Destination Alpha Four - Chapter 4

4. Court Martial

"What is it?" said Father Serafino, squinting at the massive expanse of obvious polyester fur.
Richard Gould rolled the tracker ball on the Moutonotron-9001 control unit. "This is our very first stab at a robobuffalo. He started out life as a Vickers-Ferguson robosheep, British-made, which we salvaged last year in Germany, Earth. He was a wreck when we first started working on him - he'd been in the wars. We call him Larry. Say hello, Larry."
Larry bowed a massive, shaggy head and pawed the steel deck once with a cloven hoof, striking sparks.
The General Mess at Gondolin settlement was a multipurpose chamber used as a town hall, canteen, emergency hospital and occasional basketball court. Colour-coded markings relating to all these functions were painted on the floor. The markings in white, in the shape of a Roman cross with its head end pointing roughly eastwards, drew out the seating arrangements for Gondolin's church, who met on whatever Sundays on which their organist was not busy maintaining the emergency oxygen recycler. The roof of the Mess had been carved out of solid rock, like a Roman catacomb.
"He can communicate in binary like that", said Stephen Dawkins, hugely pleased. "Two scrapes for one, one scrape for zero."
"Takes him a long time to get out a sentence, mind", said Gould. "You'd be a long time stuck in the old mineshaft before your faithful robobuffalo got help. We've made a few modifications in the areas of sustainability and natural camouflage. You may have noticed, for example, that Larry now smells like a real live buffalo."
Cleo was wearing her confirmation crucifix, her St. Christopher's medal, her rosary beads, and the enormous fish sweater knitted for her by her grandmother. She was bearing up under the burden of around three kilos of Christianity. Wrinkling her nose, she nodded in distaste.
"That's because Larry now stores the grass he eats in an internal hopper, and uses the methane produced as it decomposes to power his fuel cells."
Larry made an incredibly authentic buffalo sound with his rear end.
"That'll be the exhaust", said Gould. "Mostly water vapour and carbon dioxide."
"Oh my GOD", said Cleo, trying to fan the smell away from her.
"Mostly carbon dioxide", said Dawkins.
"We feel we have recreated, in polyester and steel, an authentic buffalo experience", said Gould.
"It's very lifelike", said Cleo, trying not to choke.
"We haven't shown you any of the other new features yet. For example, a spigot in one part of Larry can be set to wake you up with a good hot cup of tea every morning."
"Which part of Larry?" said Cleo suspiciously.
"Behind the left ear", said Gould quickly.
"An alarm plays Also Sprach Zarathustra when the tea's ready", said Dawkins.
"And he can explode", said Gould.
"What?" said Cleo, stepping back rapidly.
"Oh yes. We wouldn't want valuable technology like Larry falling into enemy hands. All the experimental devices we build are designed to explode. Larry can be set to detonate by uttering a simple code phrase, unlikely to be said by accident, which begins with 'Where's your buffalo -'""
"- hide?" finished Cleo.
Larry pricked up his ears. A voice that was clearly Professor Stephen Hawking’s said: “CODE PHRASE ACCEPTED.” Red LED timers began counting down in Larry’s eyes.
"Oh my word", said Gould, rushing forward to the robobuffalo.
"Where's the reset button?" said Dawkins.
"I forgot to install it", wailed Gould.
Dawkins pulled open a section of velcro behind Larry's head. Masses of wire spilled out.
"Which wire was it?" said Dawkins.
"The red one."
"They're all red!"
"Is it my fault I'm colourblind? Hang on. My other senses have become uncannily acute to compensate for my disability." Gould felt several wires with his finger and thumb. "This one. This one here. It's got a rough sandpapery finish on the insulation. I'm relatively certain."
"Put a figure on how certain."
"At least fifty-one per cent."
Dawkins snipped the wire with a pair of pliers; the LED stopped at 000001. Gould and Dawkins stood back from the robobuffalo, breathing heavily, their hands shaking.
"We were nearly goners there", said Gould.
"The self destruct floods the whole room with methane, then ignites it", said Dawkins.
"Maybe you should try someting a little less likely to be said by accident", said Cleo.
Gould and Dawkins exchanged glances.
"Maybe 'Gondolin is a popular holiday destination'", said Gould.
"Maybe 'Mmm, this buffalo smells gooooood'", said Dawkins.
