The Meanker's Tale

14 

The Meanker’s Tale 

 

    Forty-Four was just urging Dohra to go on with her story when they were surrounded by emanations of uneasiness, and the burly Lu Rullan came up to them. “So, it’s today you’re off, eh?” he said to blndreL, eyeing the two xathpyroids sideways.

    “Yeah: off to Granna’s and Mumma’s harangues! Siddown—so long as you’re not gonna start a fight,” she added drily.

    “No beings are about to make a pincer movement, Meanker,” said BrTl heavily as the Space Patroller again looked uneasily at him and ZrMl. “And I’d never have accused you of cheating if I hadn’t been full of intoxicant. Sit.”

    “Yes, please do, Lu Rullan!” agreed Dohra. “Hang on; can you breathe up here on Level Blue?” she gasped.

    “Huh? Oh! Yeah,” he said, bashing his white-uniformed chest with a hefty meankoid fist. “The FW’s pack’s built in.”

    “Isn’t that handy! –We’re all having nice drinks, if you’d like to order something? And I was telling a story, but actually, I’d like awfully to hear a Meanker story.”

    “That would be interesting!” agreed Forty-Four with the speed of a Seeker going into hyperdrive.

    “Eh?” he croaked, collapsing onto a chair next to blndreL.

    “Yeah, go on, Lu Rullan, tell us a story,” she said solemnly.

    “Hoo, hoo,” he said uneasily.

    “No, really!” urged Dohra. “Unless you’re feeling shy, of course.”

    The Meanker blinked his one emerald eye at her, but apparently confirmed she was genuine. “No, I’m not shy,” he said feebly. “Uh—thanks, DorAvenian,” he croaked as the grinning Didg urged a double shot of qwlot on him. “Uh—Oh, thanks, it-being,” he said weakly as Trff worked its usual fix-it on the straw. He gulped down a belt, and sighed. “Well, uh, whaddaya wanna hear?”

    Kindly Dohra, introducing those of their immediate circle that he hadn't met before, explained what everyone else’s stories had been about. Lu Rullan began to emanate desperation. “And of course you heard BrTl’s exciting Lost Cause story with all the shooting and blasters and things!” she reminded him, beaming.

    The desperation abated. “Oh, yeah,” said the Meanker, sagging. “Well, if it doesn’t have to be a poem, or a Romance, or a—a—like, a legend or one of those, I guess I could give it a go. Um, well, what about that time I was stationed on the fifteenth moon of Famiku II?”

    Those of the extended company in the blue ISLA bar that weren’t emanating disappointment that they weren’t going to hear more of the Gr’mmeayan Romance, or disappointment that they weren’t immediately going to see if they’d won their bets—about half the crowd—immediately broadcast: Better than more mok shit about garments! And: Yeah, action! Thank the Federation, let’s hear it! And: Just so long as ya strangle a Meagraw or ten in it, Meanker! And like that. So Lu Rullan got the point and with some preliminary clearing of the meankoid throat and some strange, not to be anything-ist, hooting which some of the company discerned was echoing down those meankoid tubes, began his story. 

 

    Yeah. Uh—we were stationed on the fifteenth moon of Famiku II, like I say. Just a Patrol. Uh—that’s like, six Patrollers and a Corp. Uh, if ya not in Space Patrol or the IG Militia ya would call it a Corporal, yeah, Thwurbullerian. Uh—are you beings gonna get this? Oh. All right, then.

    Uh—yeah. Like I say, we were stationed on the fifteenth moon of Famiku II. It’s not that big and there isn’t nothing there so it was just us, geddit? Our Corp was Corp Tygg, he was a humanoid from Little Beishyungkwo, but he was okay. There was three other Meankers, all from Gheaudarraine, like me: Lu Pallan, Tu Chullan, he was a great big being, and Zhu Hullan, you oughta seen him with a Whtyll Armoury Whammer-Bammer in his hand! The being couldn’t miss! That makes four, right? The other two, well, one was a mutant, kind of meankoid but with a bit of Wynonian Bugler in him: he didn’t have a name so we called him Muto. He didn’t know much words or like that, only he could follow orders and he was pretty hefty: good when ya hadda carry heavy equipment or a Space Service Standard Issue Bonzo Bomb launcher or like tha—Whaddaya mean, Dohra? Space Patrol’s part of Space Service! ’Course we got the standard ordnance! Eh? Ordnance! Like, blasters! Launchers! –Look, if you beings aren’t gonna understand a blind word I say—Will ya, it-being? Thanks.

