Everything's Better With Monkeys, page 6
Rocky turned to see Valance’s formidable presence filling the doorway. Holding his head, still suffering from the night before, the gunnery officer said weakly;
“Captain, sir ... huh ... we, ah um well ...”
“I take it you didn’t know I was on board when you decided to take your little jaunt. Is that what you’re trying to tell me as you continue to sit in my chair, Mr. Rockland?”
“Ah, yeah,” responded Rocky, still seated. “Actually, it was, sir.”
As Valance continued to stare at the gunner, from the sidelines Noodles made hand motions indicating that perhaps his friend should maybe get out of the captain’s chair, perhaps salute, or at least try to quit passing gas. Noticing the machinist’s animated pantomimes, he asked;
“Geezzzzit, Noodles, what’ya want?”
“He’s trying to suggest that it might be a good idea if you got the hell out of my chair, you peanut-brained imbecile!”
Somehow catching the meaning of the captain’s more direct suggestion, Rocky tumbled forward out of the ship’s command center, crashing against the equally hungover navigator. Valance debated having his seat fumigated, but decided on just letting the air purification system deal with the remains of the gunner’s bad evening. Despite what all the ensign had told him, the captain needed to hear what had happened from the source.
“Tell it, Rockland. And don’t leave out any of the good parts.”
Honest and heartfelt apology cascaded from every pour as the gunnery officer explained how their current situation had come to pass. He related the entire crew’s outrage over both the Space Pirate Cookie advertisements as well as the greatly heightened edge of discomfort said ads had created. Privately Valance understood his crew’s irritation over these points, having experienced them himself the day before, but he kept the information from showing as even a sympathetic glint in his eye. Instead, he merely snarled;
“Yes, go on.”
Rocky did. In short order, despite his brain’s continual refusal to remove the floating stars and polka dots from before his eyes, or to stop his teeth from itching, the gunnery officer told the whole, embarrassing tale. He sketched out his and Noodles’ talk on the sidewalk, and then their subsequent trip back inside the tavern to gather together all the available Roosevelt crewmen they could find. He told of how their idea had gone over like an offer of ice cream in Hell, how every swabbie they could find, and even a few of the locals, rallied to the idea of stealing the ship, finding the location of the Space Pirate Cookie factory, and then sending it to that place where offers of ice cream were looked upon so favorably.
When the captain asked how they were able to countermand the Roosevelt’s layers of security codes, to pilot the ship without his executive clearances, and to reach deep space (like any spacer, he had known they were in the Great Dark from the moment he awoke) without Earth Command Authorization Releases, Noodles took over the explanations, getting an able assist from Technician Second Class Thorner and Quartermaster Harris. Remembering immediately how that pair had engineered the replacement of the Grand High Exalted Poobah of the Pan-Galactic League of Sun’s acceptance broadcast for his new term in office with Richard M. Nixon’s “I am not a crook” speech, he pushed the machinist to skip the details. After all, how they got to the Great Dark really was not all that important. What they had done since they got there, however, that was a different story.
“Well, sir,” hemmed Rocky, getting ready to throw in a few dozen haws in the proper places, “drunk as we was, we got pretty single-minded. Since these cookie makers are a company, it wasn’t all that hard to get a fix on them.”
“Any normal person would never have been able to get a swing at their vector,” added Thorner. “With the ship’s access to trade lines, though, we were able to nail it pretty quick.”
“I’ll be certain to mention such in your next efficiency rating,” answered Valance drolly. Getting back to Rocky, with eyes steely and hard, he said, “so you and your hyenas managed to steal the ship and get her into the Deep. I imagine we’re on a full speed charge toward wherever the buccaneer bakers are located—correct?”
“Aye, sir.”
“And just out of curiosity, you slackjaws couldn’t have kept this information a secret, could you? I mean, it wouldn’t be possible for us to just turn around and get the blazes back to Fadilson without anyone knowing about your little escapade, would it?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“No, no, of course not,” agreed Valance with an angry sarcasm. “But indulge me, lieutenant, just why can’t we do so?”