"How about 'Heavens, Reverend! My brother is a doorstop', " said Cleo.
Gould looked at Dawkins; Dawkins looked at Gould.
"Brilliant", said Dawkins.
"Completely incomprehensible", said Gould enthusiastically.
"But", said Father Serafino, who had been ignored for most of the conversation, "what's it for?"
"For? It's a gift from the white man to the noble savages of the plains!"
"Noble savages of the dry monsoon badlands of Tau Boötis 3", corrected Cleo.
"It's a buffalo", said Gould proudly. "Indians like buffalo."
"They can hunt it", said Dawkins. "If I put it onto Aggression Setting Two, it'll run away from people trying to sneak up on it from upwind, with some occasional light trampling."
"And it's repeatedly huntable", said Gould. "It's completely impervious to bow and arrow fire."
Father Serafino, a bull-necked, broken-nosed man who looked more like a rugby forward than a man of God, scratched his head nervously.
"Are you sure this isn't being a little...culturally insensitive? Our Mission is supposed to be carrying out a Christian exchange with these people, not telling them we've flown many moons across the shining stars in a big metal bird to bring them much wampum."
"Much what?" said Gould.
"Wampum", said Father Serafino. "I've found many references to it in Indian-related literature. I'm trying to locate some."
"Maybe we could make some", said Dawkins. "What does it look like?"
"I'm not entirely sure."
"I'm certain we could improve on the basic wampum design", said Gould.
"We could make it digital", said Dawkins. "All the very best technology on Earth is going digital. Larry is digital, and hey, he's a robobuffalo."
"BAAAAAAAAAAAAA", said Larry.
"I'm sorry", said Gould. "We haven't been able to stop him doing that."
"He's a lot bigger than he used to be", said Cleo.
"We couldn't find the smaller size of bearings for the joints", said Dawkins. "We couldn't go sheep. So we had to go buffalo."
"How are we going to fit him into an Astromoke?" said Father Serafino.
"He's modular", said Dawkins.
"His horns fold back through seventy-five degrees", said Gould.
Father Serafino looked at the buffalo distrustfully.
"Our harvest festival display already takes up a lot of room", he said.
"And it does you credit, Father", said Cleo, standing stiffly to attention, hands clasped behind her. "The face of Jesus made out of plastic bread is an inspired touch."
Father Serafino's lip curled. "We can't make real bread on Gondolin."
"It's the gravity", said Dawkins knowledgeably.
"It interferes with the bread-making process", said Gould.
"The little plastic baps you used to make Jesus's moustaches were a nice touch", said Cleo. "The heathen can hardly fail to be impressed."
"I've always wanted to spread God's word to those not fortunate enough to have heard it", said Father Serafino. "I'm just glad to have the opportunity to combine young Glenn Bob's first interstellar navigation training flight with spreading the Good News to another star system. We will have to rendezvous with the Levi Morgan on the way home, rather than returning to Gondolin. All you cadets have been told to report to her to continue your flight training, so I have to deliver you there. And all vessels judged to have only suffered light damage during the Battle for Gondolin have been ordered back into space. In case the British or Americans attack again and catch us with our ships in port undergoing repairs.”
Cleo was shocked. “But the Levi took a missile hit to her fuel tanks. Half her hull’s still only held together by welding.”
“I think”, said Father Serafino, “that the definition of ‘light damage’ has been applied rather freely, this being an emergency situation. In any case, you’ll be safer on board the Levi than you will here. The fleet’s been ordered to scatter and remain in hyperspace awaiting further instructions. The Americans are unlikely to find every ship we have, and with all our ships in hyperspace, we can regroup very quickly if an incoming threat presents itself.”
“Are they likely to attack Gondolin?” said Cleo, panicking. “My mum and dad are on Gondolin. Ant’s dad is on Gondolin.”
“Everyone’s mum and dad are on Gondolin, Cleopatra”, said Father Serafino. “And Gondolin is the vital high ground to capture for any military commander right now; it is the only habitable world we know of in hyperspace. From it, you can strike at anywhere.”
“Or be struck at from anywhere”, said Cleo.
“I’d be breaking the Ninth Commandment”, said Father Serafino, nodding, “if I told you Gondolin was a safe place to be right now. But it has decent deep-level shelters, and even if the enemy use nuclear weapons, there’s a decent chance of survival.” He looked across the Mess at the festival display. "I'm not sure about the moustaches. I mean, did Our Lord's face really look like the impression on the Holy Shroud of Turin?"
