Chapter 28 - William and the pilot

I’m siting here contemplating movements, what next to do, wondering where it is. I’m lost in a world of thoughts, though there is nothing particularly on my mind. In fact, I keep imagining just how strongly I’m going to mess up instead of actually thinking about how I’m going to mess up and what I could do to avoid that. For instance, one of these fantasies involves destroying the Earth so much that there are no natural resources left for us to plunder. Half the worlds on fire, the other half is barren and not worth contemplating. With all this, everyone turns on me, I run, but there is nowhere really to run to. I’m outnumbered in all the most extreme senses of the word. Every exit is blocked, because there is no real exit from a spaceship. Even if I find an empty corridor, the next will be occupied and the previous one will be full of people in pursuit, or if I manage to find an empty room… how long could it last? I would either be trapped there until I starve, or the room will eventually be opened and I would be caught, or more realistically, the CCTV cameras that we have everywhere will track down my every movement. There could be no escape. So, I would have one of two alternatives to follow. 

A) commit suicide, as that’s the only place where nobody could ever follow me, and I watch myself, completely lacking any control over these images, but willing them on. I watch myself pick up a knife, pushing it, no, forcing it into my neck and ripping it out, me collapsing onto the floor, choking, spluttering blood everywhere, no longer able to bleed, wondering what will come first. Loss of consciousness? Choking to death? Maybe perhaps bleeding to death? Maybe I could find a nice tall place to jump off, falling gracefully, and then landing, in this case, headfirst, head smashing open, revealing a puff of blood, which quickly lands. Or my body landing on a railing, whipping my legs harder down, snapping the back of my already dead body. 

B) Getting caught, being frog-marched in front of thousands of people. For some reason, thousands of people have turned up to see me die, being pelted at, spat at, shouted at, tied up, people with clubs hitting me, my body refusing to turn unconscious. Just taking in the physicalness of it all. Blows, many, to the head until, finally, I slump forward, a nothing person in all its terms, on the floor. 

I look up as a group of guards enter the room. Though they seem to be wearing pilot’s uniforms. The leader of this group walks up to me, introduces himself as a Captain Fretyng. He says to me “We have returned,” as if I’m going to know what he’s talking about. He makes it sound as if he is the most important being ever. After a few non-starts, he refers to a mission. I lack inspiration as far as guessing what mission he is talking about, but  - “And how was the mission, may I ask.”

Fretyng smiles. “Yes, you may. And I will tell if only because it’s my duty to report everything back to you, Sire.”

I smile as if (yeah, right) I have a clue. And then - “Well, stop babbling and get on with it.”

“Yes, Sire. Straight away, Sire. Where do you want me to begin, Sire?

I almost don’t know what to say other than - “From the beginning, where most things normally start.”

“Yes of course. Well, Sire, I got into my Box and...” 

This is something I detest about pilots, which they seem to be. But surely, they are all orbiting Earth? Most of the time they talk complete and utter gibberish, the rest of the time, they talk about how amazing they are. A thought has suddenly struck, but I don’t want to face it yet, so - “Box?”

“Yes, Sire. It’s what we affectionately call our Smoovs, Sire.”

I groan inwardly, which leads to - “Yes, silly me.”

“Yes, Sire, silly you.”

Fretyng looks proud of how cheeky he has just been. It would be something to talk about at the mess, no doubt, “you’ll never guess what, chums, I darn well told the old bean upstairs just how jolly darn silly he was, ha, ha, ha! Rather!” I, on the other hand, have different feelings, feelings that mix dread of the upcoming news, humiliation, stress, tiredness and fuck knows what else, which comes out as - “How DARE you call me silly!”

I decide to kill the pilot sometime, it’s becoming a bit of a theme with me, right now. I’m not sure how to handle people other than to give them an extreme for the boundary they should not cross. And, unfortunately, let them step over it.

“Sorry, Sire, I was just agreeing with what you said. The first thing that we are taught in school, Sire, ‘Agree with the Supreme Ruler about everything and that means absolutely everything otherwise the punishment is death’.”

I have no idea what the fuck his excuse is meant to mean. Is that fast-talking? Is that bullshit-talking? I have no idea. I used to be so good at forming my thoughts. Now they just come out and they mean nothing. Babbling - “Yes, well there are exceptions. And besides which, you’re babbling again. Now get on with the report, please.

“Yes, Sire. Sorry, Sire.”

I think I’m ready to face the fire now and so I need to warn the - “Pilot!”

“Er, Fretyng, Sire.”

Life is so difficult sometimes and I want to - “JUST GET ON WITH DARN REPORT!! For crying out loud.”

“Sorry, Sire.”

Please! Please - “Say that again and you won’t ever be able to be say that again.”

“Why’s that Sire?”