    Uh—where was I? Oh, right; that made five. And the sixth one, his name was Vyllchnkwyczh—don’t look at me, I’m just telling it like it was—he was a Slgr from Slr: about what you’d expect, ya hadda keep all ya pockets blob-sealed when he was around, I can tell ya! Only Corp had a few things on him, so he was well under the appendage. –Yeah, thass right, Trff, she can call it “under the opposable digit,” if that’s what blobs her up.

    So there we were.

    So we get the camp set up and looking pretty Space Issue, too. And Zhu Hullan and Vyllchnkwyczh, they was on guard duty. And Lu Pallan, he goes: “So, Corp, what in Federation we doing here anyway?” And Corp, he goes: “S'pose I can tell youse yots.”—Like, that’s what they say on Little Beishyungkwo, only by this time all the Patrol was saying it, we’d sorta got used to it.—“They had a report from some intergalactic clown of a diplo blobbed out on klupf that there was a reggade Herscher hiding up on this vacuum-frozen hunk of space rock with enough fire power stashed away to blast this whole sector to the Third Galaxy.” –Yeah! I said reggade, it-being, what are you on about? And don’t give Dohra the co-ordinates of the Herscher world, she doesn’t wanna know and we weren’t nowheres near the dump in any case! –All right, Br-cognate, maybe you better translate for it, yeah.

    Right, like the Br-cognate says, a Herscher’s a pirate being and I dunno—or care—if it’s a mammalian or a marsupi-something or what. Geddit? Good.

    So—Where in Federation was I?

 

    Uh—right, the Herscher. Yeah. So Lu Pallan, he goes: “Ten igs we don’t get a sniff of no Herscher the whole tour!” Only no being takes him, we aren’t that thick. So Tu Chullan, he goes: “Ya want us to take a look-see, Corp?” And Corp goes—Uh, never mind. Yes, Feeny-Argyllians, rude was what it was. “No” is what he meant, ’cos what use is a recce patrol of three beings, max., gonna be against a Herscher with unlimited weaponry? Hang on, does she know weap—Yeah, all right, xathpyroid cognate, I will try to trust ya, yeah.

    So what we do, see, is set up camp—well, we done that—and maintain a watch, like what Corp’s orders say. Right: every being in turn, Dohra, you’re catching on! Uh—space rations, a Patrol always carries space rations.

    Actually, I will have another shot, DorAvenian, yeah. …Thanks. That’s better!

    So we been on the vacuum-frozen dump an IG week—your Flppu’s right, you Feeny-Argyllians, cold is what the dump was, only can ya shut it up? ’Cos it’s like, distracting me. Give it a nut or a moth wing or something. –Thanks.

    Vvlvanian curses, where was I? Yeah, ya right, blndreL, drive ya to Mullgon’ya is what non-Service beings do. Oh—right. We been on the vacuum-frozen dump an IG week and me and Tu Chullan, we’re standing our watch. It’s the middle of the night and cold as the vacuum-frozen plains of Gwrrtt and black as the inside of a Bdeeg’s—Beg ya pardon, I’m sure. Only it was. And Tu Chullan, he goes: Ss! Not out loud, a’ course. So I listen. There’s something out there, all right, ya can’t hear it and ya can’t quite sense it, but it’s there. So I send: Corp! Wake up! And he’s out there beside me with his blaster drawn before the words haven’t hardly passed my shield. And we all listen. Yep, there’s something out there, all right, only we can’t hear it and we can’t quite sense it.

    So the Patrol’s all awake now and we get out and make the circle round the Space Issue tent like what the Regs say: like, every being is on every other’s being’s five—yeah, thanks for that, Br-cognate—and no being’s not gonna creep up on us without being spotted! Only we don’t hear nothing all night. Or sense nothing, neither, it-being, if ya gotta have it spelled out. So finally Famiku II’s sun comes up—blue, for any being that’s interested—and at least we can see, not that Muto couldn't anyway, only there wasn’t nothing to see. So Vyllchnkwyczh, he goes: “Hey! Youse yots! Look at that!”