"I'm pretty sure his eyes didn't look like two fairy cakes", said Gould unkindly. But Father Serafino appeared not to hear; his eyes had a dangerous faraway look in them. "Imagine what dreadful idols they must be praying to now."
"They almost certainly worship giant totem poles of zoologically inaccurate animals piled on top of each other", said Cleo, drawing on her vast knowledge of Native American culture. "And human sacrifice is probably also involved, in my opinion. They will surely immediately embrace the risen Christ."
Father Serafino nodded, wiping away a tear of Christian joy, and laid a hand on Cleo's shoulder. "We leave tomorrow, and hey -" he cocked his thumb at Cleo and aimed at her with a tiny finger-pistol - "let's have fun doing the Lord's work."
He left the church, which was just as well, as it was about to become a canteen. It was 0900 hours Gondolin time, and Mrs. Grenfell, the nuclear coolant engineer, was wheeling in a steaming trolley of bacon and nettle soup, bowls of which were sitting on the trolley top unsettlingly right next to a set of hazmat gloves and a geiger counter.
"Brilliant astronavigator, Tony Serafino", said Richard Gould, watching him go.
"Bloody awful vicar, though", said Steven Dawkins.
They turned back to their robobuffalo and began tugging violently at the wires that fed into the self destruct.
***
“We are going to Tau Boötis 3”, announced Cleo to the Shakespeare family as they sat round the table made of ammunition crates and salvaged British hull plating. The family still had not been assigned permanent quarters, and had to make do with a curtained-off section of one of the Gondolin colony’s larger store rooms. They were no longer living in the General Mess, but were still living in, as Mrs. Shakespeare was fond of remarking, a General Mess. The living space for the whole family was only a few metres across. The dining table sloped downwards at Cleo’s end, and she had to hold her bowl of Vitamin Fortified Nettle Flakes (every Gondolier’s breakfast of champions) constantly with one hand to stop it slipping into her lap. The Nettle Flakes box had a picture of Bob the Happy Stinging Nettle on the front.
“That’s, uh - very nice, Cleo dear”, said Mrs. Shakespeare, looking at Cleo nervously over her own bowl and a manual on Basic Hydroponic Systems Maintenance. “Isn’t it, Leonard.”
“Uh - yes, yes, it’s lovely”, said Mr. Shakespeare, looking up from the welding gun he was fiddling with. “Everything Cleopatra does is lovely.”
“Tau Boötis 3 is a planet in the USZ”, said Cleo. “It is inhabited by Native Americans.”
“That’s...nice?”, said Mrs. Shakespeare, looking across at her husband, who nodded. “Nice”, she repeated, and nodded again.
“Are you happy with your nettle flakes poured into the bowl and microwaved with synthesized milk like that, daughter?” said Mr. Shakespeare. “I mean, it’s not very continental.”
“Leonard”, warned Mrs. Shakespeare.
“They mean it’s not very German”, said Tamora acidly over her own breakfast.
“Yes, perhaps we could squash it into some sort of vegetarian sausage”, said Mr. Shakespeare helpfully. “A sort of Nettlewurst.”
“LEONARD”, warned Mrs. Shakespeare.
“Well”, protested Mr. Shakespeare, “it’s clear Cleopatra has...changed a little. After her illness. I found that out after my own daughter told me how to take my own oxyacetylene gun apart and put it back together again, but couldn’t quite remember what all the words for all the parts were in English -”
“But she could remember what they were in German”, finished Tamora evilly. “Couldn’t you, sister of mine?”
“Tamora”, said Mrs. Shakespeare, “you are not helping.”
Cleo frowned. She put down her soup spoon gently, bowed her head, and closed her eyes.
“One of the Sternekinder’s first recruits”, she said, “was a young welder, Heinz Maier, who had been sent to guard duty at Spitzenburg Concentration Camp from the Henschel works in Kassel after he lost a leg in Allied bombing. He left Spitzenburg with the other SS men on the Venusberg, and was well liked by the crew, as he was invaluable in keeping the ship in good working order throughout the voyage. They called him Der Ethinzauberer, the Wizard of Oxyacetylene. This is how I know about oxyacetylene welding, because I have his memories.”
