Cargo Cult (43 page)

The Agent looked even more grim
than usual. "There'll be trouble all right." And with that, it
transported back to its ship.

The trolls looked at one another.
"Nice enough being," said one. "You know, for an alien and
all."

"Yeah, never met an Agent
before."

"What about this?" said another,
poking the stunned monster with his rail gun.

“Probably best if we weren't here
when it wakes up," the leader wisely surmised. "Anyone fancy a cup
of tea before we knock off for the day?"

-oOo-

Drukk was more confused than ever.
Nothing seemed to make sense any more. It was obvious from what the
others had said that none of them had known the humans were being
held in the hold. He supposed it was possible that someone had put
them there and then forgotten that they'd done it. But he couldn't
see when anyone would have had the opportunity. The ship had
snatched them all up and whisked them all off towards home in a
moment. How could anyone have had the time to grab a couple of
dozen humans and stick them in the hold?

And if Drukk himself hadn't been
wondering about below decks, would anybody ever have known they
were there?

He took out a notepad and tried to
assemble a list of all the odd things that had been bothering him.
There was the ship flying itself, fixing itself, talking, rescuing
everyone from Earth, hiding the humans, attacking them with its
maintenance bots, persuading Braxx to go after the Hoard...

"Wait a minute!" An unsettling idea
was forming in Drukk's mind. He glanced about him anxiously.
Everything he had written down, all the strange things that had
happened, were to do with the ship! There was something wrong with
the ship! It wasn't just that the ship was much more capable than
he had believed. The ship was so capable it was calling the shots!
The ship was controlling them, doing what it wanted to do, making
everyone go along with it – by guile and cunning! The ship was
intelligent!

In his excitement, he had almost
blurted it out. But that would have been suicidal. Even Drukk could
see that the ship must be monitoring everything that went on inside
it. It had eyes and ears everywhere!

He pushed the list he'd made into
his bag, praying to the Spirit that the ship hadn't seen it. He
tried to look casual as he walked off down the corridor. The ship
must not suspect a thing. If it did, it would surely kill him.

Then he staggered and almost fell
as another revelation hit him. It wasn't just the ship! It was
every ship! Every factory, every church labour management camp,
every military installation, every satellite, space station and
games arena. Everywhere where there were machines, there would be
machine intelligences controlling and directing the lives of
innocent Vinggans. It was monstrous! Hideous! Although, he had to
admit, it certainly explained a lot. But it had to be stopped. And
he, Drukk,
Space Corps Operative, sixth class,
was the only Vinggan who knew the secret. It was all down to him
now. Somehow, no matter what the cost, he must save his whole
species. Either that or find somewhere really good to
hide.

-oOo-

"Look! Oh God, look! It's Earth!"
Sam was actually weeping with relief as the image of her own,
beautiful planet swam into view on one of the screens. Everyone
turned to look and a moment later, cheering and clapping broke
out.

"I never thought I'd see it again,"
she sobbed as the hippy contingent spontaneously erupted into a
rousing rendition of 'Kumbaya'. The oldies started grumbling that
they weren't singing it right, insisting that the Joan Baez version
was the only 'proper' one and complaining that 'these kids today'
didn't even understand their own cultural heritage. Yet they seemed
happy in their grumbling. Happier still when they started up their
own version of 'Show Me The Way To Go Home' in opposition.

"I'll be so glad to see the back of
this lot," Barraclough growled, but he too looked happy.

Wayne watched the little blue ball
on the screen with only half his attention. The rest was focused on
the two songs as they moved in raucous counterpoint, he'd never
though of juxtaposing them before but, he thought, the effect was
quite trippy. Even when Sam put an arm around his shoulders and
squeezed him to her, he barely gave more than a token squirm, so
lost was he in the strange sounds.

"We need a plan," said John.

"Go away," said Sam.

"Look how close we are. We'll be
there in no time."

"So?"

"So then they'll come down and ask
us where the treasure is."

Sam dragged her eyes away from the
screen with a sigh. "You see, this is what I was trying to tell you
back there in Chuwar's Medieval theme park. If you tell porkies to
homicidal space monsters, sooner or later, your chooks will come
home to crap all over your head."