“Well, sir,” stumbled Rocky, suddenly wishing he had taken his mother’s advice and joined the priesthood, “you see, after we got on-course for the cookie factory, we thought maybe we should make an announcement about it ...”
“Certainly,” growled the captain. “What could be more natural?”
“So we sent one out, ah, over the official bands ...”
“Of course you did.”
“And basically, well ... in the name of the Earth ... ah, we declared war on the Space Pirate Cookie Company.”
Silence filled the room with a noticeable pressure. The captain stared at Rocky for a long moment, unmoving. Unblinking. Then finally, with all present subconsciously holding their breath to the point of bursting, Valance reacted. Breaking off eye contact with the gunner, he tilted his head downward, looking at nothing specifically, and then began to laugh.
At first it was a simple one-note noise, as akin to humming as anything else. But, after only a handful of seconds, it expanded, becoming a loud and raucous thing, one so jocular and merry one could not help but join in. All across the bridge, semi-sober sailors began to chuckle, then guffaw, eventually falling into the knee-slapping helpless state of full-blown hysterics which had seized Valance.
“You declared war on a cookie factory?” The captain had to choke his question out in between bursts of merriment. Caught in much the same dilemma, Rocky answered;
“Yes, sir. Full scale.”
“You announced this over the spaceways, of course?”
“Oh yes, sir, captain. Full intent. Full disclosure. Full speed ahead.”
“And the League,” answered Valance, his revelry tapering off just a touch, “and Earth High Command, they’ve made their positions clear—yes?”
“Oh, yes sir,” howled Rocky, only seeing the humorous side of his answer, “they both pretty much want us dead.”
“In fact,” interrupted Noodles, chiming in as if actually in a hurry to get hung along with his pal, “the League is still on hold.”
All laughter stopped at that point as completely as if each of the merry-makers had been slapped in the face with a wet porcupine. His mood crystallizing into a thing severe and frightening to behold, the captain snarled;
“You’ve had the League on hold all this time? Are you all out of your goddamned—”
“Sir,” shouted Thorner, the large man’s booming voice refocusing everyone’s attention on their far-from-finished hangovers, “the League demanded to talk to you, refusing to believe you weren’t on board. We send Brodsky to check your cabin so we could tell them with cleanslate assurance you weren’t on board—that we did this all on our own.”
“But that, um ...” added Harris, the first to recognize the irony of their situation, “that didn’t ... work out for us, sir.”
“Ya think,” growled Valance. The captain lowered his vision once more, his mind racing desperately. He had to speak with the League, had to find a way out for his crew, and for the Earth. His head throbbing, eyes burning, bones melting, he gave the high sign to communications officer Feng to patch him through to the League connection. Making an audible gulp, the young woman depressed the correct switch, and the face of the Grand High Exalted Poobah of the Pan-Galactic League of Suns appeared on the forward monitor.
“Captain Valance,” the Telrecian known as Merli Acirde said coolly, “I’m told you are not presently aboard the Roosevelt. Pray tell, from where are you transmitting?”
“Good to see you again, too, your Poobahship. If you don’t mind, I think I can explain this whole mess so everyone can just go back about their business.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” answered the Grand High Exalted One, “but I believe I am already in possession of the facts. Your drunken crew, from your warship, with you on board, sent out a legal and binding confirmation of hostilities against member citizens of the Pan-Galactic League of Suns. Is that not the case?”