I look down to the floor. For an answer? Because the only answer I can come up with is - “Because you’ll be DEAD. Like Yertjuk,” I add, as an aside.

Not quite sure what I mean, this does seem to scare Fretyng into action.

“Ah, Erm. Well, like I was saying. I got into my box, checked my instruments, realised I left my lunch in my locker, got out...” 

Sometimes I wonder if there really is such a thing as fate or destiny or even the idea of your life being written in the stars. I wonder if life is just written. Written on a piece of paper, that we are all actors and are reading these lines, that someone has picked me to be the butt of the eternal joke. The constant wearing down, the difficulties in communication, the slackness, the incompetence. This is not supposed to happen. This is not an efficiently running ship. This is worse than a bad spoof of a bad sci-fi comedy about a group of incompetent space-travellers. If life is written then the author is bad. He’s a bad writer, and he seems to have picked me to be the authority figure, the straight one, and therefore the butt of every bad joke ever. I wonder. I would just like to see this script, just so that I can have an advance warning. Warning of the next bad person to walk up to me and say something bad. It’s all so tiresome. Wearing, grinding down. I want release. I want to go back, to start afresh, but - “Not that far back, please. Just start with when you entered Earth’s atmosphere. And please, try not to go into too much detail, please.” I say this, because I have a feeling I know what’s about to have happened. 

“Righty ho, Sire. Well, we flattened everything and everyone in sight Sir.”

Flattened. The worst has happened. I dismiss the pilot - “Thank you. You may leave, now.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

Fretyng salutes and leaves. I’ll get a better report than that from someone more trustworthy, more… less, rather, less wearing. Flattened. Well, that’s it then. The worst has happened. Earth’s been hit, been attacked, no doubt in the grand scheme of action that was the original plan, the one I postponed, but somebody disobeyed me. I have a traitor somewhere, here on the bridge. Someone either chose to ignore my orders to get them to halt, or someone went behind my back and told them they could advance. I look around me, suddenly I feel the room grow, myself shrink and everyone is everyone, but I am only me, a small, helpless, isolated me. I no longer choose to trust anyone. But to whom can I turn for help, who can I turn to, to confide in? Are they all traitorous, is it just one person? But one thing I do know is this, there is no chance, not one, of a friendly meeting with any of Earth’s residents. Never can we live side by side in harmony. Never will we be trusted. We will be hated. Our technologies ignored and probably bettered. We will become the smaller race. We will be the ones destroyed, when they get a chance to. There was once a hope that we would live peacefully side by side. Everybody wanted that to be followed. Everybody always, always said that was what they wanted. At any stage through our journey here, it was always ‘we want harmony’, but somewhere it went wrong. I will always be to blame. Is that fair? I don’t know. In reference to the pilots, I say to anyone in earshot - “How come we only seem to have incompetents on this craft?”

“I don’t know, O Excellently Brilliant One That Is Superb At Whatever His Marvellousness Comes Across In His Amazing Lifetime.”

Give me strength.

Chapter 29 - Time for fun, Ginger

It is massive, I can see at least five football pitches in here and there is room for so much more, many more. I look around me, along the stands are just hundreds, upon thousands of guns, and they all seem to be pointed inwards, towards the centre of the pitches. Obviously they are not big fans of football, or that is the way the game is going, perhaps? The guns, the ones that I can see, at least, are all sorts of sizes. Some range from dinky little things to huge, huge rifle type guns, but with extensions. It reminds me that I should maybe get warming up for today’s Sunday League match against Amersham Priory F.C. They can be tough little shits, for a bunch of monks.

Yet I wonder, just how much should I prepare for this match? They are top of the league. They are the best and they outnumber us as we have a couple of players off sick, due to flu. Do we really stand a chance of winning, anyway? Is it worth preparing myself in any way? It would at least save on any extra injuries, I guess. 

I can see in the background that there are a couple of vehicles, but they look big and chunky, metallic and like they have a lot of guns on them. Very big guns. The only guns I have ever seen that size before are anti-aircraft cannons. They scare me, a lot. But only because I am here first and I’m vaguely aware of the amount of destruction I could cause. 

I look at Yertjuk. I look at him and see someone who said that their intentions were originally peaceful. I know not what to think. I walk around and I try to touch and pick things up. I seem not to be allowed to pick up half of these weapons. But I need them for when we play the friars! I shout at Yertjuk, but he does not understand. I prod here, I touch there, but I can’t be allowed to. I have never seen anything like these before. I guess Amersham Priory F.C. have really been practising. I hope our team has the will power to last. I have to turn to Yertjuk to consult him. “They were going to attack us with all these?” I say to him talking about the Priests.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“We don’t stand a jolly chance against them.”

“That was the idea.”

It’s a fair enough point.

