One good aspect of the periods in which I do not suffer debilitating pain is the freedom to create my little alternative reality tales. Those moments are golden – even if the finished literary result is less so. But I know there are people out there, in the Blogosphere, who obtain some pleasure from reading them; so let’s get to it with a second visit…
The scene cut to an interior shot of the freighter, which everyone recognised as the vessel’s control room…
“Something very strange and unknown is approaching.” A green subordinate informed the mauve captain.
“Is it adopting an attack posture?” The captain inquired.
“Hard to say,” another robot chimed in, “our sensors can’t make diddally squat sense of the vessel – assuming it actually is a vessel.”
This was enough to cyber-alarm the captain. Clearly the approaching object possessed superior technology. “Hit the Go button really hard,” it instructed the helms-robot. “Let’s get the heck out of here!”
Other visitors and occupants of the museum also watched as the freighter swung about by ninety degrees and began a most cost-inefficient ‘burn’ of its main motor…
The watching crowd held their breath. “You can do it.” Gray-Vee called from the back.
Those watching in the Grand Hall also began urging the bulky ship to gain speed…
“Why haven’t they got booster rockets?” Winston Gloryhole complained. “It’s not fair. One should always have some booster rockets at hand. I have two, ya know; they’re resting on the mantelpiece beside a black and white photo of my long-dead pet plugmutt, Fido, in an alcove in my second reception room.”
Others, watching elsewhere had much the same thought, except Bruce Lightningrod, who stole past and hoped no one noticed his indifference…
But even he gasped when the scene cut to the interior of the freighter once more…
“Red Alert!” The captain bellowed through its cheap plastic forward speaking grille. “An intimidatory vessel of vast size and unknown weaponry is bearing down upon us. We cannot escape and we cannot fight back. Let the galaxy know what has happened to us this day, night, or whatever measurement of time you use.”
“Not sure there’s a proper word called intimidatory, sir.” A subordinate said calmly.
“They’ll know what I mean.” The captain replied without rancour.
It is possible that a cyber-argument ensued; but no one was aware of it: the scene had cut to a remote exterior view that showed the strange, unknown vessel as it turned in pursuit of the weaving submarine space freighter…
Bruce Lightningrod increased his pace: he was absolutely certain he didn’t want to witness what would follow…
…He now wished he’d brought his ancient and outmoded MP3 music player with him to work: he was no hero; he could use it to drown out the audience’s screams of alarm.
Speaking of screams of alarm: Finlay’s was so loud that Mister Pong jerked in surprise and knocked over his food bowl…
“Curse you, Finlay Watersnaik,” he growled drunkenly, “if that fine melamine crockery is damaged in any way, I’ll sue you for everything you’ve got – including your underwear drawer and keep-sake samples of Slobium and Bumholium!”
Of course Finlay heard nothing of Mister Pong’s empty threat: it had been drowned out by the roar of the freighter’s main drive as the vessel made headway for a distant planetoid…
But if he thought that was loud, it was nothing when compared with the shrill screams of watching earplugs as (what looked like) guns set into the nose of the alien vessel began spitting fire…
However, closer scrutiny made them draw a slightly different conclusion…
The spitting effects were, in fact, the precursor to a barrage of infinitely powerful energy beams…
…which, when viewed minutely, showed the sturdy space hauler cut in two, as if with a surgeon’s knife…
This was enough to sober Mister Pong. He didn’t need to see any more…
“That’s it,” he snarled his most venomous, “it’s happening again. Someone is now going to say ‘gosh how awful; we must investigate,’ and before you can say Raspberry Pavlova, we’ll be engaged upon yet another battle to save the sodding museum. I don’t know, why did I have to try and better myself? Why didn’t I stay in poxy Manchuria? Okay everyone wore stupid hats and had webbed feet; but at least we didn’t need to dig ourselves atomic bomb shelters!”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
What Becomes of the Broken Winded? 