“And Heinz was German, wasn’t he? So you speak German like a native now, don’t you, sister?” said Tamora. “You speak it all the time to Charity Drummond, because Charity had a Sternekind in her head too, and you’re happy in your little German club together, speaking a language no-one else on Gondolin can understand. Apart from Jochen von Spitzenburg, that is, who won’t leave me alone and keeps writing me drippy poems in Hun which you find oh-so-amusing but won’t translate for me.”
“I also have Heinz’s memories”, continued Cleo, opening her eyes without looking up, “of being summarily executed by his shipmates once they were infested by the Blue Goo organism. Because no part of the Blue Goo wanted to live in a one-legged man. You understand? The Nazis would have killed a man who’d been handicapped since birth, in case he somehow bred with someone and passed his defective genes on to the next generation. That was bad enough. But the Blue Goo ordered them to kill Heinz because they see us the same way we see vehicles, houses, clothing - only as things to live in. And they only want to live in the very best. Tell me, Tamora - are you jealous of me for having these sorts of memories, or do you just hate me because I’ve been infected with the Blue Goo, because I’m not quite one hundred per cent human any more? If it’s the former, I’ll gladly swap my memories with you any time. If it’s the latter, you’d have gotten on really well with the Führer.”
She rose to her feet, taking her spoon and bowl with her. “I think I’ll take my breakfast in the General Mess with everyone else, if no-one minds.”
She walked out of the living area. Mrs. Shakespeare glared at Mr. Shakespeare, who threw his hands up and mouthed, mutely, What?
“Well, that went well”, said Tamora. “My sister, the space alien.”
***
The American airlock, like all American airlocks, was minty fresh. The air on all American space vessels was perfumed with industrial-strength peppermint essence every time it passed through the oxygen recyclers. When the hatch released and the pressure difference between the two ships made his clothes flap around him like a flag on a pole, Alastair Drague welcomed back the sweaty stink of Britain. By his side, the gigantic Alsatian still padded, its claws striking occasional sparks off the deck plating as dog claws shouldn't. The British ship was ever so slightly shabbier than the American shuttle he had just walked out of. Micrometeoroid damage had been patched over in ragged chunks.
“There was a pressure draught when I came on board”, said Drague to the Lieutenant who had welcomed him on board.
“Yes, sir. We’re currently maintaining an onboard air pressure the same as you’d find at the top of the very highest Alpine mountains. New Shadow Admiralty orders, sir. Keeps the crew tip-top fit and increases the difficulties faced by anyone who might want to board us, sir.”
Drague looked at the micrometeoroid patches sourly. “And stops all the holes in the hull from blowing open, I imagine.”
The Lieutenant nodded sadly. “I imagine so, sir. The proceedings are being held through here, sir, in the Officers’ Mess.”
The door into the Mess was a hatchway, and like all hatchways passing through bulkheads, it should have been locked shut in space, in case of explosive decompression. Someone had propped it open and cut the wires that should have powered an irritating, tinny little voice saying HATCH OPEN! HATCH OPEN! HATCH OPEN! HEY! YOU THERE! SHUT THE HATCH!
The Mess, as it was on most Royal AeroSpace Navy ships, was barely the size of a Comprehensive classroom. Chairs and tables had been bolted to the deck in rows in front of a raised platform where the senior officers sat. On the left, bald and hard-faced as a ball bearing, sat Admiral Clark; on the right, bald and beaming like everyone's favourite uncle, sat Admiral Huizinga. In the centre, bald and almost invisible behind a beard big as a privet hedge, glared Admiral Haughtry, First Void Lord, head of the Royal AeroSpace Navy.
"Alastair", said Haughtry.
"William", said Drague. "I trust the family are well?"
Haughtry grimaced and grumbled: "The grandchildren continue to waste the benefits of an expensive education. The eldest one wants to become what he describes as 'a rockin MC hammerin out some bangin choons, gramps, innit'. The youngest wants to enter the world of women's fashion."
"Hardly an unsatisfactory career for a young lady nowadays", said Drague.
"I’m sure Sebastian would agree with you", said Haughtry bitterly. "The worst I leave till last; the middle one wants to be a Member of Parliament. How was your visit to Alpha?"
