So It Begins (45 page)

  The planet Edilson possessed a singularly peculiar make-up. Much of it was formed on unstable rock. Not the kind given over to earthquakes—or edilsonquakes, if you would—but the kind that produced the type of environment found in Earthspots such as Japan or Yellowstone National Park. Edilson was, in short, one great big steam-manufacturing ball, and due to its odd rock formations, anywhere the steam leaked out, it filled the air with various streams of continual sound.

  Over the millennia, the Edilsoni had cultivated these passage ways, giving their planet an unending steam-driven soundtrack. They filled vents with crystals and cymbals, fashioned all manner of horns and harmonicas, even planted bamboo-like reeds where the steam could leak through, making music in every corner of their world. Of course, as one might imagine, this had more of an effect on the population than to simply dress up their days.

  “There’s no doubt about it, sir,” said the aide hopelessly. “The Edilsoni sing and dance to make conversation. It seems they can’t even understand races that simply ‘talk’ at them. In fact, they distrust any species that isn’t comfortable doing so.”

  “Distrust?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the woman, absently as she continued to read from the stream crossing her handscreen. “Seems they even went to war with one of their in-system neighbors when they stopped up the steam vents on the grounds of their consulate here.”

  Captain Alexander Benjamin Valance found himself as close to despair as ever he had been since taking command of the
Roosevelt
. “Why,” he thought, imploring what gods might be left in his ever-shrinking corner of the galaxy, “do these things keep happening to me?”

  This was worse than when his crew had shaved the sacred monkeys of Templeworld. Or when they had conned the guards of the Pen’dwaker Holding Facility into allowing them to transform the prison into a gambling den for their Intergalactic Crap Shoot of the Millennium tournament. Or even when they had sponsored their infamous inter-species mixer where they introduced the debutante daughters of the leading politicians of the Pan-Galactic League of Suns to the various bears, cows, pigs, and chimps they were transporting to the Inter-Galaxy Zoo on Chamre XI.

  It was worse than when they had stolen the
Roosevelt
and declared war on a cookie factory, more disastrous than when their pie fight had clogged the ship’s protonic engines with strawberry, pineapple, and cheesecake filling, along with graham cracker crumbs, whipped creme, and rhubarb. Of course, such nonsense could not impede the performance of such mighty machines, but it did play havoc with Admiral Morey’s white-glove-and-I’m-not-kidding inspection.

  It was, in his opinion, worse than anything they had ever done before and most likely would do any time soon. Because, quite simply, for once his insane-as-a-flock-of-dice-addled-cephalopods crew had not done anything. He had no one upon whom he might cast the blame for this one. For once, the captain of the
Roosevelt
was as stuck as stuck could be, with no options in sight.

  “So,” he said, weakly, looking for a third highball while turning to the others in the room, those others besides himself responsible for getting the most important treaty in the history of Earth signed, “who’s got any really bright ideas?”

  The thundering lack of enthusiastic response did not surprise him greatly.

  “Tell me again,” asked Noodles, not at all certain about the wisdom involved in what he and Rocky were attempting, “why is it we’re stealing a shuttle craft and heading for the surface?”

  “Look, little buddy,” answered the gunnery officer while he gave Quartermaster Harris the high-sign that they were ready to launch. “The captain is tied up in knots about his meetin’ with these beachballs down below—right? Now, it seems gettin’ these mugs on board with the Confederation is a big deal and so, I was thinkin’, if we could crack whatever the big problem is, we could kinda make up for some of the little improprieties we’ve . . . well, you know . . .”

  “Getting ourselves court-marshalled would probably add some small ray of happiness to the captain’s otherwise present dismal outlook.”

  “You machinist, you’re always so gloomy.”

  “That’s only the machinists who run around with Italians.”

  “Look,” replied Rocky, as he eased the shuttle out the side bay doors while Technician Second Class Thorner kept the perimeter radar jumbled so they might avoid detection, “we’re a couple of clever guys. We figure out how to smooth things so the Confederation beats the League and all the other bozos to signin’ up this bunch, and we’ll be spendin’ the rest of our days sittin’ around swimmin’ pools.”

  “With cleaning equipment,” responded a particularly glum Noodles under his breath. He did not bother to argue further, though. Once Rocky had made his mind up on something, it was rare the machinist was ever able to talk him out of it. The reasons why he went along with said schemes were many and varied.

  First, he liked Rocky and did not want to see him end up in more trouble than he could handle. Second, he was fairly certain the gunner had saved his life during one of their many drunken escapades, and so he felt a certain amount of obligation on that front as well. He also had to admit Rocky had a point. The
Roosevelt
on the whole would be in for tough times if Edilson decided to take a pass on joining the Confederation of Planets. Lastly, however, he went along with his pal’s crazy plans usually because it just always turned out to be more fun doing things his way.

