Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns (6 page)

What would the future hold? I had no idea.

But I had some very strong and vile intuitions. Could there be a way to escape this desperate and tragic situation?

I wriggled on the hook.

“It will not be easy to get this ship ready. It will be impossible here on Moolaplenty to find a qualified captain . . .”

Kirpal smiled widely and white-toothedly at me. “You will be overjoyed, erstwhile employer Jim, to hear that I am a qualified and expert spacer pilot. I look forward to taking the helm of this soon-to-be-greatly-improved vessel.”

“But the comm officer quit. Impossible to replace . . .”

“Already done! In my CV you will find my licenses, experiences and so forth as a qualified communications officer.”

By now I was grasping for straws.

“You’ll need a crew—”

“Only by law, as the previous captain showed with his alcoholic layabouts. The ship is fully automated. To satisfy the bureaucrats we can enlist some of your farmers. Sign them on as crew for the records.”

Charming. A spacegoing sty manned by moronic yokels.

“Qualified off-planet spacer inspectors have already been engaged and are on the way here,” Kirpal added before I could think of any more excuses. “Needed repairs will be made soonest.”

“Kirpal and I will handle everything,” James said. “Just do your packing and relax. And be prepared for the trip of a lifetime.”

That’s just what I was afraid of. My head vibrated as my sinaphone began ringing. In a moment of madness I had discarded my pocket phone and had this new gadget implanted in my sinus. Powered by body heat it would operate for decades. But I had to have the ringing tone turned down. Still in shock I muttered
on
and Angelina’s voice rattled inside my head.
“I told everyone the good news and they are all celebrating.”
Her voice was almost drowned out by the happy cries, clinking glasses, swinish squealing.
“They want to thank you . . .”

“I am overwhelmed but too shy to face them. And I must rush—my computer has reported finding a possible planet for our pilgrims. I have to follow up the lead . . .”

Beating back all protests, I muttered
off,
indulged in a few moments of whining self-pity.

“Enough, Jim,” I muttered after sadistically enjoying my own misery. I shook myself by my metaphorical neck. “Find the planet, transport these rube relatives and their porcine charges there, bid them all bye-bye and get on with your life. Think how pleasurable this pleasure planet will look upon your return.”

I skulked through the corridors to avoid all contact and endless excuses. Exited and smiled at the guard sergeant’s snappy salute earned by much financial largesse.

Once home I resolutely passed by the bar, entered my study and told the computer to turn on. Then tempered my prohibitionary resolution by getting a cold beer; that would have to do until I found a suitable planet.

I sat, sipped, stared at the screen—and muttered a sibilant curse as the apparently endless names of possible planets scrolled down the screen.

I wrote a quick filtering program to shorten the list. Climate, native population, form of government, average IQ of policemen, death penalty, proportion of incarcerated prisoners to general population, form of government, capitalization of the banking system—must always think of business opportunities—the usual things.

Hours later I straightened up and sighed. The beer had gone flat, thousands of planets had been turned to electrons—only three survived. I yawned and stretched and went for a fresh beer. There was a note on the bar.

“Didn’t want to disturb. See you in a.m. Good luck.”

I blinked at the clock: well past midnight. I hadn’t even heard Angelina come in. I added a single whiskey to the beer, an ancient drink called a boilermaker for reasons lost in the immensity of time. I yawned again.

My synapses sizzling with the stimulation, I went back to work. Two more planets fell. I hit a key and the lone survivor expanded to fill the screen.

MECHANISTRIA

As soon as I did this sweet music filled the air. When I had accessed the planetary website an expensive, powerful
message had punched right through my spam filters. An incredibly beautiful and underdressed girl smiled out of the screen and pointed a sweet finger in my direction.

“I want you . . .” she breathed salaciously. “If you are a farmer, or employed in the agricultural or food supply trade, then Mechanistria could be your new home. Let me explain . . .”

Music enthused, the girl faded to be replaced by smiling workers laboring at mighty machines as she explained in a lilting voice-over.

“Our happy workers are joyful in their labors for they know that work will make them free. We build and export vehicles and machines of all kinds to many planets in the nearby star systems.”

Fading shots of planes, cars, engines, pimple removers, elevators, goatmobiles, machines beyond number marched across the screen. This changed in an instant as the music clashed, the machines vanished to be replaced by workers sitting down for a meal, smiling as they forked up their chow—and then stopping in mid-bite. They then stared and overacted horror at the food on their plates as drums rolled—then stopped. They froze and a male voice, oozing with distaste spoke.

“Yet we are being cheated, starved, taken advantage of. The planets who supply our food have joined together in a cabal of evil! They have raised their prices in unison and lowered the quality of their produce. To put it bluntly—we are being shafted! Our founding fathers were so busy building an enterprising planet that they neglected to provide self-sufficient planetary produce. But no more!”

An exuberant voice-over of scenes of laughing, jolly farmers, happy farm beasts, smoked hams, ripening crops
and laden tables. “Our new policy is to encourage agriculturists of all kinds to come here to aid us in making ours a new and fruitful world! All expenses will be paid, as well as large bonuses, farm buildings, resettlement allowances, free medicare, free life insurances, cradle to grave . . .”

There was more like this, but I had seen enough. This was it!

In my enthusiasm I swallowed the rest of my drink too hastily and coughed until tears filled my eyes. Swept them away with the back of my hand and went to pour some Old Cough Killer.

I was saved! I sipped my poisonous potion and radiated sheer happiness. I could hear little trotters thundering down the gangways into the shining future. Hypocritical good-byes, a few tears shed, hosing out the decks—then up, up and away . . .