    So we look and there’s these like, marks in the dust that’s all there is on this plasmo-blasted moon. Big marks, like if it was a footprint it’d be a plasmo-blasted big being. Not a hunnert times bigger than a Thwurbullerian, no, Dohra: ya don’t wanna listen to that Flppu! But big. Corp goes over with his blaster drawn, because funny-looking marks have been traps before now. And he goes: “If them are footprints, I’m a Friyrian lordship with his vacuum-frozen gill-collar on.” So Muto yells: “Zap ’em, Corp!” only we don’t take no notice, he’s like that. Corp thinks they’re drag marks, more like. Like if something was dragged? –Yeah. Only there wasn’t nothing to drag: there’s only the six of us and Corp and our Space Issue tent. Nothing to do with nothing your little brother won’t of been in, Dohra, only if you wanna think of it like that, why not? Pretty scary? Uh—well, I won’t say we wasn’t all wishing we was somewheres else, even Muto.

    Now this moon, it’s like, flat. Flat as a Ma’manker pancake, as they say. So we can see to the horizon and there’s nothing except dust. So after a bit Corp, he says: “Well, whatever it was, it’s not here now. Break out the space rations, youse yots: no sense in tracking some being on an empty stomach.” So we all have breakfast—in relays, like there’s always at least five standing guard, ’cos Corp isn't due for Mullgon’ya, even if it wasn’t Regs anyways.

    Then we packed the tent—it’s Regs, see—and loaded it onto Muto’s back— Look, for Federation’s sake, Dohra, he was a mutant! Ask this DorAvenian if his mutant yot isn’t strong as ten normal whatever-he-might-of-beens if he hadn’t of been muted! Anyway, Muto was used to it, and he liked it: it made him feel important, see? What I’m trying to say is, we all went together because Corp had been round the two galaxies and back a few times and no way was he gonna break up the Patrol for a few plasmo-blasted drag marks on a dump beyond the last black hole like this moon. And we followed the marks. And after a bit they run out. By this time we was all pretty fed up, so Corp authorised Tu Chullan to fire a Bonzo Bomb off at the spot where them marks they fizzled out—like because right on that spot there just happened to be standing a huge Herscher with a blaster in its appendage, hoo, hoo, I don’t think!

    So Tu Chullan gets off a good one and after we pull Muto out of the dust like where he's tried to bury himself—he always done that, none of us yots could think of nothing that’d make him believe there was gonna be a big bang before it come, likewise nothing that’d make him not try to bury himself: he done it hard when we was on rock worlds, I can tell ya! Hoo, hoo, hoo! Poor ole Muto! Anyways, like I say, when we’d pulled him out of it Corp goes: “Oops, that wasn’t a reggade Herscher after all, my mistake.” And we have a real good look once the crater’s cooled down, but there’s nothing. Well, no, Thwurbullerian: no dust-mites according to Corp’s bio-blob, and them blobs, they’re supposed to be able to tell—right? Yeah. So that’s that, and Corp goes “To Blerrinbrig’s with it, we’ll make camp here!”

    So we mount guard and put up the tent and break out the space rations and to cut a long story short, the exact same thing happens that night, only when Vyllchnkwyczh and Lu Pallan are on guard, not during my watch. Next morning, same routine. Except that Corp doesn’t waste another Bonzo Bomb.

    This goes on for a week, believe me or not, and by this time we’re not only back at the plasmo-blasted place we started from, we been past it again! –Do us a favour, Br-cognate, and just tell her that we got ways of telling! Thanks.

    It wasn’t that big a moon, ya see. So Corp decides we’re all gonna end up on Mullgon’ya if this goes on—I wish you’d keep your mutant quiet, DorAvenian! Eh? All right, send it to me. …Oh, mok shit. Okay, I’ll try not to mention the plasmo-blasted dump.

    So like I say, Corp’s had it up to his—hoo, hoo—chased xrillion gill-collar. That’s a joke, stupid Yellow Fluffy! He wasn’t a Friyrian! –Not bright? One and Two, in quintupled 5-D triangles it’s not bright! Can I just make my point that Corp’s had it and we make camp and stay there? Right! Uh—yeah, thanks, Commander ZrMl, a triple shot of nnru juice would just hit the spot. …That’s much better!

    So another week rolls by and every night it’s the same story, only we don’t bother tracking them marks no more. Whatever it is, it’s not giving up. So Corp, he goes: “Fifty megazillion to one it’s watching us all the time, but let’s lay a few anti-being mines anyway, okay?” So we lay them in a ring all round the camp, and just in case, Corp slaps a bracelet on Muto—well, he was too thick to know what it was—and links him up to the short straw’s appendage, that was Vyllchnkwyczh, serve him right for the thieving, three-legged liar and cheat that he was. No, well, better than ole Muto being blasted to a megazillion pieces in the middle of the night when he steps out to take a—Oh, ya got that, didja, Dohra? Good on ya. 
 