"Inconclusive", said Drague. "The man I was looking for died some time ago in custody. I'm having the body exhumed so its DNA can be checked against Turpin's."
Haughtry frowned. "I'd be surprised if they even know where the body is buried. You have a stronger stomach than I do, Alastair. Most of us simply try not to think about what our American colleagues do down there."
"As do many of our American colleagues' other American colleagues. Perhaps it is time for us all to think about it in more detail."
Haughtry turned and exchanged wintry expressions with Clark and Huizinga. Clark tutted; Huizinga shook his head.
Haughtry looked at the dog sitting obediently on the deck next to Drague. “Did the Vickers-Ferguson stand up under desert testing?”
“He was very effective. The dog camouflage is particularly convincing. No-one suspected a thing.”
“It’s an it, Alastair, not a he.” Haughtry looked across the room at the Provost, a powerfully-built man in a Royal Terrene uniform. "Is the prisoner ready?"
The Provost nodded.
"Then bring him in."
"SAH!" The Provost wheeled and left the room, arms swinging like windmills.
"By the way", said Drague, "that bulkhead door back there should be shut. If a meteoroid hit anywhere in the next compartment, the officers would all be sucked out into space along with the other ranks, and then where would we all be?"
"This ship is run by my nephew Edward", said Admiral Huizinga proudly. "He's going for the fleet record for battle readiness, all crew at action stations inside two minutes thirty-nine seconds. I've given him special dispensation to leave the internal doors open to speed up the process."
"His crew will be at stations on the outside of their own hull if they carry on leaving their doors open", said Haughtry. "Countermand that dispensation, Barry, there's a good chap." Huizinga's face darkened, but he made a note on his jotter with an huge plastic biro that had FOR REALLY BIG IDEAS written down the side of it.
The Provost came back in, arms still swinging, leading a sullen-looking young man wearing the gold braid of a Captain. The Captain looked up at the Admirals sourly, and then across at Drague with undisguised contempt.
"Well, g-get it over with, g-gentlemen", he said.
"I beg your pardon?" said Admiral Haughtry.
"I s-s-said -" began the young man.
"I heard what you said", said the Admiral. "I simply can't believe that anyone would think he could get away with talking in such a fashion to an Admiral in Her Majesty's Navy."
"I d-don't think I'm g-going to g-get away with it", said the young man. "Th-that's sort of b-by the way of being the p-point."
Admiral Haughtry tried unsuccesfully to stare the prisoner down for several seconds, then lowered his eyes to the sheaf of papers in front of him.
"You are Captain Arthur Jenkins, formerly commander of HMASS Black Prince?"
Captain Jenkins nodded.
"Let the record show the prisoner nodded. Captain Jenkins, you are accused of cowardice in the face of the enemy, of failing to press an attack as ordered, and of conspiring with Her Majesty's enemies at the occasion of the Battle of Gondolin, February 2001, when you wilfully assumed command of five vessels of Her Majesty's fleet, disregarding the chain of command, and offered an unauthorized surrender, withdrawing from the fight and losing the Queen's colours on board Her Majesty’s flagship Dreadnought. How do you plead?"
Captain Jenkins was about to open his mouth when Drague said:
"Captain Jenkins pleads not guilty, sir."
Haughtry turned and examined Drague as if tentacles had suddenly sprouted from his head.
"You've been called here as a witness for the Prosecution, Alastair."
"And I also intend to offer my services to Captain Jenkins as Defence Counsel. I believe there is nothing in Queen's Regulations to prevent this."
Haughtry looked around at the Clerk of the Court, who simply shrugged helplessly.
"Alastair", said Haughtry gently, "you were present on Dreadnought when Captain Jenkins gave the order to surrender...?"
"I was indeed. I was present on a disabled ship that had taken a bad hit to the Flange. Our captain and Admiral were dead, regressed in time to the point of unicellularity. Half the crew were dead, wounded or pre-pubescent. Our ability to fight was finished. Our outbound communications were disabled; we were not even able to surrender. The enemy, would, of course, have had little choice but to assume that we still presented a threat, and one more good hit would have destroyed us. We were simply waiting for that one good hit. And then we heard the voice of a young captain on the radio - a quite heroic young captain, as to risk a court martial to save his crew's lives was heroism indeed. I repeat, gentlemen; we were finished. The fleet was defeated. If Captain Jenkins had not issued his surrender when he had, none of our vessels would have returned home. We would have had no fleet at all -"
Admiral Clark cut in. "Mr. Drague, you are not a qualified naval officer. You cannot possibly comment on whether a fleet was or was not beaten."