“Very colourful, but saying 'I told
you so' doesn't actually help."

"He's right, Sam," Barraclough
grudgingly agreed.

"So think of a plan, Einstein. You
got us into this."

John spluttered. “Me? Well forgive
me for finding a way to keep us alive for a while longer. If it
wasn't for me, we'd all have been chewed up and spat out weeks
ago."

"He's right, Sam," Barraclough
agreed again, earning himself a small snarl from Sam.

"All right, all right!" Sam threw
her hands up in surrender. "I'll work on it. I'll think of
something to get us out of this mess you've landed us in."

John gaped, open mouthed, at the
effrontery of the woman and was struggling to find a suitably
coruscating retort, when the cacophonous singing suddenly stopped.
They turned to look at the two choirs and then turned to follow
their massed gazes to the doorway. There stood a small band of
Loosi Beechams, looking colourful and beautifully coiffed. Their
leader, deliciously attractive in the white satin wedding dress he
always wore, looked around at the staring humans.

“Blessed be the Spirit," Braxx
intoned. “For she has led us safely to our destination."

“Blessed be the Spirit," mumbled
the other Loosies.

Braxx went on. "I have come among
you to ask for the landing co-ordinates for the vault of the
Mechazoid Hoard."

"You'd better think of something
pretty fast then," Barraclough muttered in Sam's ear.

"Who among you knows the
whereabouts of this great treasure? Who among you will bring this
great prize to to the Vinggan people? Who will be the instrument of
my exalted people's great destiny?"

"Er..." said John, stepping
forward.

"Ah!" said Braxx, sweeping towards
him with his entourage behind.

"The thing is..." said John,
swallowing hard.

"It is a great moment for you, I
know, you poor simple creature." Braxx made the
gesture-of-magnanimous-condescension, which his humaniform body
translated as a queenly, limp-wristed wave of the hand. “But try
not to be overwhelmed. History will be made by us today. The
Mechazoid Hoard will bring untold power to the great Vinggan
Empire. But remember that the Great Spirit smiles on the efforts of
even the humblest, most insignificant and worthless of her servants
– such as yourself. So be brave and speak the words that will set
the future of Vinggkind on a new and glorious path."

John's face gyred and gimballed as
he tried to get the words out that might be the end of them all.
Behind him every human in the hold held their breath. "I'm
afraid... You see, it's like this... I don't actually know
where..."

"Amberley," said Barraclough
loudly, stepping forward and pulling John back. "The Hoard is
hidden in a small town West of Brisbane called Amberley."

"Ah!" Braxx turned and beamed at
his escort. They in turn beamed back. "And the co-ordinates?"

"Hmmm. Don't know about that,” said
John, pulling Barraclough out of the way and stepping forward. “I
reckon I'd better come up to the bridge and direct you from there.
I'll know it when I see it. It has very distinctive markings on the
ground – so that it can be found easily from the air, I
suppose.”

Braxx put a possessive arm around
John's shoulders. "Then come with me, human, and guide us in. The
Spirit is pleased with you. Your reward will be great." John barely
had time to look over his shoulder at his companions as Braxx and
the other Vinggans led him out of the hold and away to the
bridge.

"Amberley?" asked Wayne, when they
had gone. "I did a gig there a while back and it's just a little
one horse town. And I think the horse died of boredom. What's he
playing at?"

"The town of Amberley may not be up
to much," said an old boy from the Garden Club contingent, “but
RAAF Amberley is the biggest Air Force base in Australia. It has
nearly four thousand personnel, two airfield defence squadrons, two
squadrons of Super Hornet fighters, you name it. If anybody can
show these aliens what's what, those fellas can! Plus we've got
Black Hawks and Tigers in Townsville to the north and Hornet
fighter squadrons at Williamtown in the south."

“Benny was in the RAAF, so he
should know," one of the elderly ladies assured them. "That right
Benny?"

“Flight Sergeant Benjamin Cutter,
at your service," he declared, as if revealing his secret identity.
Several of the ladies around him, cooed appreciatively.

"It was the best idea I could come
up with," Barraclough said, sitting down on a packing case. "What
have I started?"

"All out war, I would guess." Sam's
tone was harsh and accusatory. "Those poor buggers down there don't
stand a chance."

