House of the King (First Chapter) (Satirical Sci-Fi)

 "Space, to simplify things, is big." 

"We dunno how big... It expands, planets get further from suns, solar systems get wider, etcetera." 

 "That expansion, is something that we; the human race, share with the universe."  

"We've been spreading ourselves all over the universe, we're like butter on an infinite celestial slice of toast, as we constantly ride the faster-than-light butter knife towards the crusts of the universe."  

"And with that many humans comes the obvious side effect. Crap." 

"Crap everywhere, expensive crap, cheap crap, fun crap, boring crap, all crapped out by Starliners, Interstellar Cruise ships...." 

"And that's not to mention the fact that, more often than not, these big daddy ships turn to crap themselves." 

"This, is often followed by a feeding frenzy of chaps like me and the crew." 

"When a Whale goes belly up, nothing gets wasted." 

"Work for a salvager is infinite, if he knows where to look..."  

"End log."  

Captain John Ingram turned off the microphone he'd been talking into and sunk into his chair.  

He was in his late 50's, an age described by some as 'quarter past midlife crisis', and had neat grey hair which had thinned over time, exposing the dome of his head.  He was often hungry and knew how to go without food, but his large frame and full cheeks seemed to imply the opposite.  

In front of him was the same view he'd see all day, apart from when sleeping, cooking or using the bathroom. The black void, punctuated only by the glow of distant stars. While it's true that most days the stars were different, the view remained the same.  

He took a moment to rest his bloodshot eyes, the temptation to keep them closed was almost impossible to resist. 

The Captain glanced at the display panel, which read 3:31, exactly halfway through his shift.  

With a sudden burst of energy, he clapped his hands together.  

"Did that sound too preachy?" Asked Ingram, to the empty cockpit.  

He reached under the control laden dashboard in front of him, and produced a small box containing a smaller pipe and an even smaller nugget of tobacco.  

"I don't think so," replied the control panel, in an electronic yet warm English accent, "However, I think you may be confused about the concept of a captain's log."  

The voice belonged to a robot named Guy, who, in turn, belonged to Captain Ingram.  

"Wadda you mean by that?" Said Ingram, as he carefully placed a pinch of the tobacco into the bowl of the pipe, filling it conservatively.  

"Usually," Guy began, "The captains log contains information regarding the day-to-day activities of the ship, captain and crew." 

"That's boring though," said Ingram, fruitlessly searching his pockets for a lighter, "If I made the log like that it'd be nothing but; 'Woke up, ate breakfast, took a thirty-minute poo, followed a signal, found a dead satellite, stripped it, went sleep."  

He stood up and began to search the room. 

"Not quite sir, there hasn't been any breakfast in days now," remarked Guy.  

The Captain's stomach let out an audible rumble, as if it suddenly remembered that it was empty. 

"That probably explains the extended toast metaphor," said Ingram, deadpan.  

"And it's been two weeks since the last salvage," continued Guy.  

"Yes, yes, yes, and three weeks since my last half-hour poo," said Ingram.  

By this point the Captain was on his hands and knees searching the cockpit floor desperately, and then he finally found the lighter, which had fallen under the control panel. 

For a moment he rejoiced.  

The Captain took another long glance out of the window, hoping to spot a derelict mining outpost, a broken cargo ship, anything that could be sold for, or made into food.  

It's true, he thought, things are getting worse. He'd never been this long without food for himself and the crew.  

A week and a half since their last substantial meal, and just four days since they'd eaten anything at all.  

We need something soon.  

He killed the thought.  

"So, if it's not a Captain's log I'm writing, what is it?" He smiled before sinking back into his chair.  

"Could be the start of a novel, could be your memoirs, not quite a log."  

"Hey, that's an idea," said Ingram, "We'll do my memoirs instead. Did I ever tell you about the time me and the salvage league found a huge cloud of something that tasted exactly like cherry vodka?"  

"Yes, I've heard that one before," replied Guy, in a tone which people with eyes would associate with eye rolling.  

"Fine, we'll start tomorrow," said Ingram, who was, at this particular moment, making plans to wipe that part of Guy's memory.   

He lit his pipe and puffed quickly to get a full burn and placed it carefully on the dashboard before picking up his microphone and turning it on at the side.  

"Right then," he began, holding the mic to his lip, "Let's have another go." 

"Captains log, one month since last restock," 

He took a draw from his pipe and took a moment to think. 

"We're hungry."  

The Deluded, and other Native Earthlings (First Chapter) (Satirical Drama w/Sci-Fi Aspects)

 In a room, in a mental institution, in Lower-Hapton, in a place called England, on the planet ‘Earth’, was a man who thought he was from Cassiopeia.  

The word ‘thought’ is key here. He thought he was from Cassiopeia, much in the same way that you, the reader, think you are human, that is, with 100% certainty.  

 The main problem comes from the disagreement found in his peers, acquittances, and anyone else who’d give him the time of day.  

“That’s where I live,” he’d say, index finger pointing at some indefinite part of the night sky. 

To which the nurses would usually reply; “Okay Marnie, take your pills now, open wide... Lift that tounge up... Good, goodnight Mr Duke.” 

 Granted, he didn’t actually look like a man from Cassiopeia, he didn’t have enough tendrils to even closely resemble the inhabitants. No, Marnie would have looked more at home as a minor member of a 70’s psychedelic rock band, let’s just say bassist for the sake of argument.  

He had squinty eyes, a nose which turned up at the tip, and ears that could have done with being pinned back years ago. His hair was a bright yellow, and had the kind of style that could usually only be achieved by dragging yourself through so many hedgerows.  

“Goodnight Sir,” replied Marnie.  