"I know a dead man floating past my face in pieces when I see one, Admiral", said Drague. "You were not there. I was."
Admiral Huizinga steepled his hands in thought. When he opened them again, his face split open in a big friendly grin.
"Alastair...I'm confused. All the reports from the battle seem to indicate the Gondolin forces simply let our ships withdraw, without pursuing."
"That is correct."
The hands spread wide, as if a priest were asking a question in a sermon. "Why would they not press their advantage? If we had been beaten, as you say, surely they could have annihilated our fleet totally."
"I can only assume that they were led by civilized human beings."
"Ah." A finger rose, stopping Drague again. "Ah, but were they. Put yourself in our position, Alastair. Consider you have read the reports we have, of a strange blue mind-controlling substance that may already have infected our entire Admiralty."
"I wrote those reports myself, Admiral. They are accurate."
"But what if that strange blue substance were in control of the rebel colonies, of this 'United States of the Zodiac'? And what if certain men among our forces were also in league with it? What if they made a pact to ensure the destruction of the few ships in both fleets that they knew were still under the control of normal humans? And then arranged some sort of phoney surrender and withdrawal, to make sure their own ships on both sides survived?"
"Oh my", said Drague, holding Huizinga's gaze. "Then we wouldn't be able to trust anybody, would we?"
"Precisely!" Huizinga raised a victorious index finger. "Precisely! Which is why we must pursue such cases as this to the best of our ability.! You are too trusting, Alastair. This man was in charge of a multi-million-pound vessel!"
"Which he brought home intact", pointed out Drague. "However, I have been thinking myself about the Blue Question. How do we know who is loyal, and who is a traitor?" He reached into his breast pocket and brought out a device that was, unmistakeably, a gun.
"BLUE ASSASSIN ON DECK!" yelled the Provost, and hurled himself across the room at Drague. Drague, however, simply tossed the gun to Admiral Haughtry before the Provost could reach him. Haughtry turned the gun over in his hands. It did not look like a rocket pistol. It had no muzzle where a bullet could come out. Instead, it ended in an aerial.
"Quite an ingenious little device", said Drague. "One of our technical anoraks cooked it up. Works on a microwave principle." He turned to look at the Provost, as if he'd only just noticed the man was now standing right next to him. The Provost tried hard to look like part of the scenery. It wasn't every day you narrowly avoided assaulting the Head of Special Operations.
“Don’t be an idiot, man”, said Haughtry to the Provost. “Do you see what’s sitting on the deck next to Mr. Drague?”
The Provost looked down at the dog. “It’s a dog, sir”, he said.
“And you don’t need to know it’s anything other than a dog. But let’s just say Alastair wouldn’t have needed to pull a gun on me to kill me”, said the Admiral. “How does this thing work, Alastair?”
"Point it at someone and fire", said Drague. "You have to press the stud in the handgrip and wait a couple of seconds to warm up the coil. It will have absolutely no effect on a normal human. Blue-gunk-controlled humans, however, are a different matter. The microwaves will fry the blue intruder in the victim's brain. Leaving the victim, and this is the great part, completely unharmed."
Haughtry pressed the stud on the handgrip. The gun began to vibrate and warm up in his hand.
"When the red light comes on", said Drague, "it's ready for use."
Haughty nodded absent-mindedly, turned rapidly and shot Admiral Clark in the face.

Clark flinched, and continued to glare coldly back at Haughtry.
"You appear to be human after all, Percy", said Haughtry. "I do apologize, all these years' suspicions seem to have been unfounded." He turned to Admiral Huizinga and pressed the stud again. Huizinga stared at the weapon in terror.
"Please let me not be a blue funker", he muttered, apparently more to himself than anyone else. "Please please please please please -" Drague noticed that he had both his index fingers crossed.
Haughtry fired. Nothing seemed to happen. Huizinga collapsed in a heap of sweaty gratitude.
"Oh thank heaven. Thank heaven. Thank heaven -"
"Are you sure this thing works, Alastair?" said Haughtry, evidently hugely disappointed. "I was pretty much certain of those two."