"So what're we gonna do, Boss?"

Shorty rounded on the big buck with
a snarl. "If you ask me that one more time, Fats, I'm gonna stick
this blaster down your throat and fire it."

Fats shuffled away, muttering.

"I think Fats has a point, Boss,"
said Greenie, one of the does. "I mean, we just, like, surrendered.
Geez! It don't make any sense. We've still got our guns and our
shields. Why don't we just blast the lot of 'em and skedaddle?"

Shorty was so annoyed she jumped up
and boxed Greenie's ears. With a squeal, the little doe ran to hide
behind Fats. "You guys! You guys!" Shorty cried, walking about in
an agitated manner. This was not easy since they were all in the
back of an army truck, bouncing along unmade roads on the way to
the nearest airstrip. There, an RAAF transport was waiting to fly
them on to Amberley. It was so cramped that the other roos had to
press themselves up against the sides of the truck to give her
room. "You sit around in fields all day chewing grass and
scratching your bellies. All day long you've got flies buzzing
round your heads. It's turned your brains to mush. That's what it's
done. You all get thicker with every mouthful of that green shit
you swallow."

"I like grass," someone muttered,
resentfully.

"Yeah, me too," murmured
another.

"Shut up, you morons!" She glared
around at them, daring anyone else to speak. "Now listen to me. The
gig's up. We've been rumbled. Ever since that bloody mess back at
the farmhouse, the humans have been wise to us. We can't go back to
sitting on our oversized arses watching the clouds roll by. Those
days are gone forever. It's time to move on."

"Yeah, but we'll still get grass,
right?"

"Shut up! Shut up! Anyone else
mentions grass and I'll jump up and down on their head '
til
their eyes pop out. Got it?"

There was a murmur of "Yes,
Boss."

Shorty took a deep breath and tried
to stay calm. "OK. They're taking us to a military base. They'll
want to ask us a lot of questions but that's OK. We've got
information they want and we're gonna parlay that to our advantage.
So here's the plan." She looked around at the faces of her
companions – all those big, brown eyes watching her with absolute
trust and focused attention – and hoped she was doing the right
thing.

“First of all, no-one takes your
guns and no-one takes your shields. Ever. As long as we've got
those, we can walk out of there any time we like. Second, no-one
shoots any humans without my say-so. OK? I don't care how annoying
or stupid they act. Last -" She knew from long experience to keep
her lists short. "- if anyone asks you anything you say, “You'd
better ask Shorty.” You got that? What do you say?"

"You'd better ask Shorty," they all
said in unison.

"OK!" The sense of doom that had
been hanging over her for days lifted just a little and she began
to feel a tiny hint of optimism. The humans had come a long way in
the past 300 years. Perhaps this was a good time to start making
deals. Maybe she could set her mob up with a sweet deal – some land
of their own, perhaps, a few luxuries, a bit of dough to splash
about, and lots of juicy, sweet, green grass, delivered by the
truckload, fresh every day. Hmmm, hmmm! She could almost smell
it.

-oOo-

The mighty warlord paced the bridge
of his space yacht. He wore jaunty sailor ribbons on his dorsal
spikes but no one watching him would think for one moment that
Chuwar was in a jolly mood.

"Werpot!" he bellowed. It was the
second time he'd had to bellow for his vizier in the past hour. If
he had to do it one more time...

"Your Excellency?" The slight N'oid
raced onto the bridge, trying to disguise his panting. He'd made it
from the observation deck to the bridge in just under fifteen
seconds. A personal best.

"Where do you keep disappearing to,
you scabby little runt?"

"Just attending to ship's business,
Sire. I strive always to ensure your comfort."

In fact, Werpot had been hiding.
The royal yacht was, by Chuwar's decree, monstrously large – big
enough to contain Chuwar, the crew, his entourage and the crowd of
soldiers he'd brought along, and still have room for the entire
Tullakian Massed Pipes and Bongos – and Choir. Even so, three weeks
aboard the yacht in the company of an angry and impatient warlord
had frayed the vizier's nerves to the point where he felt that
stepping out the airlock might just be preferable to one more
second in the company of that great, stupid, puffed-up,
nano-brained, stink-footed monotreme!