow; there are subtle green stripes running along its side and the yellow fades to a dull brown colour close to the ground. It’s moving along at about one kilometre per hour and there’s a lot of loud crunching and hissing noises going on.

I pick a stone up and toss it at the side of the machine, just to make sure that there is no exotic force-field to fry me to a crisp. The stone falls harmlessly to the dirt.

Surprisingly enough, these high tech machines run on caterpillar tracks; which gives me an idea.

As is my usual case when I have a bright idea, I’m going to put it into practice right now, without giving myself time to rethink what I’m doing, or reconsider the wisdom of my actions.

I slot the crowbar between the track and the drive wheel, at its highest point, and heave with all of my strength. At first, nothing happens, so I shove at the bar again and the end of tracks slips off the wheel. I leap back in case something dangerous happens, but the mammoth machine just carries on.

I throw the crowbar to the ground and stamp my feet. I really thought that would work. Then the edge of the track gets caught between two of the smaller wheels, and it’s dragged up between them. There is a really quite satisfying crunching sound as the behemoth grinds to a halt. There’s even smoke coming from the wheels.

I look around to see what sort of response is coming at me, but there’s no-one here; just me and the machines.

I pick up my crowbar and go in search of more prey.

I’ve disabled six of the machines and, despite the heat. I’m feeling quite good about myself. I’ve even stopped watching the skyline for danger. I reckon I’ll have this finished by lunchtime.

I’m bending to the seventh machine now, and...

‘What you doing, Mister?’

I freeze. It sounds like the voice of a little girl; not at all what I expected. Slowly I turn around, and there she is. I don’t know much about kids; she could be five, or eight; probably not ten.

‘Er… hello,’ I say, dropping my crowbar to my side.

‘What you doing, Mister?’ she repeated, stepping a little closer.

She’s waist high, wearing a light summer dress, and her blonde hair is done in those rope things; braids I think.

I look around but we are alone.

‘Where are your parents?’ It seems the responsible thing to ask.

‘Are you breaking my ground-turners? With that thing?’

‘They’re yours?’

‘Of course. That’s why I’m here. I was talking to your president when I heard the alarm.’

‘Sorry?’ I’m not saying ‘sorry’ for harming the machines, I’m saying ‘sorry?’ because surely I’ve misheard heard her.

‘You’re funny, you are; and skinny. And you need a shave.’

She smiles up at me to take away the sting from her words.

‘But these are … alien machines; how can they be yours?’

She looks at me, as if she’s waiting for the obvious answer to percolate through to my brain.

‘You’re not an...alien, are you?’ My question feels just as stupid as it sounds; but I am standing in the blazing heat on a planet many light years from Earth and, in that context, it’s a perfectly reasonable question.

‘Hello, I’m Millie,’ she says and holds out her hand.

‘I’m Phil,’ I reply and reach out to shake hands, but she’s already pulled her hand away, with a giggle.

‘You have to stop what you are doing.’ The little girl quality has slipped from her voice. ‘Or I’ll have to stop you.’

‘If these really are your machines, you have to switch them all off and stop what you are doing.’

She smiles and tugs at my sleeve.

‘What you got there?’ She points at my crowbar.

‘It’s just a crowbar?’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?

‘Why’s it called a crowbar? Isn’t a crow a bird?’

‘I don’t know. It’s probably a historic reference.’

‘Can I have a look?’

I know that I shouldn’t, but she’s so sweet. I show her the crowbar and she whips it from my hand with surprising speed and strength. With a laugh she slings it over her shoulder and it flies a ridiculous distance across the devastated land.

‘You look glum,’ she says, and grabs my arm. ‘Why don’t you like my machines?’

‘They’re destroying the whole eco-system here. The gil-plant provides sustenance for all of the indigenous species here. Without it, they’ll never survive. It’s irresponsible to carry on like this.’

‘But there’s only bugs here, aren’t there?’

‘You’d be surprised.’

Somehow, we’re walking hand in hand back along the trench, towards the mesa.

‘Tell me,’ she says, as she walks, swinging our joined hands.

Something about the heat and the lack of food makes me feel light-headed. I can’t seem to think clearly enough to work out what it’s safe to say.

‘There is intelligent life on this planet, and we must not abuse it. When I get back to Earth and tell them, I’m sure this planet will be quarantined to protect them.’

‘What level are they? Below yours, I assume. Do they have artefacts, technology, writing, language? This could be good, if I time it right. Take me to them, please, Mister.’ The little girl voice and the mature words are really mixing up my mind.

So, we’re here at the mesa. I really can’t remember making the actual decision to come here, but I must have, because we’re here.

I lead her down in to the darkness and drop to my knees and crawl in. She just bends and walks easily beside me.

Ug1 is there, and maybe Ug2 or 3 or 4. Who knows; they all look the same. Millie is talking to them, in their own language, and I’m feeling a little left out. I take a drink of water from the pool and watch them converse. Not for the first time, I feel a little inadequate. I’m representing the human race here, for heaven’s sake, and I’m left out here in the cold.

I walk over to them and stand beside Millie. How she can make those horrible sounds, I don’t know.

‘What’s happening?’ I interrupt their conversation. ‘How do you know their language?’

‘I’m from a level nine civilisation; this is easy for us.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m assessing their level. They look like a three, though they may be a four. If I report the presence of an undiscovered level four species, there’s a big bonus in it for me.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I didn’t see, but it’s what you say, isn’t it?

After what seems an age, she turns to me and takes my hand.

‘Come with me,’ she says, all sweetness and light. ‘We need to talk.’

And you know what I think about that.