My pleasant dreams faded as I realized that my arm was being gently patted. I opened a gummy eye to see a smiling Angelina standing over me.

“Time to wake up. I’ve put the coffee on.”

Sunlight streamed in through the windows. My neck hurt where I crunched it when I had slipped down in the chair.

“Good news . . .” I croaked, then coughed hoarsely.

“Save it until you are more lifelike,” she cozened.

Good advice. I staggered into the shower room, hurled my clothes in the direction of the laundrybot—which snatched them out of the air—and dived into the shower, which inundated me as sweet music filled the air.

Washed, scrubbed, depilated, refreshed—I sat at the table and sipped at my coffee.

“Good news?” Angelina asked, raising one quizzical eyebrow.

“The best. I have found the planet of choice, a world that will welcome us with open arms, settle our friends, aid them and provide them with all the necessities for a happy future.”

“Named . . . ?”

“Mechanistria. Just enter that into the computer, then sit back and be enthralled.”

While she did that I whistled at the stove, gave it my order and tucked into an ample breakfast the instant it slid steaming onto the table before me.

“Just for a change you didn’t lie or exaggerate,” Angelina said entering the room with an armful of brochures from the printout. I was in too good a mood to defend this mild attack on my veracity and only smiled as I munched a mouthful. She sighed.

“I will be sorry to see them go, but it will be for their own benefit in the long run.”

Sorry! I choked, gurgled, drank some coffee, smiled, spoke.

“See—it all came right in the end!”

I must say that our good captain Kirpal organized our departure with military precision. For two days he did not appear to sleep as he goaded the laboring technicians into frenzied activity. Loads of equipment arrived and were seized by eager hands. Without being asked he had torn out a number of cabins and had rebuilt them as a luxury suite for Angelina and me—complete with adjacent barroom. Welding sparks flew high, drills roared, hammers clanged, porcuswine squealed in angry answer. We went home to pack and I resorted to drink. I was not charmed by the thought of our coming flight. Moolaplenty had never looked better. I raised my glass at the thought of its myriad soon-to-vanish delights.

For all too quickly I would soon be many moons away from its warm embrace. I drank deeply to fond memories. Relaxed, muttered, dozed and sipped some more as darkness descended.

An indefinite period of time later, I awoke to find Angelina grasping my nose. I opened my mouth to register my protest and she popped a sizable pill into it. Followed by a healthy glug of water. I gasped, recoiled, vibrated like a strummed string on a bass viol as smoke trickled from my ears. I shuddered and writhed as the Sobering Effect pill had its sobering effect.

“Did you have to do that?” I croaked.

“Yes. I have been informed that the departure celebration on the ship is winding down and takeoff is scheduled to take place as soon as we arrive. We leave.”

We left. The front door crunched tight behind us as a stasis field sealed it into place. Our chauffeur saluted as he held the limo door open for us. Efficiency ruled as well at the spaceport. We admired the polished and rust-free
Porcuswine Express
as it shone in the sunlight. As we approached it the elevator came down and James stepped off waving cheerfully.

“Have a great trip to your porcuswine paradise. I’ll expect glowing reports.”

His mother embraced him; his father exchanged hearty handshakes. Then we waved cheerful good-byes as he vanished into the sunset. I turned back, concealing a quavering sigh, to our interstellar sty. We stepped aboard the access gantry and the elevator bore us swiftly towards what, I am sure, would be an interesting future. The airlock door hummed behind us and closed.

“Positions for takeoff, please. Three minutes to go.”

Our acceleration couches were waiting. Strapping in took but a moment. Angelina seized my hand and squeezed it happily.
I smiled hypocritically and the spacer trembled as the engines rumbled to life.

Mechanistria here we come . . .

As soon as the acceleration ceased I unbuckled and headed—purely by reflex—towards the newly installed bar.

“Hitting the sauce early are we . . . ?” the chill voice of my beloved sounded in my ear. I turned towards her, discarded my glass and nodded grimly.

“You’re right, of course. I have been feeling sorry for myself and I apologize. To work! You’ll let me know when it’s time for the cocktail hour.”

“I will. And now I’m going to find Pinky! I’m sure that takeoff terrified her.”

“I’m off to the bridge.”

We parted. I climbed the stairs. Pining for that lost drink. Admit it, Jim. You’re glugging the booze down because, truthfully, you’re as useful as a fifth wheel on this trip. With a fine captain, a stout engineer—and a fully automated spacer—you’re out of a job.

I went onto the bridge and Kirpal waved a cheerful greeting.

“The money for the overhaul was well spent. We are aligning now for our course and all systems are go—”

His enthusiastic report was interrupted by a crackling eructation from the wall speaker.

“Stramm here. We’re having a little problem . . .”

“Boss diGriz is on the way!” I said into the mike, as I waved Kirpal back into his seat.

“You’re needed here. I’ll find out what’s happening and report back.”

“You’re the boss, Boss.” He sat back down.

I whistled as I headed for the engine room, drink and depression forgotten as I got my teeth into the bit.

I found Stramm staring gloomily at a large illuminated gauge set among the other readouts. He tapped it and sighed heavily.

“What?” I asked.

“Trouble.” In a voice heavy with gloom.

“Tell.”

He did. In far too great technical detail. Like all engineers with a captive audience.

“As you know this ship is a bit of an antique. It has no levitation field for takeoff and landing.”

“But we took off!”

“With great effort. When is the last time you used an acceleration couch?”

“In the military . . .”

“Right. All modern civilian ships use acceleration neutralizers.”