Valance froze his first, second and even his third responses within his throat. He knew he was playing a high stakes game, and that more than his own safety or satisfaction had to be considered. He also, however, was suffering from a hangover so stupefying he actually needed to remind himself to breathe every so often. Feeling he had regained a fraction of his self-control, he began;
“It wasn’t a serious confirmation, your Bigness. The boys, they’ve just—”
“Please, Captain, allow me to ‘slice to the pursuit,’ as you humans say. I have a speech to prepare for tonight’s annual League dinner, so allow me to be brief. You and yours have committed the highest of crimes. Whatever your infantile reasons, the fact is you have given me clear justification to release the Pan-Galactic armada to pursue, hunt down, and blow your ship out of the deep. After that, it will track a course to your home system and obliterate every mote of human influence.”
“You, you,” stammered Rocky, his eyes wide as saucers, “we was just on a tear. You can’t do that.”
“Ahhhh, Mr. Rockland, how glad I am to see you amidst the doomed.” Preening like a coyote that had just eradicated the last roadrunner from the surface of its world, the Grand High Exalted Poobah of the Pan-Galactic League of Suns added;
“And since you seem to have forgotten with whom you are dealing, I shall remind you. I am the combined will and final voice of civilized space. I can do whatever I want. I might not be ‘a crook,’ Mr. Rockland, but I’m a very patient, and vengeful being, and if there are gods in any heavens, they will arrange that the news of your destruction be brought to me during dessert so that they both might be made all the sweeter.”
And with those words, the main bridge monitor went black. The crew of the Roosevelt present within command remained silent, all waiting for Valance’s orders. To a man, despite their varying degrees of alcohol-induced suffering, each one of them despaired their actions. They had not only doomed their home world and all the planets, satellites and asteroid settlements it controlled, but worse, they had disappointed their captain. After a terribly long silence, Valance broke the hideous quiet, asking;
“What’s our heading?”
“Ah, actually, sir,” answered Noodles, “we’re still headed for the Space Pirate Cookie factory at full tear.”
“Good.” As those around him gave their captain a quizzical stare, not certain what he was up to, Valance pulled down a great, cleansing breath through his nostrils, exhaled, pulled down another, then announced over the ship’s speakers;
“Men, I’m not going to bother with accusations or recriminations. Quite frankly, at this point I don’t care what got us here. To be perfectly honest, I’m as sick as every one of you over how Earth has been treated ever since we got out here. In fact, I believe our pal the Poobah’s been waiting for something like this since long before our boys Milhoused him.”
Rocky and Noodles grinned at each other, both as pleased as if they had just won a lifetime supply of bacon—thick-sliced and Canadian. As the rest of the crew began to perk up around them as well, Valance barked;
“All right, these spudboys want to start some shit, I say, bring it on. If they think the human race is a dog they can simply tell to roll over and play dead, I say we go Perryrohdanic on their asses and show these silk breeched Betties how we do things on our side of the tracks. How about it, men of the Roosevelt, who’s for blowing the living hell out a cookie factory?!”
And with those words, and a fantastic deal of unrestrained cheering, the finest ship in the great Earth exploration fleet went to Top Turbo Thrust and sailed forth toward destiny.
“For the last time, you four, are you absolutely certain you want to do this?”
Valance stared at the almost sober quartet before him, trying not to let his inordinate pride show through. If any of them were to realize how he felt at that moment, he knew there would be no talking them out of their suggestion. As they all assured the captain they were as determined as ever, Thorner stepped forward, offering;
“Look, captain sir, it just makes sense. We’re the ones that got this all started.”
“Hey,” shouted Rocky, “you and Harris were just the first apes me and Noodles come across. If anyone gets the credit for endangering all of humanity, it’s gotta be us.”
As the four began arguing over how little each of the others had contributed to the coming destruction of the human race, Valance barked an “at ease” at them, then said;
“All right, we’ll play it your way. We’re just a hair out from the asteroid complex where they make these damn cookies, so let’s make certain we all understand each other. You four are going to take a dropship in, get inside and blow the place. That will keep the armada coming this way, looking for the Roosevelt.”