"It has been extensively field tested", said Drague. "Perhaps it needs adjustment. Allow me."
He walked up to Haughtry's seat, took the weapon from Haughtry, turned it over in his hand.
"Ah yes, now I see." Without looking round, he swept his gun arm round to cover the Provost and clicked the power stud.
The Provost began to rock on the spot, his eyes bulging from his skull.
"No -" he whispered.
Drague took a cautious step back; the Clerk of the Court and Captain Jenkins did likewise, clearing a space round the Provost. The man rocked forward onto the deck, falling onto all fours, hoicking and retching as if horribly, hideously ill. Blue goop began leaking from his ears, eyes, nose, and mouth, coughing out onto the deck in a living azure splat that immediately began streaking away towards nearby air vents.
"Sodium hypochlorite, if you please, Lieutenant", said Drague to the Clerk, who nodded and ran from the room. To the Admirals, Drague said: "This man has been under suspicion by Special Ops for some time. He served three tours of duty on Black Prince under Captain Pulsipher, after which his wife divorced him. And a wife knows, gentlemen. A wife knows."
Blood accompanied the blueness, and it was hard not to dwell on the fact that that blood had only recently been inside the Provost's head. The Provost himself was now lying motionless on the deck.
"So that's what they look like", said Haughtry, fascinated. "Ugly blue blighters...and you're absolutely sure sodium hypochlorite -"
"Kills them stone dead", said Drague with satisfaction, as the Clerk returned with a plastic bottle and began pouring it all over the turquoise mass. "Around the edges first. Surround it. Don't let it escape."
"I thought the weapon was supposed to kill it, Drague", said Clark.
"Well spotted", said Drague, looking down at the gun. "This is, in actual fact, a piece of steel turned by a nephew of mine, with a joke shop joy buzzer and a heating solenoid concealed in the handle. As a Blue Funker detector, it doesn't work at all, except for the fact that, oh gosh, it actually seems to."
"The Funker thought it was about to be killed", said Haughtry. "So it abandoned the Provost."
"I propose", said Drague, "That this device be put into use throughout the Fleet. It is breathtakingly inexpensive, and it seems to work. I believe the Americans are developing a machine that weighs half a tonne, costs a million dollars, and works on brainwaves."
"They won't let us get a look in on it", said Clark, grinding his teeth in undisguised hatred. "Said our boffins might be evil blue alien nazi mind-controlled boffins in disguise."
"No need to tell them about this contraption, I imagine", said Haughtry. "They do so love spending money."
Clark looked at Huizinga, who was still sitting slumped in his chair, muttering quietly to himself. "What about him?"
"I'm afraid", said Drague, "he seems to be one hundred per cent human."
"Get this mess cleaned up, Avery, there's a good chap", said Haughtry to the Clerk of the Court. With a bleak glance at the steaming remains of the Provost, he added: "Thoroughly."
The Clerk nodded and left.
“If you don’t mind, William, I’ll requisition a berth before I go back down to the planet. Three days on Alpha have left me exhausted.”
“I quite understand, Alastair. I slept on board the Kitty Hawk once. Fluffy pillows and a vibrating mattress. Couldn’t get a wink all night. Never again.”
"Er - g-gentlemen?"
Haughtry, Drague and Clark turned to see Captain Jenkins still standing behind them, one hand raised like a naughty boy in class. Haughtry narrowed his eyes at Jenkins.
"Good god, man, we haven't got time to send you to Alpha Four now, run along, all charges dismissed. Back to your ship. Black Prince, wasn't it?"
Drague cleared his throat. "I would like a word with Captain Jenkins in private, if I may."
"I see", said Haughtry. "Merging together in the great blue collective, eh? I am, of course, only kidding. Or am I?" He winked at Clark. "Come on, Percy. Let's leave these two to their fiendish aquamarine plotting. Trust no-one."
Hands clasped behind his back, he strode out.
"I s-suppose I should thank you", said Jenkins.
"Yet I notice you actually haven't", said Drague. "Not to worry. I do actually want something in return, of course, for the favour I have just done you. The world has not turned upside down, and I am still a very bad man."
Jenkins sagged, almost as if in relief.
"Wh-what do you want me to do?"
"Let us walk while we talk." Drague looked down at Huizinga, who had slipped off his chair onto the deck and was now sucking his thumb. "Admirals have ears."