 

    So guess what? Next morning there’s nothing. And Corp goes mega-ballistic, I mean plasma-ballistic. “It was you all the time, you adjectival, thick-headed mutant piece of a mok’s never-mind what! And I dunno how ya done it, but you’re staying in that bracelet the rest of this tour and then I’m reporting ya to the Patrol Captain and you’re going to the cells for the rest of your stinking, unnatural existence!” Only it was worse than that, if ya get my drift. Even Muto got the point that he was real upset, though I wouldn’t claim he understood why. Vyllchnkwyczh tried to say it wasn’t fair he hadda have him chained to him for the rest of the tour, but no-one listened. Well, each of us only had two arms and he had three, so it seemed fair enough, when ya thought about it.

    After that we had a real peaceful two weeks, though no-one slacked off, you betcha Space Issue boots! Well, if it wasn’t Muto—only twenny megazillion to one it was—only if it wasn’t, maybe that Herscher was out there somewheres, trying to scare us off, geddit? Or drive us to—uh, the M place. –That’s okay, DorAvenian, any time.

    By this time most of us was counting the days to when the ship was due back to relieve us. And it was three days off and it was my turn and Vyllchnkwyczh’s to stand guard—he’d got Muto, of course, only Corp never reckoned that was no reason to let him off. So we take up our positions and maybe three IG hours go by, and the cunning three-legged son of a mutated slime-ball, not to be anything-ist to slime-balls, dare say there’s some good ones in the Known Universe, he sends: I’ll give ya my snuhl-blob if ya’ll take him for the rest of the night. Well, yeah, we’re not allowed to use the stuff on duty, but Corp isn’t that thick: he doesn’t make us stand to all day and night without a break, and a quick snort never hurt no Meanker yet, I dunno about you feeble beings! No offence, xathpyroids. Anyways, none of us never had no snort left except the Slgr, and ole Muto wasn’t that bad, so I went Done! And he brung him over quick as nothing and chained him up to me. –I can feel what you’re thinking, Br-cognate, and no, I didn’t slack off! Me and Muto stood guard real sharp.

    It’s nearly dawn and I’m looking forward to breakfast when Muto makes his alarm noise. Can’t describe it: kind of a whine, only real high—I mean real high, he’s been known to shatter S/IG shot glasses with it. He’s pointing up above us so never mind I can’t sense or hear nothing, I loose off a quick BLAST! Set to Kill, you betcha Space Issue boots! We don't muck around in Space Patrol.

    And there’s this sort of—ya couldn’t call it a noise, more a sort of shiver somewheres up above, and before I can move or think or nothing, Muto’s pushed me down and he's burying us both with dust! And then there’s this sort of slithery sound, can’t describe it but I tell ya, the flesh crept all along my bones and my tubes closed up! And something huge and floppy and fluttery comes down and down and poor ole Vyllchnkwyczh gives this ghastly shriek—and then nothing. Not a sound, except Muto digging.

    Then Corp’s voice goes: “What the copulating rr’trrs is going ON?” And he chucks out a couple of emergency lumo-blobs and I sit up—covered in dust, right—and there’s this huge, ghastly floppy, fluttery dark thing all spread out everywhere. And no sign of Vyllchnkwyczh. So I try to pull Muto out but he’s digging in, and I can’t.

    And Corp goes: “By the three-tongued blurryankers of Trypthfymia! That's a Famiku manga-bat!”

    So I go: “Did I zap it?”

    And Corp shouts: “Where in Federation are ya, Lu Rullan?”

    So I go, real feeble: “Over here. Sitting down.”

    “What the—What in Federation are you doing with the mutant?” he hollers.

    “Um, we swapped. Um, is that thing dead?”

    “I dunno, but keep well clear! Hang on, did it drop poison on ya?”

    “Um, no-o… Don’t think so, Corp.”

    So he comes over and chucks a couple more lumo-blobs down and has a good look but if it had of, I’d of been dead, so he decides it missed me. And Muto. Well, he’s well dug in, but he's alive, so it must of. After a bit I go: “Muto heard it. Pulled me out of its way . Uh—think it got poor plasmo-blasted Vyllchnkwyczh, Corp.”