The female nurse rolled her eyes and left his room without correcting him. Why would she bother?  She’d only have to do it again tomorrow night.  

Once she’d shut the door, Marnie opened his mouth and began to dry heave. He retched, and let out a coarse hiss, like a rattlesnake having an asthma attack, until the tiny white pill threw itself from his tonsil, flew through the air, and landed gently on the cheap, ugly carpet.  

He picked it up, went to his bed, and stuffed it into the mattress with the rest of its comrades.  

In total, there were 92 of them. The 92 little powdery discs of false sanity acted in the same way as the chalk tallies on the wall of a prison inmate.  

“92 days,” he said, to no-one in particular, or anyone who might be listening, “I’ve been here for 92 days. 93, if you count that day before I got caught.”  

 Once again, he turned to the window, and looked eagerly for his consolation. 

“They’re going to be worried sick!”  

 There was a short, quiet rap on his window.  

“Oh, Ello,” said Marnie, to the short, quiet figure behind the glass, “How did you get out there?” 

Nancy Lovejoy was another patient at Matasia Psychactric Hospital, like Marnie, she was a live in.  

He opened the window as far as the little white, indestructible restraint would allow it.  

“Nancy?” he asked.  

There was always something a bit off about her, Marnie had theories, of course, the leading being that her hair was perpetually immaculate, a shining red bob, no hair out of place, not a single flake of dandruff above the scalp. But, this monument to stylists everywhere, was hugely juxtaposed by literally everything else on her body. A pale, skinny woman, with a rather normal face, wearing the compulsory MPH nightie.  

“Hello from the other side,” she sighed, in her usual monotone fashion.  

She also only spoke in song lyrics.  

Marnie didn’t know much about earth music. On Cassiopeia Beta 1, around 150 years ago, ‘music’ had had a brief stint of popularity among the adolescents of the time, but after a few years everybody just kind of got over it.  

“Hi,” he replied, before pausing briefly, “What are you doing outside?” 

He knew that her answer would be quite difficult to decipher. 

“Tonight,” she began, “There’s gonna be a jailbreak.”  

In a strange sudden jerking movement, which startled Marnie, she raised her right hand up to the corner of the window, twisted her fist, stood back, and the little restraint fell out of the window. 

The window fell down, like the doors of a cargo plane, and now, Marnie had a way into the garden.  

He thought about asking Nancy how she’d come about the key, but decided that there was probably no song that could explain it satisfyingly.  

“You want me to follow you?” asked Marnie.  

Nancy replied with single nod, devoid of all perceptible emotion.  

“Why?” asked Marnie, a hint of compassion in his voice, “Has something happened?” 

She nodded again. 

“What?”  

“She had a horror of rooms, she was tired, you can't hide beat. When I looked in her eyes they were blue but nobody home.”  

That one was far too obscure. Perhaps a native earthling would have a chance at working out what the woman meant, but for Marnie, it proved to be a colossal task.  

“I’m just going to follow you,” he remarked, stepping out of the window, while holding his nightie down to cover that weird, quite hilarious looking thing he now had at the top of his legs.  

 For a moment, he wondered if Nancy had one too. It would only be logical, he thought, we are wearing the exact same clothes, and clothes, by their very nature, are made to cover up the weird stuff. So, she must have a weird thing!  

He considered asking her, but decided it was a question best saved for later.  

“Lead the way,” he said.  

With that, she turned around, and began storming off into the wood that acted as a perimeter of the hospital. It was strange, she walked as though nobody was following her, and Marnie struggled to keep up as she tore away.  

“We could get in to trouble for being out here,” gasped Marnie, as he caught up to her and began to match her pace.  

“Storm clouds are raging all around my door, I think to myself I might not take it anymore,” she sighed.  

Marnie took a moment to digest that lyric, allowing Nancy to overtake him once again.  

“You’re already in trouble, aren’t you Nancy,” he said, half fearing her reply.  

But her reply never came, instead, she just worked her way deeper and deeper into the wood. Marnie looked behind him, he could see the light from his room, obscured by thick black tree trunks in the night. The idea behind the perimeter woods was to create the illusion of freedom and hide the true 15-foot perimeter fence. More often than not Marnie would look out at the trees, and they would have the exact opposite of the intended effect, the thick branches casting even thicker shadows across the green outside his window feeling more like a torch shined through a hamster’s cage. He thoroughly enjoyed being on the other side of it, and savoured the sight.  

He savoured it in silence for a while, as he continued to walk with the red-head.  

Then, rather abruptly, her stride failed and she stopped in her path.  

At this point, the two were quite deep in the woods. In front of them, was a building. It was an extraordinarily ordinary building. That is, the only notable feature about the building was the fact that it was so damned normal. Red bricks, with a red door, and a huge garage-like shutter.  

“Is this what you wanted to show me?” asked Marnie, inspecting the building in the dark, “It’s not exactly urgent now, is it?”  

“Step into the light. Make the spark ignite. Step into the light tonight,” groaned Nancy.  

Marnie’s eyes scanned the building, one last time, for any notable feature that Nancy could be referring too. After a moment’s ponderance, he did as she asked and took a few steps toward the building.  

He was suddenly blinded when a motion sensor light burst into life, illuminating the space in front of the building to reveal long, bright green grass, and a small dirt track leading to the building.  

And there, lying on the dirt path, with a ten centimetre hole burned into her chest, was one of the nurses.  

Marnie approached the body with cold indifference, before reaching down and touching it on the hand. Once he did, a panicked expression began to dominate his face. He  

 

 know all too much about humans, but he knew that usually, they were warm, squishy things. Instead, the nurse was cold, hard, and slightly blue in colour. 

“She’s dead,” said Marnie, looking to Nancy, “Why is she dead?”  

Chapter Two