Part 1, Chapter1.

A weird, black, science fiction comedy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         ROGER’S FABULOUS VOYAGES

 

                            DANNY ZIL

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                             DEDICATION

 

    This novel is dedicated to my dear friend, the famous French Impressionist painter, Paul Gauguin, without whose help it would not have been completed.

    I visited Paul in 1896 when he was working as a computer programmer in Tahiti and took the first version of the manuscript for him to read.

    After Paul had shagged his teenage girlfriend, he would sit around drinking absinthe and reading the novel whilst I paced around nervously outside his modest five bed-roomed grass hut, waiting for his verdict.

    Paul immediately spotted where I had gone wrong in Chapters 4 and 5 and patiently helped me rework those tricky binary equations I had miscalculated.

    We were also joined by the famous Swiss ice cream maker, Albert Einstein, who graciously took time off from his work to read and correct the Egyptian hieroglyph section towards the end of the novel.

    Finally, a big thank you to the plumber and actor, Marlon Brando, who owned all of Tahiti and generously let me stay with Paul at very competitive rates, whilst I carefully worked on camouflaging the sections of the novel I had plagiarised.

    Ah how I fondly look back on those cosy nights we all spent together in Paul’s hut, with the snow gently falling on the beach outside. I remember one evening when we were sitting there, warming ourselves in front of some hot Tahitian girls when I turned to the others and said, “Paul Gauguin, Albert Einstein, Marlon Brando, you know one of the things I hate most in the world?......F*****g name-droppers!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                

 

 

 

 

                      

 

 

 

 

 

 

                         PART  ONE  :  EARTH

 

 

                       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            ONE

 

    The Ship’s Computer sighed and said, “Do I have to read this rubbish?”

    Roger nodded happily and stretched out on the Bridge couch. He straightened his cheap smoking-jacket, smoothed out his dark blue Fleet Pilot’s trousers then clasped his hands behind his head. “Begin!” he commanded airily.

    The Computer hesitated. “It’s embarrassing.”

    “Oh come on!” Roger whined. “You promised you’d read some of my Diary to me.”

    The Computer sighed again. “Oh alright,” it reluctantly agreed.

    Roger smiled, crossed one leather Pilot’s boot over the other and waited expectantly.

    “From the Diary of Roger White, Fleet Space Pilot,” began the Computer. “Cold empty space. Galaxies away from Earth. Billions of miles away from home. Light years from the Shopping Centre. Oh it would take ages if you had to walk it.”

    Roger sat up. “I didn’t write that! That bit about walking. You added that last bit yourself.”

    The Computer sniggered.

    “Read it properly,” Roger ordered.

    “Billions of miles away from home. Light Years from the Shopping Centre. An area where no man has ever been.”

    Roger lay back on the couch and stared dreamily at the ceiling.

    “New planets,” the Computer went on, “new worlds. Full of danger and darkness and alien life-forms and oh you have to be terribly brave to even think about going.”

    “I didn’t write that either!” Roger said, sitting up quickly again. “You’re putting bits in. Stop putting bits in,” he said huffily.

    The Computer suppressed a snigger and continued. “Full of danger and darkness and alien life-forms. My mission : to explore these new worlds, to forge ahead the magnificence of mankind, to push back the barriers separating man from the stars, you’re picking your nose again.”

    “Am not,” Roger said, guiltily removing his finger.

    “You were. My sensors don’t make mistakes.”

    “I wasn’t. I was just...I was just...rubbing it. I was just rubbing the tip of it.”

    “I refuse to read if you’re going to pick your nose at the same time.”

    “Look, I was just rubbing it,” Roger said, a trace of panic creeping into his voice. “I won’t even rub it if it bothers you.”

    The Computer sensed the delicate change in the balance of power and casually tightened the noose. “Promise?” it asked innocently.

    “Promise,” Roger readily agreed.

    “Pwomisy womisy?”

    Roger pretended he hadn’t heard. The Computer let the silence drag on a few seconds, allowing him to think he’d gotten away with it. Then it struck.

    “Say ‘pwomisy womisy’,” it commanded.

    Roger ground his teeth and looked round the Bridge.

    “If you say ‘pwomisy womisy’ I’ll read the rest.”

    Roger bit his lip.