 
Machinists are a dull lot,
he thought, keeping the notion as quiet within his noggin as possible. He would never admit to such a thing, of course. If questioned on the verve and vigor of his profession, he would point to the many fine activities he and the rest of the ship’s tool jockeys enjoyed, from their shipwide
Call of Cthulhu
LARPs and their free-style origami fold-offs, to the week out of every year they lived for, their Sexy-Robot-Building Competition. Privately, he feared Intelligence Officer DiVico’s assessment, “I’ve seen lead foil that was snappier than the average machinist,” might sadly be true.

  Regardless, it was but a matter of minutes after take-off that the pair of gobs found themselves loose in the capital city of the planet Edilson. After walking about more or less aimlessly for a half an hour, confident from their observation of various street signs and cafe notices that Edilson to Pan-Galactic to Earth Basic 9.8 translation was more or less working fine enough, Rocky approached a passing rubbery watermelon of an Edilsoni and asked;

  “So, what’s the story around here, chief?”

  Bending back and forth so that all the eyes ringing its head could scrutinize the individual addressing it, the random citizen decided it had no idea what this bizarre new species wanted and, doing its best to make a motion with its shoulderless body that would translate to an alien as a confused shrug, it went about its business. The gunner gave his buddy a look meant to convey his mixture of confusion and annoyance, then tried again with the next native to pass by. The results were the same.

  After that, both sailors attempted to communicate with the locals, trying this or that different idiom, working to keep their questions as simple as possible in case their problem was merely some translation difficulty. Nothing helped. Eventually, having been working on questioning a large flow of Edilsoni moving toward a stadium of sorts, they found themselves having been moved along with the flow to where they were indoors, awaiting some sort of performance. Frustrated, but hoping whatever was about to be presented on the field before them would give them some sort of clue, they managed to purchase a container of what seemed to be fried, bacon-flavored grass, and two milky fruit drinks which came in a kind of squeeze-bag affair. As they settled in, an announcer came out onto a small side stage and sang an introduction.

  Since it seemed that all that he was introducing was the formal presentation from some alien world or the other to the Edilson government, the need for a tune-filled introduction struck the two humans as odd. When it turned out the aliens making the presentation were Danierians, Rocky and Noodles both began to titter with amusement. Bulbous, dour, and as exciting as a panda in fishnet stockings, the boys chuckled over how utterly awful the following would have to be.

  “Danierians are gonna try and get these guys’ attention,” scoffed Rocky. “Now this, I’m glad I’m here ta see.”

  The chief gunnery officer’s joy was short-lived. As he and Noodles finished off the last of their Crunchy Goodness snack pack, a troop of some four hundred Danierian warriors, outfitted in full battle gear, marched onto the field from three triangularly situated entrances. Flags unfurled, horns blaring, drums setting down an impressively unshakable cadence, the troopers met in the center of the parade ground, shouting out in their lumbering cadence as they began to file into formation;

“Denieria, it is our home,

That roasting world, so far away,

Denieria, its red sky and foam,

It’s the best, on
any
day.”

  Looking first at each other, Rocky and Noodles then began to scan the crowd around them. Unlike their attempts to communicate with the Edilsoni on the streets, the Danierians were getting through to the natives. Indeed, as their simple forward marches began to intertwine, the crowd began tapping their tentacles to the martial rhythm.

“We’re here to tell you about our world,

How splendid it is, to live in peace,

With Danierian banners, everywhere unfurled

,And all strife and despair made to cease.”

  “Noodles,” asked Rocky, “is this as bad as I’m thinkin’ it is?” When the machinist nodded in agreement, his partner answered, “Yeah, I was afraid of that.”

“The galaxy is filled with lies,

Other races present intentions, but disguise

Their true meaning,

There’s no gleaning,

What, oh what, is an innocent race to do?”

  Rocky shuddered, thinking he had a good idea what was about to be suggested.

“Face front! And join

The United Coalition Of Danierian Worlds.

Be a member of the winning team,

It’s a lone and vulnerable planet’s

Dream come true!

  As the marching and singing continued, Noodles was struck by how the Edilsoni were responding to the ever-more-intricate step-pattern the warriors below were developing. With increasingly complicated side turn, with each spin of their weapons and the tossing of banners from one team to another, the native inhabitants gave out with more and louder appreciative whistling noises. And then, the warriors offered up their next-to-final chorus;

“Others offer chaos,

We bring rules,

Those who turn down order,

We slaughter as fools!”

  Eliciting cheers from every corner of the arena. As the Danierian Dress Guard broke into an even tighter, and it must be said rather snappy (well, snappy for Danierians), close order drill, chanting “Go Danieria” on every left step, the Edilsoni began singing to one another and performing a variety of three-legged jigs which left the two sailors both astounded and, it had to be admitted, a touch frightened.

“Submit to our will,

It’s for your own good,

Don’t wonder if we kill,

Just do what you should.”