The sailors all nodded, hands unconsciously checking their sidearms. Knowing time was precious, Valance wrapped things up quickly, saying;
“In the meantime, the rest of the crew and I will doublelight it back to Earth. With the League blocking all transmissions, the only was we can warn them is in person.”
“Five minutes to drop.” As the five all looked at Yeoman Feng’s image on the console, the captain affirmed her message was received and understood, then turned back to the sailors before him. Pursing his lips for a moment, knowing he had time for only the shortest of goodbyes to the men before him whom, in all likelihood, he would never see again, he said;
“Gentlemen, it’s been a pure, goddamned honor.”
As Valance’s hand shot upward, Rocky, Noodles, Harris and Thorner all snapped to attention, getting their own hands to their helmets a split-second before the captain’s reached his forehead. Valance saluted, his men returned it, then they turned and piled into their dropship. As they did so, Valance pointed toward the skull and crossbones freshly painted on its bow, calling out;
“Nice touch.”
“They wanted pirates,” answered Harris, “we’ll give them a few.”
And, in only minutes the Roosevelt was but an echoing speck fading from sight. At the helm, Thorner moved them with all due haste toward the bakery complex hidden in the asteroids ahead. The instant they were far enough away from the Roosevelt for minimum safety, the Dreadnought’s great protonic engines roared and the ship disappeared down a parabolic chuckhole toward home. Wordlessly, the quartet inside the extremely recently renamed good dropship Buckets o’Blood moved into the asteroid belt, drifting in toward the already visible complex.
The cookie factories, warehouses and staging areas were enormous, some of the massive ovens covering hundreds of acres. Landing in the shadows of several brobdingnagian syrup towers, the assault team gathered their explosives, record cameras and infiltration tools and exited the Bucket O’Blood, then headed for what appeared to be a little used side entrance to what they hoped was the main administration building. Even before landing, the swabbies had agreed that destroying the lair of the company’s “suits” would best achieve their goals. Or, as Thorner had put it;
“It’s not like we’ve got anything against the bakers.”
“You try one of their Little Taste of Andromedas?”
The others had smiled at the tech’s dry humor, Harris noting that it was not half as dry as the cookies in question, a bon mot which brought a needed chuckle to them all. After that, however, their mission had become a strictly business affair. Twenty minutes after the tiny spot of humor, the quartet had made their way inside what indeed turned out to be the administrative headquarters of the Space Pirate Cookie Corporation.
As the team moved upward through the building, they were struck with the ease of their passage. True, they had been forced to duck and cover several times as various office types hurried down one hallway or another, but for the most part their journey from the outside to the main offices of the company proceeded without interruption.
“I’m thinking,” said Harris, “fun as it’s been playing pirate, if we do actually kill anyone, it would be like admitting these cookie bastards were right about Earth. You know what I mean?”
Indeed, all of his fellows knew exactly what he meant. The same notion had been plaguing the rest of the swabbies since they had launched from the Roosevelt. Making a nasty face, Rocky said;
“Don’t you just hate guys who take all the fun out of everything?” The others chuckled, but realizing their time to act was tight, Thorner offered;
“Look, we have to do something. So, why don’t we just march in on their meeting, tell them to clear out, and then blow up their damn corporate HQ without hurting anyone or even burning up any of their damn cookies. If Earth’s gotta go, let’s help her go with some class.”
Everyone agreed, all except Harris who asked if they could not, please, let the Little Tastes of Andromeda burn. After that, knowing they were but a doorknob’s turn away from making their room reservations for Valhalla, the quartet entered the main offices of SPC/Co., only to find the surprise of their lives.
“Humans,” cried out one of the aliens joyously around the conspicuously large table taking up most of the meeting room. “Is this perfect or what?”
“Come in, brothers, come in,” shouted another, one attired in such a shiny, multi-layered garment it had to be assumed he was the biggest of the wigs present. “Tis fitting indeed for humans to be here at our moment of triumph.”
“Ah, yeah,” said Rocky. “But, er ... which moment was that again?”