“But all this fire power....”

“Er, laser power. We progressed beyond your primitive methods of warfare many a year ago.”

“What’s a laser?” I ask, presuming it’s some kind of, I don’t know, religious light, or spray of Holy water, or something. If Holy water can kill vampires, I don’t know, I guess God could have created some kind of Human version. Or maybe a laser is some kind of fitness thing, I don’t know.

“Something that we invented many years ago.”

Yertjuk looks superiorally intelligent. I begin to realise something. Since this Sunday League match has come up, I’ve become a bit more, I don’t know, stabilised. 

“Oh. Right. But all this power, you could rule the universe.”

I don’t seem to be all over the place.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say the universe. After all, what would be the point? Apart from you and us, all that is around at the moment is just intergalactic scum, floating around on their respective planets. I guess. Not all planets are big enough for gravity, you see. Or too big. We’re about the only things that make this universe worth bothering with.”

I’m rooted, but I look around me. 

“Wow! That’s amazingly spiffing.”

This is not normal. I’m in a nowhere world, right now. I… spot something out of the corner of my eye. I have to run over to it. “Hey, what’s this?” I pick up a small metal ball type thing, it really is no bigger than a golf ball, but it’s… it’s got a charm, the way it seems isolated from everything else. It is in a box. Nothing else is. It’s in its own little place. 

I wonder how we can be in here without getting caught. 

Everything else is just lumped together. It has a sign on it and, for some reason, I can read it, though I have no idea. I have a feeling it’s something to do with this place. I had a life before this, I have a life, but it’s not there. I… my mind is playing tricks on me. I’m dreaming, or something. The sign says something along the lines of ‘Extremely Dangerous!!! Do NOT Touch!!!!!’. Every time I try to read it, it seems to say roughly the same thing, but slightly differently. 

“DON’T TOUCH THAT!”

I pause in mid grab. This stability is caused by this dream I am having. In the real world, everything is different. Everything seems less real. This is hyper-real. And I know that the real world is the real world, because the real world is the real world. This is just dream world. But I have been here for a long time. I open my eyes. The time is still half-past two. I close them.

“Why?”

“That is a highly unstable weapon, created from two radioactive materials that once fused together create a highly unpredictable reaction that would basically destroy this section of the ship. Of course, combined with the other weapons in this room, the force would be powerful enough to knock even Pluto off its orbit. Earth and ourselves, especially, wouldn’t even stand the barest of chances.”

“Oh, so it’s nothing important then,” I say, but it does not answer my question. Why am I spending so much time here? I should be out getting ready for this match. 

“This is not a laughing matter. In a few decades, your world will learn the power of an atomic bomb. Probably.”

My life has revolved a lot around this game, lately. I’ve spent a lot of time talking tactics in the pub. The Pub. That is real. The local. So, considering the amount of time I’ve been worrying about this game… 

“What’s a Pluto, anyway?” … I’m just having an anxiety dream. This is my way of resolving my concerns about losing.

“Oh… yeah. Your primitive race only knows it at the moment as Planet X.”

By blasting aliens.

“Funny, I thought it was just a good name for a lovably cheeky dog.”

I catch sight of something else, but I decide to be wary. Obviously I’m being told not to rush into things, to take things with a little caution, a little consideration.

“Well, what’s this then? I can touch it, can’t I?”

“That, oh yes. That is only primitive.”

I pick it up. Nice. Weighty. Good. Bold. Strong. 

“What is it?”

But what is real?

“A semi-automatic shotgun. We stole the technology from your race and then improved upon the design. We wanted a weapon that would look similar to one of yours, but would be much more efficient if ever we were to disguise ourselves as humans. We needed a human weapon because if we were to kill with our own, you humans would start to get a bit suspicious.”

So, I should have faith in our own tactics, then. To have faith in my own team. Because this alien seems to have belief in our weapons. 

“So, what’s the plan then?”

See, reason. All of a sudden, what was a nightmare does not seem so bad.

Yertjuk pauses for a second, to think.

“I say that we grab a few weapons, track down William, surprise him and blast the hell out of him.”

But what is real?

“Great. Sounds spiffing to me. What should we get, then?”

“Well, that’s the beauty of this place. There’s so much choice.”

I grab another gun that looks similar in shape to a rifle. But is this real? No. “Well, in that case, can I have this? Please, please, please, please, plea....”

“I can’t see why not. And I shall have one of these.”

Yertjuk picks up a pistol shaped gun.

“What gun’s that then?”

“Oh, it’s just a standard issue weapon. Very reliable, however. In fact, this is my very own gun. See, it’s got my name scratched into it.” But it’s not real.

I read it. “‘Yertjuk’. Hey, you write in English.” This should actually come as no surprise, but I beg to find out what the explanation is. 