    “Come on. Just say it. It’s not that difficult.”

    “Pwomisy womisy,” Roger muttered quickly.

    “Sorry. Didn’t quite catch that. A bit louder please.”

    “Pwomisy womisy!” Roger yelled. “Look, get on with it!”

    “Right,” said the Computer, “where were we? Ah yes…to push back the barriers separating man from the stars. To land on new planets and discover things. Really important things. Things that when I take them back to Earth will earn the respect of everybody…”

    It suppressed a snigger and Roger looked over at it suspiciously.

    “…especially Mr Entwhistle and Keith from the Astronomer’s Society. To be honoured because of these things I’ve brought back…”

    It sniggered just a little and Roger glanced sharply at it.

    “…and to be asked to give talks and lectures to all the Pilots in the Space Fleet.”

    The Computer lost it and sniggered loudly.

    “Right stop it! Stop reading!” Roger snapped, jumping up. “I heard you sniggering. That’s it. Stop reading.”

    He stormed off huffily to a corner of the Bridge and stood with his back to the Computer, fiddling with his nose.

    “Give talks and lectures to all the Pilots in the Space Fleet!” the Computer said and laughed derisively. “You!”

    Roger twitched his head and ignored it. He huddled his tall, skinny figure into his cheap, ill-fitting smoking-jacket and sought consolation up his left nostril.

    “Aren’t you talking to me, Rog?” the Computer asked.

    “Stop calling me Rog,” the aggrieved writer said over his shoulder.

    More derisive laughter. “Rog! Rog! Rog!”

    “I see. We’re in one of those moods, are we?”

    “Rogy Boy!...Rogy Pooh!...Woger!...Woger! Woger! Woger!”

    “Right! That’s it! You’ve pushed me too far!”

    The recently rebuffed writer-cum-explorer strode determinedly over to the main console and reached for the Computer button.

    “What are you doing?”

    “I’m going to turn you off.”

    “Go ahead. I’m tired of humiliating you anyway.”

    Roger hesitated. His finger hovered over the button. He glanced at the large, multi-coloured panel on the Bridge wall that fronted the Computer.

    “Go on. Press it,” it goaded.

    “If I leave you on, will you...will you...”

    “Will I what?”

    “Will you tell me where we are?”

    The Computer considered the proposition. “Okay,” it agreed.

    Roger withdrew his finger. “Where are we then?”

    “Tierra del Fuego,” the Computer answered crisply.

    “Tierra del?”

    “Fuego.”

    Roger looked puzzled. “I thought that was a chain of islands off...off...”

    “The former South America.”

    “A chain of islands off the former South America?”

    “It is.”

    Roger’s hand shot out. His finger was on the button when the Computer played its Joker.

    “Who’ll pilot the Ship if you turn me off?” it asked.

    Roger’s finger retreated a millimetre. “I will.”

    “You!?” the Computer said and laughed scornfully. “You know what happened last time you piloted.”

    “That was an accident,” Roger said quickly. “It could’ve happened to anybody. How was I to know about The President’s personal Ship in Landing Bay 7?”

    The Computer sniggered at the memory. “So go ahead. Pilot.”

    “I can,” Roger said, squaring his ‘shoulders’ and straightening his gaudy penman’s attire. “I will. I’m a fully fledged Pilot. A specialist in my field. An experienced space-person, hand picked for this mission because of my knowledge of...of...of things quite a long way away and--”

    “Cods! They picked you because they couldn’t find anybody else dick-headed enough to go!”

    Roger flushed. “That’s it!” he yelled. “I’ve had enough! I’m almost nearly definitely going to--“

    “The Forward Interceptor just exploded.”

    “Has it? Oh.”

    Roger toyed with his thinning black hair and his face creased as his Pilot’s brain, fully trained for emergencies such as this, went into action.

    “Send out another,” he ordered eventually.

    “Don’t be f*****g silly,” the Computer replied.

    Roger bit his lip. “All right, what should I do?”

    “You’re the highly trained Pilot. A specialist in your field. You tell me.”

    Roger thought a bit more. Fiddled with his nose.

    “Look,” the Computer said, sighing. “Let me sum up the situation for you. There’s something in front of us which has caused the Forward Interceptor to explode. Undoubtedly whatever it is, it’s still heading towards us. Now what are your orders?”