    “Yeah. Well, there’s no sign of him and there’s a sort of bulge under that thing’s flap where he was supposed to be standing, and I for one aren’t gonna look-see. They got juices that kinda disintegrate their victims.”

    Everyone else had come out of the tent by now and they were just standing there gaping. Well, blasters at the ready plus and gaping, we were all Space Patrol. And Zhu Hullan goes: “He wasn’t all bad, for a Slgr. Quite a good shot. Hey, they are real poisonous, that right, Corp?”

    “They sure are. In fact ya better all lower ya visors, just to be on the safe side. Hey, Muto! Come out, it’s dead!”

    Nothing. So he undid my end of his chain but he couldn’t reach the bracelet, it was in the dust, so after a bit he sat down beside him holding the chain. And the rest of them just stood about until the blue sun come up.

    The thing looks pretty dead, and Tu Chullan, he’s seen one in a fancy zoo on Playfair One, so he goes: “Yeah, I reckon that’s a manga-bat. Like, they kind of float over ya, dropping poison. See them floating things kinda sticking out the sides? They got them all over their underneaths, the poison drops down them. Only I thought they needed more atmosphere, like, they aren’t supposed to be able to live on a moon.”

    “This one did,” notes Corp, real sour. “And for all we know the place is full of the things, so look sharp!”

    We changed watch and broke out the space rations for breakfast but I didn’t feel like catching up on any shut-eye, so I just sat there for a bit, next to Corp and good ole Muto.

    The thing never moved and by the time the ship came with our relief it was pretty clear it was dead because, never mind the vacuum-frozen cold, it had begun to stink like Mklontia. The Captain of the ship, he threw ten zillion fits and took off into orbit when he heard what was lying there—well, if there was a live one around and it wrapped itself round the ship it would of been real nasty—but our Space Patrol Captain, he come down and inspected it and confirmed it was dead. So as there was nothing left of poor ole Vyllchnkwyczh we blasted the thing to the Third Galaxy and then Captain Woll, he read a bit out of a little text-blob and we all said goodbye to the poor ole three-legged yot.

    And if he hadn’t of been a mutant there’d of been a Two Galaxies Star for good ole Muto, you betcha Space Issue boots! Only Captain Woll, he said the Colonel said don’t make her laugh. So we all clubbed together and bought him a lubo-bot. He tore it to pieces in less than ten IG minutes but he had fun while it lasted, good ole Muto.
 

 

    The Meanker sat back with a deep sigh and mopped his forehead, while the audience—including most of those present in the blue ISLA bar—applauded loudly.

    Not a bad story! sent BrTl happily to his fellow xathpyroid, applauding, and at the same time sending a fresh bunch of senso-tissues to Dohra without even having to think about it.

    Yeah, agreed ZrMl. Though one sentence might’ve improved it, if you ask me.

    Uh—yeah? What’d that be?

    At the beginning. Something like “Famiku II’s notorious for its huge ghastly manga-bats that hover silently over you during the night dropping poison.”

    Uh—Oh! Hadn’t you ever heard—?

    Yes, I had, but that isn’t the point.

    Yes, contributed the Thwurbullerian. I agree with Commander ZrMl. It would’ve added to the suspense.

    Not for those of us that had heard of manga-bats, Forty-Four! objected BrTl.

    Four, it replied succinctly.

    BrTl gulped slightly. Um, him and ZrMl, and Trff, of course, whether or not it had bothered to recall the fact at the precise instant, and, uh—Forty-Four itself?

    No, sent the Thwurbullerian: the DorAvenian, that’s partly why he's applauding so loudly.

    So was the rest of the room, so after a confused moment he sent: I see, Forty-Four, you meant four of our little group!

    No. Four in this Level Blue ISLA bar, it replied placidly.

    BrTl swallowed, and ceased sending.

    The applause was dying down now and the Thwurbullerian, congratulating Lu Rullan on his exciting story, generously offered every being what they fancied. And since it was about time for afternoon tea, would any being care for a snack?

    BrTl managed, with a slight effort, true, to ignore any suggestion of anything there might have been in this offer and just enjoy the fried grqwary wings. And was rewarded when Forty-Four sent on a wistful note: I was hoping for a native Meanker story, to tell you the truth.

    Some hope! The being’s Space Patrol! he replied.

    Quite, conceded the Thwurbullerian ruefully.