“No, we write in Trasconian.”

“Well, how come I can read it then?”

“I doubt very much that you can.”

“Come to think of it, how come you speak English?”

“Well, funnily enough, every single race on every single planet just happens to speak what you call English. Except, of course, people like the French on your planet. You could call it a Universal constant, I suppose. Even we spoke “English”. We just developed our own language to make ourselves far superior to every other race, which is why we don’t always speak in English.”

There is a long pause before I pick up the guts to speak to him again. “Really?”

“You really are quite dumb, aren’t you. We talk English in order to be able to integrate ourselves into Earth society. I told you that earlier.”

“Hey! I’m not the one who’s stupid enough to get a death sentence placed on himself.”

“No? Oh. Well, anyway, we haven’t got that much time. Come on, let’s go!”

I’ve picked up about seven guns and things are starting to get exciting now. It’s time to find the priests. A voice over the tannoy system at the stadium says - “Erm, I wouldn’t go that way if I was you.”

This stops me from running down the tunnel, briefly. “What do you bally mean?”

“Well that way leads to the main doors. They are heavily guarded. If you go through those doors, you wouldn’t even be alive to be surprised,” says the voice over the tannoy, introducing me. I smile. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

I run out onto the pitch. For want of a better, more real word, everything becomes…pixellated. Does that word exist? Who knows, but it does. Dotted. I can only see one thing now. What is directly in front of me and one of my guns - just the nozzle. The game starts the second I am on the pitch. I notice that my movements are so smooth, but they are restricted. I’ve woken up, though, that’s all I care about. 

They kick off, I blast the first priest striker straight in the chest, he is knocked backwards, gets up off his feet and passes the ball to the next player, who also succumbs to my gun. I turn back to the first player and shoot him twice. He will never need to bother me again. 

I run up to the player with the ball and try to tackle him. I end up being fouled. I run around, looking for a medi-pack, my energy having been seriously knocked down. The first orange segment I see on the pitch and I run over to it, to restore my energy. I turn around, blast the fuck out of the player with the ball, take control and start pegging it towards the goal. This is fucking hard, though. One midfielder, two midfielders both try to tackle me, I have to press the run button to get me to accelerate, rather than the standard lope that I can only achieve otherwise. There is a defender in my way. I shoot him, as I do the one next to him. Neither of them are seriously damaged, but it allows me to get past, so that only the goalie is in the way. 

I shoot, the priest holds his hands together in prayer and a wall appears, deflecting the ball. I have to blast the wall away so that I can get a clear shot next time. However, a defender attacks me, takes off two energy bars, leaving me with only three left. I shoot him, he dies. But that gun is out of ammo, so I go for the next one. A chain gun, with less effective power, but spurts out so many bullets in a go, it don’t fucking matter. 

I run around, shooting aimlessly. Two midfielders die, but there is one who is currently heading towards my goal. I press the run button and I am in heavy pursuit. I try to keep him in my sights, but unfortunately, due to me running, I cannot shoot straight, though I just keep the trigger held down anyway. I run over an orange that replenishes my energy. Hallelujah, and just before the midfielder is about to strike, enough bullets have hit his body and he falls down dead. The rest of the bullets are dispensed on a nearby midfielder, but he doesn’t die. 

I get out my rocket launcher, this is always fun. I shoot the midfielder. He explodes in a gory mess, but I was too close to impact. I have, again, only three energy bars. Shit. There are only three defenders and a goalie to worry about. I dispense two rockets over to the goalie, who is seriously injured, but not quite dead, and the last flies towards a defender, the heat-seeking missile knowing exactly where to take it. More gore. 

I turn to my next two weapons. Both of them use the same cells, but I am out of those completely. I’m left with my shotgun. I start running with the ball, towards the defenders. I’m taking pot shots, being careful not to miss. It takes five shots for one defender to die. I turn to the next. He is seriously close to me. This is scary. I shoot him, three times, quite close. He tackles me, on the floor, I shoot him two more times. He is dead. I have two energy bars left. 

I grab the ball again, and just the goalie is in front of me. I have to be careful. He has his hands together in prayer. This means that when I shoot, I will be lifted backwards and pretty much be killed as I have very little energy left. I go up to him, and with my fist, which is the only weapon I have left, other than the shotgun, I punch him. This stops the chant. I punch and punch and punch, He punches me, knocks me back, takes off an energy bar. One left. I get up, punch, punch, punch, punch, but the two rockets I hit him with earlier have left him weakened. He dies. I shoot, I score. The game is over. I have won. Player 1 has 454,678 points. Hurrah. I start to fantasise again. The players that I’ve killed turn into aliens and that dream figure Yertjuk comes over to me. Maybe I exhausted myself so much I fell asleep?