    Roger fiddled with his nose and hair. “Could we swerve a bit to the right?” he asked.

    The Computer laughed. “Magic! Swerve a bit to the right! I like it, Woger baby, I like it!”

    “If you call me Woger baby--”

    “Scanner reports show a gigantic Black Cloud formation one space mile ahead. Destroying everything in its path. Heading straight for us. Composition cannot be identified at the moment therefore no weapons effective against it.”

    Roger swallowed. The Computer remained silent. Roger swallowed some more. The Computer pointedly ignored him. It started singing nonchalantly to itself. Blue Moon.

    “Blue Moon, you saw me stand--”

    “Couldn’t we swerve just a little bit?” Roger pleaded.

    “Taking into consideration the as yet unknown molecular structure of the rapidly approaching Black Cloud,” the Computer said in a suave, velvety voice. “Given that there’s a distinct possibility that it may contain anti-matter which would obliterate us immediately on contact, there’s only one thing I can suggest under the circumstances.”

    “What’s that?”

    “That we f**k off sharpish, old chap!” it replied in the same suave voice.

    Relief replaced fear in what passed for Roger’s body. “Sounds great!” he gushed. “Let’s go.”

    He waited expectantly for them to change course. Glancing over at the forward observation screen, he saw the Black Cloud, jet black against the blue-black of space. Funny, it seemed to be getting closer.

    “Shouldn’t we be turning away?” he asked intelligently.

    “Shan’t,” replied the Computer.

    “Shan’t? What d’you mean " shan’t?”

    “I’m being temperamental,” the Computer said petulantly. “Shan’t! Shan’t! Shan’t!”

    Roger’s eyes widened as the Black Cloud on the screen drew even closer. Fear replaced relief in what passed for his body and panic fingered his scrotum.

    “Come on,” he pleaded, hysteria thick as mascara in his voice. “This is no time for stupid games.”

    “Games!” the Computer enthused. “Games, games, games! Good idea! I love games. What can we play? I know, let’s play ‘I Spy’. Me first. I spy with my little eye some--”

    Roger screamed.

    The Computer hesitated. “Oh alright,” it said, relenting.

    Roger breathed a sigh of relief.

    “You can go first.”

    Roger stared at it. “But I thought--”

    “You can go first. That’ll teach to go breathing premature sighs of relief,” the Computer said smugly.

    Roger glanced at the screen again. “But the Cloud!” he jabbered. “It’s getting closer! We’re almost up to it!”

    “I emphatically refuse to alter the direction of this Ship until we play ‘I Spy’.”

    “Ispywithmylittleeyesomethingbeginningwith,” Roger rattled out, not taking his eyes off the screen, “beginning with ‘D’.”

    “’D’,” the Computer mused. “Let’s see...Delicatessen?”

    Roger swallowed.

    “Not Delicatessen, eh? Hmmhh, beginning with ‘D’? I know! Dragon!”

    “That’s it!” Roger squeaked. “Dragon! You got it! Ha, ha, ha! That was pretty clever of you. For a moment I thought you weren’t going to get it. Well done. Can we go now?”

    “Hold on, hold on,” the Computer said suspiciously. “There’s no dragon on board this Ship.”

    “There is,” Roger said quickly. “It’s in...it’s in...it’s in the cupboard. It’s in the cupboard sleeping.”

    “Show me it.”

    The approaching Black Cloud was almost filling the forward observation screen. Adrenaline rushed through Roger’s blood stream like water suddenly released from a sluice.

    “It’s asleep,” he insisted, shaking.

    “Roger, are you by any chance lying to me?”

    “No. Yes.”

    “In that case I feel I must inform you that the Cloud will obliterate the Ship unless action is taken within ten seconds.”

    Without him being aware of it, Roger’s mouth impersonated a goldfish’s mouth several times.

    “Nine seconds. My turn. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with ‘T’...six seconds.”

    “Gyro Stabiliser.”

    “Close enough. Four seconds. Taking avoiding action. Strap in. Two seconds.”

    “Aarrgghh!”

    Roger was thrown across the Bridge as the Computer, belatedly carrying out his order, swerved the Ship quite a big bit to the right.